Freedom For Scotland
David Wingate ( The Collier Poet)
January 25th 1888
Dalziel In Winter
John Frost                     January 25th 1888

Lately one that sighs and dreams,
Lone by mundane woods and streams,
Wished to soar in venturous quest
To the land of peace and rest;
For a longing strange had he
Two among the shades to see
Who on earth had singers been,
With many an age their lives between-
His fancy would together bring
The Ploughman and Psalmist King;
So pleased to have a quest so rare,
He upward glanced, and, lo; was there.

Not in wonder, nor in awe,
Moved he 'mong the shades he saw,
Till, beside a silver rill,
Rippling down an emerald hill,
As he sat, two shades appeared,
And he knew them as they neared.
One was Israel's singer sweet,
And Burns was his companion meet;
And, listening while they paused, he heard
The Psalmist King address the Bard :-

Again there cometh from our star
Sounds that seem not sounds of war,
Yet such paens long ago
Rose when Israel smote her foe,
Shouting to the thrilling-sun
David hath his battle won.
Hark! Still louder ! kindly, clear;
Hear ye it, Brother?

Ay, I hear;
And to me that humming, says,
Revelry, attuned to praise
Comes from yonder starlet now.
See ! they wreathe a cold, stone brow,
And the chiselled face is mine,
Wherefore, Brother, its not thine?-
Thine whose earthly songs have given
A burden to the hymns of Heaven.

Nay, not mine. My face none know;
Im but a living dream below:
A King, its true, who lived and died;
A warrior I, who laid aside
His sword, and strove with kindly fire
To make the psalm and wake the lyre;
And still what then I sung men sing,
And by his songs they know the King,
Else were I altogether dead.
For me no feast my people spread;
I have my meed amid the calm
Of sanctuary and of Psalm;
And thou hast thine where joy wells free,
And no one e'er was praised like thee.
Yet something grateth on the ear;
Hear ye it, Brother?

Ay, I hear.
That is the screeching wild of those
Who- Hark! A funeral pile propose;
Away with him! A fire they cry!
Burn all he wrote, and let him die.

Alas! poor shriekers, saith the King;
But so they do not die who sing
Such songs as thine,

The shades passed on-
A glimpse of Heaven had come and gone.
January 25th 1888
The Collier's Ragged Wean
Annie Weir
A  Miner's Morning Song
The Quarter Folk's Fair
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