Twa o' them walkin' an' crackin' their lane, The mornin' licht cam gray an' plain,

An' the birds they yammert on stick an' stane, An' the müne was shinin' clearly!

O years ayont, O years awa',

My lads, ye'll mind whate'er befa'

My lads, ye'll mind on the bield o' the law,
When the müne was shinin' clearly!

A LOWDEN SABBATH MORN

"HE clinkum-clank o' Sabbath bells

THE

Too to the hoastin' rookery swells,

Noo faintin' laigh in shady dells,

Sounds far an' near,

An' through the simmer kintry tells
Its tale o' cheer.

An' noo, to that melodious play,
A' deidly awn the quiet sway-
A' ken their solemn holiday,
Bestial an' human,

The singin' lintie on the brae,
The restin' plou'man.

He, mair than a' the lave o' men,
His week completit joys to ken;
Half-dressed, he daunders out an' in,
Perplext wi' leisure;

An' his raxt limbs he'll rax again
Wi' painfu' pleesure.

The steerin' mither strang afit

Noo shoos the bairnies but a bit;

Noo cries them ben, their Sinday shüit
To scart upon them,

Or sweeties in their pouch to pit,
Wi' blessin's on them.

The lasses, clean frae tap to taes,
Are busked in crunklin' underclaes;
The gartened hose, the weel-filled stays,
The nakit shift,

A' bleached on bonny greens for days,
An' white's the drift.

An' noo to face the kirkward mile:
The guidman's hat o' dacent style,
The blackit shoon, we noo maun fyle
As white's the miller:

A waefu' peety tae, to spile
The warth o' siller.

Our Marg'et, aye sae keen to crack
Douce-stappin' in the stoury track
Her emeralt goun a' kiltit back
Frae snawy coats,

White-ankled, leads the kirkward pack
Wi' Dauvit Groats.

A' thocht ahint, in runkled breeks,
A' spiled wi' lyin' by for weeks,
The guidman follows closs, an' cleiks
The sonsie missis;

His sarious face at aince bespeaks
The day that this is.

A LOWDEN SABBATH MORN

And aye an' while we nearer draw
To whaur the kirkton lies alaw,
Mair neebours, comin' saft an' slaw
Frae here an' there,

The thicker thrang the gate an' caw
The stour in air.

But hark! the bells frae nearer ciang;
To rowst the slaw, their sides they bang;
An' see! black coats a'ready thrang
The green kirkyaird;

And at the yett, the chestnuts spang
That brocht the laird.

The solemn elders at the plate

Stand drinkin' deep the pride o' state:
The practised hands as gash an' great
As Lords o' Session;

The later named, a wee thing blate
In their expression.

The prentit stanes that mark the deid,
Wi' lengthened lip, the sarious read;
Syne wag a moraleesin' heid,

An' then an' there

Their hirplin' practice an' their creed
Try hard to square.

It's here our Merren lang has lain,
A wee bewast the table-stane;

An' yon's the grave o' Sandy Elane;
An' further ower,

The mither's brithers, dacent men!
Lie a' the fower.

Here the guidman sall bide awee
To dwall amang the deid; to see
Auld faces clear in fancy's e'e;
Belike to hear

Auld voices fa'in saft an' slee
On fancy's ear.

Thus, on the day o' solemn things,
The bell that in the steeple swings
To fauld a scaittered faim'ly rings
Its walcome screed;

An' just a wee thing nearer brings
The quick an' deid.

But noo the bell is ringin' in;
To tak their places, folk begin;
The minister himsel' will shüne
Be up the gate,

Filled fu' wi' clavers about sin

An' man's estate.

The tunes are up- French, to be shüre, The faithfü' French, an' twa-three mair; The auld prezentor, hoastin' sair,

Wales out the portions,

An' yirks the tüne into the air
Wi' queer contortions.

Follows the prayer, the readin' next,
An' than the fisslin' for the text-