A Note o’ Thanks
Dear freen, I houp this wee bit note
Will reach its destination.
In it ye’ll find a word o’ thanks
For your appreciation
Of lines upon the dear auld freen.
Whose death has caused oor sorrow.
But tho’ the cluds hang dark to-day,
The sun will shine to-morrow
On chastened hearts that can rejoice
Tae see the sufferer free,
Tho’ noo we canna’ see the licht
For grief has blin’t the e’e.
I hae nae skill in poetry,
An’ little ken o’ grammar:
In makin’ o’ ma ain bit rhymes
I aften mak’ a stammer.
Sae ye may ken I’m unco pleased
Tae hear ma piece was splendid,
An’ tho’ I ken it had a faut
I hadna’ wit tae mend it.
Sae let the creetics creeticise:
When tired, they will forbear.
If tae yer hert it did appeal,
For them I dinna care.
Birthplace of Symington and Ramsay!
Whose names in thee are household words,
Who honour gained in peaceful times.
With steam and pencil, not with swords.
Leadhills! what mem’ries cling around thee
Of boyhood’s day and riper years,
Of social hours I spent with friends,
Whose loss I mourned with bitter tears.
Young friends have gone to dangers distant,
And e’en to death, if so He wills;
Their hearts are thine—engraven on them
The image of their home, Leadhills.
A few remain whose hoary locks
Proclaim their course is nearly run,
Facing with kindred dust they’ll lie,
The Lowthers and the rising sun.
We pass; we go we know not where;
The future’s hidden from our gaze:
We live by faith; we do believe
This life is but a passing phase.
Leading to something ever greater,
Purer, higher, brighter far.
Steadfastly let’s do our duty,
Honour for our guiding star.