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For he had watched the ways o' men,

E'en from his early youth, And thought the world might a' be richt,

Would men but speak the truth;
For aye he said that a' the ills,

Society is dreeing,
Spring from our want o' faith in truth,

And frae our love o' leeing.

His heart was in ilka thing he did,

In every word he said,
That e'en Jock Jaup the wicked loon,

Poured blessings on his head;
Yet when injustice roused his wrath,

O fearfu' twas to see,
The thundercloud upon his brow,

And lightning o' his e'e,
And when the rich would wrong the poor,

John always stept between,
And fought them wi' his rackle tongue,

And wi' his awfu' e'en.

And how the tall and stately knight,
Of lineage long and high,

Would feel he was no lordly soul,

If Elder John was by; And when he tampered with our rights,

O! twas a sight to see, How nervously the Knight did quake,

Beneath the elder's e'e;
Tho' backit by the minister,

And mony a cringing laird,
John foucht them a' tho he was but

The lord o' a Kail-yaird.

For titled, tall impertinence,

Could never put him down, And he was just the man to give,

Oppression frown for frown;
The favours o' the rich and great,

He never strove to win,
And he would doff his bonnet blue,

But to the God aboon,
Yet honoured worth whenever found,

As few poor mortals can,
For, paying homage still he kept,

The dignity of man.

And yet his heart was formed for peace,

Wi' mony a gushing spring O' sweetest human sympathy,

Where hope would sit and sing; And how he loved the bonnie birds,

That warbled 'mong the bowers, The harmless lammie on the lee,

The children and the flowers;
And often at the gloamin hour,

When stars began to gleam,
Ye'd meet him by some ruined wa',

Or some auld haunted stream.

But with his fathers long ago,

He's laid him down to sleep,
Nor want, nor woe, nor wicked men,

Shall mar his slumbers deep. Farewell, brave John, thou wert the last

Of an old pious race;
And would that Scotland now-a-days,

Had such to fill your place;
And may thy grave be ever green,

Thy memory ever dear,
And be thine honest epitaph—

A hero slumbers here.


Awake, lovely Alice,

The dawn's on the hill, The voice of the mavis

Is heard by the rill; The blackbird is singing,

His song in the brake, And the green woods are ringing,

Awake, love, awake!

The wild rose is blushing,

The pea is in bloom, The zephyr is brushing

The lang yellow broom; But thy voice is sweeter

Than birds on the tree, And joy is far deeper,

Sweet Alice with thee.

The voice of lone Locher,

Comes mellow and sweet, More welcome to me were

The fa' o' thy feet; The hawthorn is hoary,

And rich with perfume, But thou art the glory

Of nature in bloom.

Far deeper the joy, love,

Would nature impart, Were I but the lord of

Thine innocent heart; And 'neath fortune's malice

I ne'er would repine, Wert thou, lovely Alice,

O wert thou but mine.

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