O Louis! you that like them maist,
Ye're far frae kelpie, wraith, and ghaist,
And fairy dames, no unco chaste,
And haunted cell.
Among a heathen clan ye're placed,
That kens na hell!
Ye hae nae heather, peat, nor birks,
Nae troot in a' your burnies lurks,
There are nae bonny U. P. kirks,
An awfa' place!
Nane kens the Covenant o' Works
Frae that of Grace!
But whiles, maybe, to them ye'll read
Blads o' the Covenanting creed,
And whiles their pagan wames ye'll feed
On halesome parritch;
And sync ye'll gar them learn a screed
O' the Shorter Carritch.
Yet thae uncovenanted shavers
Hae rowth, ye say, o' clash and clavers
O' gods and etins--auld wives' havers,
But their delight ;
The voice d him that tells them quavers
Just wi' fair fright.
And ye might tell, ayont the faem,
Thae Hieland clashes o' oor hame.
To speak the truth, I tak' na shame
To half believe them;
And, stamped wi' TUSITALA'S name,
They'll a' receive them.
And folk to come, ayont the sea,
May hear the yowl of the Banshie,
And frae the water-kelpie flee,
Ere a' things cease,
And island bairns may stolen be
By the Folk o' Peace.
Faith, they might steal me, wi' ma will,
And, ken'd I ony Fairy hill,
I'd lay me down there, snod and still,
Their land to win,
For, man, I've maistly had my fill
O' this world's din.
IN MEMORY OF
THE: REV. ROBERT KIRK,
WHO WENT TO HIS OWN HERD, AND ENTERED INTO
THE LAND OF THE PEOPLE OF PEACE,
IN THE YEAR OF GRACE SIXTEEN
HUNDRED AND NINETY-TWO,
AND OF HIS AGE
People of Peace! A peaceful man,
Well worthy of your love was he,
Who, while the roaring Garry ran
Red with the life-blood of Dundee,
While coats were turning, crowns were falling,
Wandered along his valley still,
And heard your mystic voices calling
From fairy knowe and haunted hill.
He heard, he saw, he knew too well
The secrets of your fairy clan;
You stole him from the haunted dell,
Who never more was seen of man.
Now far from heaven, and safe from hell,
Unknown of earth, he wanders free.
Would that he might return and tell
Of his mysterious company!
For we have tired the Folk of Peace
No more they tax our corn and oil
Their dances on the moorland cease,
The Brownie stints his wonted tail.
No more shall any shepherd meet
The ladies of the fairy clan,
Nor are their deathly kisses sweet
On lips of any earthly man.
And half I envy him who now,
Clothed in her Court's enchanted green,
By moonlit loch or mountain's brow
Is Chaplain to the Fairy Queen.