Happy were they a' thegither When met for a crack or a dram; Their mirth never mair unseemly Than the lilt o' a guid auld sang. Noo, alas! they're gane frae amang us, Nae mair will their music inspire; Maybe the Maister has ta'en them Tae play in the heavenly choir. TO MR AND MRS JAMES SLIMMON, _WANLOCKHEAD._ _On the death of their son, Private Robert Slimmon, Duke of Cornwall's Light Infantry, while serving his country in Egypt._ Dear friends, the news has come to hand, I scarce can think it true; With heart that's sore I pen my thoughts And send them on to you. We cannot read the hand of Fate Or what's in store foretell; We know not why his life was claimed, A life that promised well. Fair as the noon of summer day, Or like a flower in spring, Or like the glint of morning sun That makes the wild birds sing; Such was his life. We had a glimpse That filled our hearts with joy; Alas! the rose but hid the thorn As gold hides the alloy. When loose becomes the silver cord, And broken by death's strain, The body crumbles, but the soul Returns to God again-- To where the wondrous might of love Is voiced in deathless song. Have faith: its power will fit our boy To join the angel throng. And so, methinks, we should not mourn Or question dispensation; To know he did his duty well Must be our consolation. And while the months and years roll on His memory let us cherish, And ne'er forget our bright young friend Till mind and mem'ry perish. DR WILSON, WANLOCKHEAD. "_OOR DOCTOR._" Come a' wha leeve in Wanlockheid An' murn wi' me, oor Doctor's deid: Nae mair he'll cheer us on oor way, Nae mair he'll spiel the Gow'scaures brae Tae his loved hame amang the flooers. Whaur he did spen' his leisure oors-- Oors that were few an' far between, For sair he toiled frae morn till e'en Tae free his patients frae their pain An' mak' the broken hale again; Wi' muckle skill he tent us a' Wi' equal care, baith great an' sma'. A kin'ly hert beat in his breast, His love was great for man an' beast; Aye ready Fortune's smile tae share, The freen an' champion o' the puir. On Nature's charms he looked wi' joy, An' earnest seekers did employ Wha gethered frae the mine an' glen Mony a flooer an' mineral gem. He had his fau'ts, we hae nae doot; What mortal ever leeved withoot? They were sae sma' we couldna' scan Them through the virtues o' the man. An' noo his earthly coorse is run; Nae mair he'll see the settin' sun, An' watch frae aff the mountain's hicht Day's glory deein' intae nicht. The loss is oors; we murn fu' sair: Maybe his like we'll see nae mair; Till death's dark shadow dims the e'e Oor Doctor will remembered be. FUNERAL OF PRIVATE ALEX. HOWLAND, _2nd K.O.S.B.,_