_Lines suggested by the death of John Dixon._
Gone is the last o' a guid auld Ban'
That played in the glen langsyne;
"Buirdly an' bauld like the hills o' their hame,"
Stalwart in body an' min';
For anything clever an' manly
At gala or market or fair
They could haud the croon o' the causey,
Frichtit for naebody there.
Gracies, M'Millans, an' Tyler,
Nicol an' Dixon, M'Kane,
Hastie an' Harkness an' Shankland,
Their like we may ne'er see again.
Weel could they han'le their trumpets,
Their notes a' sae sweetly in tune;
Nae Ban' could tae them haud a can'le
Tho' ye'd socht for a hunner mile roon.
An' yet they said naething aboot it,
Sae modest an' manly were they:
They never were guid at the braggin',
Tho' difficult pairts they could play.
They played at the sports an' the picnic,
They played at the concert an' dance.
Weel pleased if by honest endeavour
They could oor bit pleasures enhance.
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.