In Tarbolton, ye ken, there are proper young men,
And proper young lasses and a’, man;
But ken ye the Ronalds that live in the Bennals,
They carry the gree frae them a’, man.

Their father’s laird, and weel he can spare’t,
Braid money to tocher them a’, man;
To proper young men, he’ll clink in the hand
Gowd guineas a hunder or twa, man.

There’s ane they ca’ Jean, I’ll warrant ye’ve seen
As bonie a lass or as braw, man;
But for sense and guid taste she’ll vie wi’ the best,
And a conduct that beautifies a’, man.

The charms o’ the min’, the langer they shine,
The mair admiration they draw, man;
While peaches and cherries, and roses and lilies,
They fade and they wither awa, man,

If ye be for Miss Jean, tak this frae a frien’,
A hint o’ a rival or twa, man;
The Laird o’ Blackbyre wad gang through the fire,
If that wad entice her awa, man.

The Laird o’ Braehead has been on his speed,
For mair than a towmond or twa, man;
The Laird o’ the Ford will straught on a board,
If he canna get her at a’, man.

Then Anna comes in, the pride o’ her kin,
The boast of our bachelors a’, man:
Sae sonsy and sweet, sae fully complete,
She steals our affections awa, man.

If I should detail the pick and the wale
O’ lasses that live here awa, man,
The fau’t wad be mine if they didna shine
The sweetest and best o’ them a’, man.

I lo’e her mysel, but darena weel tell,
My poverty keeps me in awe, man;
For making o’ rhymes, and working at times,
Does little or naething at a’, man.

Yet I wadna choose to let her refuse,
Nor hae’t in her power to say na, man:
For though I be poor, unnoticed, obscure,
My stomach’s as proud as them a’, man.

Though I canna ride in weel-booted pride,
And flee o’er the hills like a craw, man,
I can haud up my head wi’ the best o’ the breed,
Though fluttering ever so braw, man.

My coat and my vest, they are Scotch o’ the best,
O’pairs o’ guid breeks I hae twa, man;
And stockings and pumps to put on my stumps,
And ne’er a wrang steek in them a’, man.

My sarks they are few, but five o’ them new,
Twal’ hundred, as white as the snaw, man,
A ten-shillings hat, a Holland cravat;
There are no mony poets sae braw, man.

I never had frien’s weel stockit in means,
To leave me a hundred or twa, man;
Nae weel-tocher’d aunts, to wait on their drants,
And wish them in hell for it a’, man.

I never was cannie for hoarding o’ money,
Or claughtin’t together at a’, man;
I’ve little to spend, and naething to lend,
But deevil a shilling I awe, man.

'Twas a year ago and the moon was bright
  (Oh, I remember so well, so well),
I walked with my love in a sea of light,
  And the voice of my sweet was a silver bell.

    And sudden the moon grew strangely dull,
      And sudden my love had taken wing;
    I looked on the face of a grinning skull,
      I strained to my heart a ghastly thing.

'Twas but fantasy, for my love lay still
  In my arms with her tender eyes aglow,
And she wondered why my lips were chill,
  Why I was silent and kissed her so.

    A year has gone and the moon is bright,
      A gibbous moon like a ghost of woe;
    I sit by a new-made grave to-night,
      And my heart is broken--it's strange, you know.

JESUS sitting among his playmates, crowned with
flowers as their King.

  Boys. We spread our garments on the ground'
With fragrant flowers thy head is crowned,
While like a guard we stand around,
  And hail thee as our King!
Thou art the new King of the Jews!
Nor let the passers-by refuse
To bring that homage which men use
  To majesty to bring.

          (Here a traveller shall go by, and the boys shall lay
              hold of his garments and say:)

  Boys. Come hither! and all reverence pay
Unto our monarch, crowned to-day!
Then go rejoicing on your way,
  In all prosperity!

  Traveller. Hail to the King of Bethlehem,
Who weareth in his diadem
The yellow crocus for the gem
  Of his authority!

          (He passes by; and others come in, bearing on a litter
              a sick child.)

  Boys. Set down the litter and draw near!
The King of Bethlehem is here!
What ails the child, who seems to fear
  That we shall do him harm?

  The Bearers. He climbed up to the robin's nest,
And out there darted, from his rest,
A serpent with a crimson crest,
  And stung him in the arm.

  Jesus. Bring him to me, and let me feel
The wounded place; my touch can heal
The sting of serpents, and can steal
  The poison from the bite!

          (He touches the wound, and the boy begins to cry.)

Cease to lament! I can foresee
That thou hereafter known shalt be,
Among the men who follow me,
  As Simon the Canaanite!

          *          *          *          *          *

                             EPILOGUE.

In the after part of the day
Will be represented another play,
Of the Passion of our Blessed Lord,
Beginning directly after Nones!
At the close of which we shall accord,
By way of benison and reward,
The sight of a holy Martyr's bones!

(For My Mother)

 The halls that were loud with the merry tread of young and careless feet
  Are still with a stillness that is too drear to seem like holiday,
 And never a gust of laughter breaks the calm of the dreaming street
  Or rises to shake the ivied walls and frighten the doves away.

 The dust is on book and on empty desk, and the tennis-racquet and balls
  Lie still in their lonely locker and wait for a game that is never played,
 And over the study and lecture-room and the river and meadow falls
  A stern peace, a strange peace, a peace that War has made.

 For many a youthful shoulder now is gay with an epaulet,
  And the hand that was deft with a cricket-bat is defter with a sword,
 And some of the lads will laugh to-day where the trench is red and wet,
  And some will win on the bloody field the accolade of the Lord.

 They have taken their youth and mirth away
   from the study and playing-ground
  To a new school in an alien land beneath an alien sky;
 Out in the smoke and roar of the fight their lessons and games are found,
  And they who were learning how to live are learning how to die.

 And after the golden day has come and the war is at an end,
  A slab of bronze on the chapel wall will tell of the noble dead.
 And every name on that radiant list will be the name of a friend,
  A name that shall through the centuries in grateful prayers be said.

 And there will be ghosts in the old school,
   brave ghosts with laughing eyes,
  On the field with a ghostly cricket-bat, by the stream with a ghostly rod;
 They will touch the hearts of the living with a flame that sanctifies,
  A flame that they took with strong young hands
    from the altar-fires of God.