It's no the gull, but the hoodit craw that wanders
When the lang, lang nichts begin.

It's ill to dee, but there's waur things yet nor deein';
And the warst o' a's disgrace;
For there's nae grave deep eneuch 'mang the graves in bein'
To cover a coward's face.

Syne, a' is weel, though my banes lie here for iver,
An' hame is no for me,
Till the reid tide brak's like the spate in a roarin' river
O'er the micht o' Gairmanie.

Sae gang you back, my dear, whaur the gulls are cryin',
Gie thanks by kirk an' grave,
That yer man keeps faith wi' the land whaur his he'rt is lyin',
An' the Lord will keep the lave.

GLORY

I canna' see ye, lad, I canna' see ye,
For a' yon glory that's aboot yer heid,
Yon licht that haps ye, an' the hosts that's wi' ye,
Aye, but ye live, an' it's mysel' that's deid!

They gae'd frae mill and mart; frae wind-blawn places,
And grey toon-closes; i' the empty street
Nae mair the bairns ken their steps, their faces,
Nor stand to listen to the trampin' feet.

Beside the brae, and soughin' through the rashes,
Yer voice comes back to me at ilka turn,
Amang the whins, an' whaur the water washes
The arn-tree[5] wi' its feet amangst the burn.

Whiles ye come back to me when day is fleein',
And a' the road oot-by is dim wi' nicht,
But weary een like mine is no for seein',
An', gin they saw, they wad be blind wi' licht.

Daith canna' kill. The mools o' France lie o'er ye,
An' yet ye live, O sodger o' the Lord!
For Him that focht wi' daith an' dule afore ye,
He gie'd the life--'twas Him that gie'd the sword.

But gin ye see my face or gin ye hear me,
I daurna' ask, I maunna' seek to ken,
Though I should dee, wi' sic a glory near me,
By nicht or day, come ben, my bairn, come ben!

[5] Alder.

THE SHEPHERD TO HIS LOVE

Abune the hill ae muckle star is burnin',
Sae saft an' still, my dear, sae far awa,
There's ne'er a wind, noo day to nicht is turnin',
To lift the brainches o' the whisperin' shaw;
Aye, Jess, there's nane to see,
There's just the sheep an' me,
And ane's fair wastit when there micht be twa!

Alang the knowes there's no a beast that's movin',
They sheep o' mine lie sleepin' i' the dew;
There's jist ae thing that's wearyin' an' rovin',
An' that's mysel', that wearies, wantin' you.
What ails ye, that ye bide
In-by--an' me ootside
To curse an' daunder a' the gloamin' through?

To haud my