The hero he of many a fight, Was stern, unbending, for the right; In purpose strong, he feared no foe; Ah, Fate! then why this cruel blow? The Nation mourns; where can she find A man so true, so just, so kind, With brain and hand to guide the helm, And guard the honour of the realm? Would he had lived to see the fall Of Europe's tyrants one and all, From war's fell grip the world's release, And nations crowned with lasting peace! Sleep on, great heart! If we endure Like thee, our victory is sure; Thy shade will lead us, Nation's friend, Thy spirit conquer in the end. IN LOVING MEMORY OF DAVID CUMMING. _Beloved husband of Margaret Gracie, who died at 126 Glasgow Road, Burnbank, on Monday, 7th October, 1918, aged 51 years._ The Angel of Death came silent and swift, And wafted your spirit away; And all that was mortal, with reverent touch, We sadly consigned to the clay. We thought of you then as the husband and friend, The brother who did not wax old, Whose rugged exterior never could hide The big, kindly heart of pure gold. We thought of the last time we met on the hill And angled the swift-running stream; How we gloried and revelled in Nature's delights, And the golden hours passed like a dream. As we stood at the close of a perfect day Inhaling the mountain's pure breath, We reck'd not how soon between us would roll The dark, sullen river of death. The summer will come with its long sunny days, The daisies will spangle the lea; The brooks and the rivers will sing to the sun As they flow on their way to the sea; The whaup and the lapwing will sound their wild note, The thyme and the heather will bloom; And all these allurements will call you again, But no answer can come from the tomb. You have crossed o'er the bourne to the mystery land; No more will we meet on this plane; The joys of the bright sunny days we have spent We cannot live over again; Yet meekly, submissively, humbly we bend To the will of our Father in Heaven. To Him, with His infinite love for mankind, Let honour and glory be given. IN LOVING MEMORY OF BABY ANNA JANE M'KENZIE. She came like a ray of the morning sun, Like the gleam of a meteor at night, To gladden our hearts and fill them with joy, And her advent was hailed with delight. As the fleecy cloud so pure and white, Or the snow by the tempest driven, Was her tiny form, in its perfect mould, In her eyes was the light of Heaven. Too good and pure for this world of strife, Where virtue is often a name; She was borne away by the Angel of Love To the realms from whence she came. No parents' love could keep this child, Nor grandmother's tender care: No setting had earth for such a flower So angelic, so lovely, so fair. WANLOCK LADS.