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. EUCHAN'S BANKS. Euchan's banks an' wooded braes, Worthy theme o' minstrel's lays! On thee I spent my youthfu' days, Sae free frae care; I'm wae tae think that I may roam Thy glen nae mair. My country needs me; I maun gang Tae fecht a wily foe an' strang; But victory will be my sang Whate'er betide. A Prussian rule, upon my soul, I couldna' bide. Nithsdale's sons, as true as steel, Fighting for their country's weal, Hae made the haughty Hun tae reel; An' shall I then A coward prove, an' hide mysel' Within thy glen? Nay! Gie tae me the sword an' gun! I'll prove a worthy mither's son, An' fight till death or victory's won, That ye may be In honour held frae tyrant's yoke For ever free. ON HIGHER PLANE. Where Queen-of-the-meadow scents the air, And wild thyme adds aroma rare, With bluebells nodding to the pair-- A charming lot, Along with other flowers as fair, Forget-me-not. I love to wander all alone, Free from thoughts of goods or gear, Far from the haunts of worldly men, In sweeter, purer, atmosphere; Where bonnie blooms the heather bell On mountain side and moorland fell, And dancing fairies weave their spell In mystic ring; Where lovers meet their tale to tell, And wild birds sing. I love to wander all alone, At morn or noon or evening fall, With cheerful voice and grateful heart To praise the Giver of it all. SONG BIRDS. The blackbird pipes frae the hawthorn tree His flute-like notes of melody, That tell me the lang dreary winter is past, An' the bonnie simmer days hae come at last. The mavis singin' 'neath the plantin' shade His blithe bauld sang tae a winsome maid, Wha coyly yields tae a sang weel sung, Min's me o' the time when the hert was young. The wee cock-wren sae geuty an' neat Sings me a sang sae sweet, sae sweet; Mem'ry wud haud its pure refrain, For a towmond may gang ere I hear it again. The skylark sings tae the angels abune, An' tae mortals the notes o' his sang come doon; I hear him weel, 'tho' I mayna see His form as he soars in the lift sae hie. The lintie in the broom, an' the merlie in the thorn, Join this happy quartette wi' their love-sweet song, Wi' mony ither sangsters I micht name That mak' amang oor moorlan' their mountain hame.