Chapter 2

O gin I lived i' the gowden mune Like the mannie that smiles at me, I'd sit a' nicht in my hoose abune An the wee-bit stars they wad ken me sune, For I'd sup my brose wi' a gowden spune And they wad come out to see!

II

For weel I ken that the mune's his ain And he is the maister there; A' nicht he's lauchin', for, fegs, there's nane To draw the blind on his windy-pane And tak' an' bed him, to lie his lane And pleasure himsel' nae mair.

III

Says I to Grannie, "Keek up the glen Abune by the rodden tree, There's a braw lad 'yont i' the mune, ye ken." Says she, "Awa' wi' ye, bairn, gang ben, For noo it's little I fash wi' men An' it's less that they fash wi' me!"

IV

When I'm as big as the tinkler-man That sings i' the loan a' day, I'll bide wi' him i' the tinkler-van Wi' a wee-bit pot an' a wee-bit pan; But I'll no tell Grannie my bonnie plan, For I dinna ken what she'll say.

V

And, nicht by nicht, we will a' convene And we'll be a cantie three; We'll lauch an' crack i' the loanin' green, The kindest billies that ever was seen, The tinkler-man wi' his twinklin' een And the lad i' the mune an' me!

THE GOWK

I see the Gowk an' the Gowk sees me Beside a berry-bush by the aipple-tree. _Old Scots Rhyme_.

'Tib, my auntie's a deil to wark, Has me risin' 'afore the sun; Aince her heid is abune her sark Then the clash o' her tongue's begun! Warslin', steerin' wi' hens an' swine, Naucht kens she o' a freend o' mine-- But the Gowk that bides i' the woods o' Dun He kens him fine!

Past the yaird an' ahint the stye, O the aipples grow bonnilie! Tib, my auntie, she canna' spy Wha comes creepin' to kep wi' me. Aye! she'd sort him, for, dod, she's fell! Whisht nou, Jimmie, an' hide yersel' An' the wice-like bird i' the aipple-tree He winna' tell!

Aprile-month, or the aipples flower, Tib, my auntie, will rage an' ca'; Jimmie lad, she may rin an' glower-- What care I? We'll be far awa'! Let her seek me the leelang day, Wha's to tell her the road we'll gae? For the cannie Gowk, tho' he kens it a', He winna' say!

THE JACOBITE LASS

My love stood at the loanin' side An' held me by the hand, The bonniest lad that e'er did bide In a' this waefu' land-- There's but ae bonnier to be seen Frae Pentland to the sea, And for his sake but yestre'en I sent my love frae me.

I gi'ed my love the white white rose That's at my feyther's wa', It is the bonniest flower that grows Whaur ilka flower is braw; There's but ae bonnier that I ken Frae Perth unto the main, An' that's the flower o' Scotland's men That's fechtin' for his ain.

Gin I had kept whate'er was mine As I hae gie'd my best, My he'rt were licht by day, and syne The nicht wad bring me rest; There is nae heavier he'rt to find Frae Forfar toon to Ayr, As aye I sit me doon to mind On him I see nae mair.

Lad, gin ye fa' by Chairlie's side To rid this land o' shame, There winna be a prooder bride Than her ye left at hame, But I will seek ye whaur ye sleep Frae lawlands to the peat, An ilka nicht at mirk I'll creep To lay me at yer feet.

MAGGIE

Maggie, I ken that ye are happ'd in glory And nane can gar ye greet; The joys o' Heaven are evermair afore ye, It's licht about yer feet.

I ken nae waefu' thochts can e'er be near ye Nor sorrow fash yer mind, In yon braw place they winna let ye weary For him ye left behind.

Thae nichts an' days when dule seems mair nor double I'll need to dae my best, For aye ye took the half o' ilka trouble, And noo I'd hae ye rest.

Yer he'rt'll be the same he'rt since yer flittin', Gin auld love doesna tire, Sae dinna look an' see yer lad that's sittin' His lane aside the fire.

The sky is keen wi' dancin' stars in plenty, The New Year frost is strang; But, O my lass! because the Auld Year kent ye I'm sweir to let it gang!

But time drives forrit; and on ilk December There waits a New Year yet, An naething bides but what our he'rts remember-- Maggie, ye'll na forget?

THE WHUSTLIN' LAD

There's a wind comes doon frae the braes when the licht is spreadin' Chilly an' grey, An' the auld cock craws at the yett o' the muirland steadin' Cryin' on day; The hoose lies sound an' the sma' mune's deein' an' weary Watchin' her lane, The shadows creep by the dyke an' the time seems eerie, But the lad i' the fields he is whustlin' cheery, cheery, 'Yont i' the rain.

My mither stirs as she wauks wi' her twa een blinkin', Bedded she'll bide, For foo can an auld wife ken what a lassie's thinkin' Close at her side? Mither, lie still, for ye're needin' a rest fu' sairly, Weary an' worn, Mither, I'll rise, an' ye ken I'll be warkin' fairly-- An' I dinna ken _wha_ can be whustlin', whustlin', aerly, Lang or it's morn!

Gin ye hear a sound like the sneck o' the backdoor turnin', Fash na for it; It's just the crack i' the lum o' the green wood burnin', Ill to be lit; Gin ye hear a step, it's the auld mear loose i' the stable Stampin' the strae, Or mysel' that's settin' the parritch-spunes on the table, Sae turn ye aboot an' sleep, mither, sleep while ye're able, Rest while ye may.

Up at the steadin' the trail o' the mist has liftit Clear frae the grund, Mither breathes saft an' her face to the wa' she's shiftit-- Aye, but she's sound! Lad, ye may come, for there's nane but mysel' will hear ye Oot by the stair, But whustle you on an' I winna hae need to fear ye, For, laddie, the lips that keep whustlin', whustlin' cheery Canna dae mair!

HOGMANAY

(TO A PIPE TUNE)

O, it's fine when the New and the Auld Year meet, An' the lads gang roarin' i' the lichtit street, An' there's me and there's Alick an' the miller's loon, An' Geordie that's the piper oot o' Forfar toon. Geordie Faa! Geordie Faa! Up wi' the chanter, lad, an' gie's a blaw! For we'll step to the tune while we've feet in till oor shune, Tho' the bailies an' the provost be to sort us a'!

We've three bonnie bottles, but the third ane's toom, Gin' the road ran whisky, it's mysel' wad soom! But we'll stan' while we can, an' be dancin' while we may, For there's twa we hae to finish, an' it's Hogmanay. Geordie Faa! Geordie Faa! There's an auld carle glow'rin' oot ahint yon wa', But we'll sune gar him loup to the pipin' till he coup, For we'll gi'e him just a drappie, an' he'll no say na!

My heid's dementit an' my feet's the same, When they'll no wark thegither it's a lang road hame; An' we've twa mile to traivel or it's mair like three, But I've got a grip o' Alick, an' ye'd best grip me. Geordie Faa! Geordie Faa! The morn's near brakin' an' we'll need awa', Gin ye're aye blawin' strang, then we'll maybe get alang, An' the deevil tak' the laddie that's the first to fa'!

CRAIGO WOODS

Craigo Woods, wi' the splash o' the cauld rain beatin' I' the back end o' the year, When the clouds hang laigh wi' the weicht o' their load o' greetin' And the autumn wind's asteer; Ye may stand like gaists, ye may fa' i' the blast that's cleft ye To rot i' the chilly dew, But when will I mind on aucht since the day I left ye Like I mind on you--on you?

Craigo Woods, i' the licht o' September sleepin' And the saft mist o' the morn, When the hairst climbs to yer feet, an' the sound o' reapin' Comes up frae the stookit corn, And the braw reid puddock-stules are like jewels blinkin' And the bramble happs ye baith, O what do I see, i' the lang nicht, lyin' an' thinkin' As I see yer wraith--yer wraith?

There's a road to a far-aff land, an' the land is yonder Whaur a' men's hopes are set; We dinna ken foo lang we maun hae to wander, But we'll a' win to it yet; An' gin there's woods o' fir an' the licht atween them, I winna speir its name, But I'll lay me doon by the puddock-stules when I've seen them, An' I'll cry "I'm hame--I'm hame!"

THE WILD GEESE

"O tell me what was on yer road, ye roarin' norlan' Wind, As ye cam' blawin' frae the land that's niver frae my mind? My feet they traivel England, but I'm dee'in for the north." "My man, I heard the siller tides rin up the Firth o' Forth."

"Aye, Wind, I ken them weel eneuch, and fine they fa' an' rise, And fain I'd feel the creepin' mist on yonder shore that lies, But tell me, ere ye passed them by, what saw ye on the way?" "My man, I rocked the rovin' gulls that sail abune the Tay."

"But saw ye naething, leein' Wind, afore ye cam' to Fife? There's muckle lyin' 'yont the Tay that's mair to me nor life." "My man, I swept the Angus braes ye hae'na trod for years." "O Wind, forgi'e a hameless loon that canna see for tears!"

"And far abune the Angus straths I saw the wild geese flee, A lang, lang skein o' beatin' wings, wi' their heids towards the sea, And aye their cryin' voices trailed ahint them on the air--" "O Wind, hae maircy, haud yer whisht, for I daurna listen mair!"

GLOSSARY

_Airt_, point (of compass). _Billies_, cronies. _Braws_, finery. _Bubbly-jock_, turkey-cock. _Cankered_, cross-grained. _Causey_, paved edge of a street. _Chanter_, mouth-piece of a bag-pipe. _Clour_, a blow. _Coup_, to fall. _Deaved_, deafened, bewildered. _Droukit_, soaked. _Dunt_, a blow. _Fit_, foot. _Fleggit_, frightened. _Gean-tree_, a wild cheerry-tree. _Girnin'_, groaning. _Gowk_, a cuckoo. _Grapes_, gropes. _Hairst_, harvest. _Happit, happ'd_, wrapped. _Haughs_, low-lying lands. _Keek_, peer. _Kep_, meet. _Laigh_, low. _Lane, his lane_, alone. _Loan_, disused, overgrown road, a waste place. _Loon_, a fellow. _Lowe_, flame. _Lum_, chimney. _Mear_, mare. _Mill-lade_, mill-race. _Neep_, turnip. _Poke_, pocket. _Puddock-stules_, toadstools. _Rodden-tree_, rowan-tree. _Rug_, to pull. _Sark_, shift, smock. _Shaws_, small woods. _Sheltie_, pony. _Skailed_, split, dispersed. _Smoors_, smothers. _Sneck_, latch. _Soom_, swim. _Sort them_, deal with them. _Speels_, climbs. _Speir_, to inquire. _Steerin'_, stirring. _Sweir_, loth. _Syne_, since, ago, then. _Tawse_, a leather strap used for correcting children. _Thole_, to endure. _Thrawn_, twisted. _Tint_, lost. _Tod_, fox. _Toom_, empty. _Toorie_, a knob, a topknot. _Traivel_, to go afoot; literally, to go at a foot's pace. _Warslin'_, wrestling. _Wauks_, wakes. _Waur_, worse. _Wean_, infant. _Weepies_, rag-wort. _Whaup_, curlew. _Wildfire_, summer lightning. _Writer_, attorney. _Yett_, gate.

MORE SONGS OF ANGUS AND OTHERS

By VIOLET JACOB

Published at the offices of "Country Life," 20 Tavistock Street, Covent Garden, London, W.C. 2, and by George Newnes, LTD., 8-11, Southampton Street, Strand, W.C. 2. New York: Charles Scribner's Sons MCMXVIII

To A. H. J.

Past life, past tears, far past the grave, The tryst is set for me, Since, for our all, your all you gave On the slopes of Picardy.

On Angus, in the autumn nights, The ice-green light shall lie, Beyond the trees the Northern Lights Slant on the belts of sky.

But miles on miles from Scottish soil You sleep, past war and scaith, Your country's freedman, loosed from toil, In honour and in faith.

For Angus held you in her spell, Her Grampians, faint and blue, Her ways, the speech you knew so well, Were half the world to you.

Yet rest, my son; our souls are those Nor time nor death can part, And lie you proudly, folded close To France's deathless heart.

The whole of the poems under the heading In Scots appeared in Country Life. Of the others, one or two have appeared in The Cornhill or The Outlook. They are all reprinted by kind permission of the respective editors.

CONTENTS

IN SCOTS

JOCK, TO THE FIRST ARMY THE TWA WEELUMS THE FIELD BY THE LIRK O' THE HILL MONTROSE THE ROAD TO MARYKIRK KIRSTY'S OPINION THE BRIG THE KIRK BESIDE THE SANDS GLORY THE SHEPHERD TO HIS LOVE A CHANGE O' DEILS REJECTED THE LAST O' THE TINKLER

IN ENGLISH

FRINGFORD BROOK PRISON PRESAGE THE BIRD IN THE VALLEY BACK TO THE LAND THE SCARLET LILIES FROSTBOUND ARMED "THE HAPPY WARRIOR" UNITY

IN SCOTS

JOCK, TO THE FIRST ARMY

O Rab an' Dave an' rantin' Jim, The geans were turnin' reid When Scotland saw yer line grow dim, Wi' the pipers at its heid; Noo, i' yon warld we dinna ken, Like strangers ye maun gang-- _"We've sic a wale[1] o' Angus men_ _That we canna weary lang."_

An' little Wat--my brither Wat-- Man, are ye aye the same? Or is yon sma' white hoose forgot Doon by the strath at hame? An' div' ye mind foo aft we trod The Isla's banks before?-- --"_My place is wi' the Hosts o' God,_ _But I mind me o' Strathmore._"

It's daith comes skirling through the sky, Below there's naucht but pain, We canna see whaur deid men lie For the drivin' o' the rain; Ye a' hae passed frae fear an' doot. Ye're far frae airthly ill-- --"_We're near, we're here, my wee recruit,_ _An' we fecht for Scotland still._"

[1] Choice.

THE TWA WEELUMS

I'm Sairgeant Weelum Henderson frae Pairth, That's wha I am! There's jist ae bluidy regiment on airth That's worth a damn; An' gin the bonniest fechter o' the lot Ye seek to see, Him that's the best--_whaur ilka man's a Scot_-- Speir you at me!

Gin there's a hash o' Gairmans pitten oot By aichts an' tens, That Wully Henderson's been thereaboot A'body kens. Fegs-aye! Yon Weelum that's in Gairmanie, He hadna reckoned Wi' Sairgeant Weelum Henderson, an' wi' The Forty-Second!

Yon day we lichtit on the shores o' France, The lassies standin' Trod ilk on ither's taes to get the chance To see us landin'; The besoms! O they smiled to me--an' yet They couldna' help it, (Mysel', I just was thinkin' foo we'd get The Gairmans skelpit.)

I'm wearied wi' them, for it's aye the same Whaure'er we gang, Oor Captain thinks we've got his een to blame, But, man! he's wrang; I winna say he's no as smairt a lad As ye micht see Atween twa Sawbaths--aye, he's no sae bad, But he's no me!

Weel, let the limmers bide; their bonnie lips Are fine an' reid; But me an' Weelum's got to get to grips Afore we're deid; An' gin he thinks he hasn't met his match He'll sune be wiser. Here's to mysel'! Here's to the auld Black Watch! An' damn the Kaiser!

THE FIELD BY THE LIRK O' THE HILL

Daytime an' nicht, Sun, wind an' rain; The lang, cauld licht O' the spring months again. The yaird's a' weed, An' the fairm's a' still-- Wha'll sow the seed I' the field by the lirk o' the hill?

Prood maun ye lie, Prood did ye gang; Auld, auld am I, But O! life's lang! Gaists i' the air, Whaups cryin' shrill, An' you nae mair I' the field by the lirk o' the hill-- Aye, bairn, nae mair, nae mair, I' the field by the lirk o' the hill!

MONTROSE

Gin I should fa', Lord, by ony chance, And they howms o' France Haud me for guid an' a'; And gin I gang to Thee, Lord, dinna blame, But oh! tak' tent, tak' tent o' an Angus lad like me An' let me hame!

I winna seek to bide Awa owre lang, Gin but Ye'll let me gang Back to yon rowin' tide Whaur aye Montrose--my ain-- Sits like a queen, The Esk ae side, ae side the sea whaur she's set her lane On the bents between.

I'll hear the bar Loupin' in its place, An' see the steeple's face Dim i' the creepin' haar;[2] And the toon-clock's sang Will cry through the weit, And the coal-bells ring, aye ring, on the cairts as they gang I' the drookit street.

Heaven's hosts are glad, Heaven's hames are bricht, And in yon streets o' licht Walks mony an Angus lad; But my he'rt's aye back Whaur my ain toon stands, And the steeple's shade is laid when the tide's at the slack On the lang sands.

[2] Sea-fog.

THE ROAD TO MARYKIRK

To Marykirk ye'll set ye forth, An' whustle as ye step alang, An' aye the Grampians i' the North Are glow'rin' on ye as ye gang. By Martin's Den, through beech an' birk, A breith comes soughin', sweet an' strang, Alang the road to Marykirk.

Frae mony a field ye'll hear the cry O' teuchits,[3] skirlin' on the wing, Noo East, noo West, amang the kye, An smell o' whins the wind 'll bring; Aye, lad, it blaws a thocht to mock The licht o' day on ilka thing-- For you, that went yon road last spring, Are lying deid in Flanders, Jock.

[3] Lapwings.

KIRSTY'S OPINION

Fine div I ken what ails yon puddock, Janet, That aince would hae her neb set up sae hie; There's them that disna' seem to understan' it, I'se warrant ye it's plain eneuch to me!

Maybe ye'll mind her man--a fine wee cratur, Owre blate to speak (puir thing, he didna' daur); What gar'd him fecht was jist his douce-like natur'; Gairmans is bad, but Janet's tongue was waur.

But noo he's hame again, ye wadna ken her, He isna' feared to contradic' her flat; He smokes a' day, comes late to get his denner, (I mind the time she'd sort him weel for that!)

What's gar'd her turn an' tak' a road divairgint? Ye think she's wae[4] because he wants a limb? Ach! haud yer tongue, ye fule--_the man's a sairgint,_ An' there's nae argy-bargyin' wi' _him_!

[4] Sad.

THE BRIG

I whiles gang to the brig-side That's past the briar tree, Alang the road when the licht is wide Owre Angus an' the sea.

In by the dyke yon briar grows Wi' leaf an' thorn, it's lane Whaur the spunk o' flame o' the briar rose Burns saft agin the stane.

An' whiles a step treids on by me, I mauna hear its fa'; And atween the brig an' the briar tree Ther gangs na' ane, but twa.

Oot owre yon sea, through dule an' strife, Ye tak' yer road nae mair, For ye've crossed the brig to the fields o' life, An' ye walk for iver there.

I traivel on to the brig-side, Whaur ilka road maun cease, My weary war may be lang to bide, An' you hae won to peace.

There's ne'er a nicht but turns to day, Nor a load that's niver cast; An' there's nae wind cries on the winter brae, But it spends itsel' at last.

O you that niver failed me yet, Gin aince my step ye hear, Come to yon brig atween us set, An' bide till I win near!

O weel, aye, weel, ye'll ken my treid, Ye'll seek nae word nor sign, An' I'll no can fail at the Brig o' Dreid, For yer hand will be in mine.

THE KIRK BESIDE THE SANDS

It was faur-ye-weel, my dear, that the gulls were cryin' At the kirk beside the sands, Whaur the saumon-nets lay oot on the bents for dryin', Wi' the tar upon their strands;

A roofless kirk i' the bield o' the cliff-fit bidin', And the deid laid near the wa'; A wheen auld coupit stanes i' the sea-grass hidin', Wi' the sea-sound ower them a'.

But it's mair nor daith that's here on the hauchs o' Flanders, And the deid lie closer in; It's no the gull, but the hoodit craw that wanders When the lang, lang nichts begin.

It's ill to dee, but there's waur things yet nor deein'; And the warst o' a's disgrace; For there's nae grave deep eneuch 'mang the graves in bein' To cover a coward's face.

Syne, a' is weel, though my banes lie here for iver, An' hame is no for me, Till the reid tide brak's like the spate in a roarin' river O'er the micht o' Gairmanie.

Sae gang you back, my dear, whaur the gulls are cryin', Gie thanks by kirk an' grave, That yer man keeps faith wi' the land whaur his he'rt is lyin', An' the Lord will keep the lave.

GLORY

I canna' see ye, lad, I canna' see ye, For a' yon glory that's aboot yer heid, Yon licht that haps ye, an' the hosts that's wi' ye, Aye, but ye live, an' it's mysel' that's deid!

They gae'd frae mill and mart; frae wind-blawn places, And grey toon-closes; i' the empty street Nae mair the bairns ken their steps, their faces, Nor stand to listen to the trampin' feet.

Beside the brae, and soughin' through the rashes, Yer voice comes back to me at ilka turn, Amang the whins, an' whaur the water washes The arn-tree[5] wi' its feet amangst the burn.

Whiles ye come back to me when day is fleein', And a' the road oot-by is dim wi' nicht, But weary een like mine is no for seein', An', gin they saw, they wad be blind wi' licht.

Daith canna' kill. The mools o' France lie o'er ye, An' yet ye live, O sodger o' the Lord! For Him that focht wi' daith an' dule afore ye, He gie'd the life--'twas Him that gie'd the sword.

But gin ye see my face or gin ye hear me, I daurna' ask, I maunna' seek to ken, Though I should dee, wi' sic a glory near me, By nicht or day, come ben, my bairn, come ben!

[5] Alder.

THE SHEPHERD TO HIS LOVE

Abune the hill ae muckle star is burnin', Sae saft an' still, my dear, sae far awa, There's ne'er a wind, noo day to nicht is turnin', To lift the brainches o' the whisperin' shaw; Aye, Jess, there's nane to see, There's just the sheep an' me, And ane's fair wastit when there micht be twa!

Alang the knowes there's no a beast that's movin', They sheep o' mine lie sleepin' i' the dew; There's jist ae thing that's wearyin' an' rovin', An' that's mysel', that wearies, wantin' you. What ails ye, that ye bide In-by--an' me ootside To curse an' daunder a' the gloamin' through?

To haud my tongue an' aye hae patience wi' ye Is waur nor what a lass like you can guess; For a' yer pranks I canna but forgi'e ye, I'fegs! there's naucht can gar me lo'e ye less; Heaven's i' yer een, an' whiles There's heaven i' yer smiles, But oh! ye tak' a deal o' courtin', Jess!

A CHANGE O' DEILS

"A change o' deils is lichtsome."-- _Scots Proverb_.

My Grannie spent a merry youth, She niver wantit for a joe, An gin she tell't me aye the truth, Richt little was't she kent na o'.

An' whiles afore she gae'd awa' To bed her doon below the grass, Says she, "Guidmen I've kistit[6] twa, But a change o' deils is lichtsome, lass!"

Sae dinna think to maister me, For Scotland's fu' o' brawlike chiels, And aiblins[7] ither folk ye'll see Are fine an' pleased to change their deils.

Aye, set yer bonnet on yer heid, An' cock it up upon yer bree, O' a' yer tricks ye'll hae some need Afore ye get the best o' me!

Sma' wark to fill yer place I'd hae, I'll seek a sweethe'rt i' the toon, Or cast my he'rt across the Spey An' tak' some pridefu' Hieland loon.

I ken a man has hoose an' land, His airm is stoot, his een are blue, A ring o' gowd is on his hand, An' he's a bonnier man nor you!

But hoose an' gear an' land an' mair, He'd gie them a' to get the preen That preened the flowers in till my hair Beside the may-bush yestre'en.

Jist tak' you tent, an' mind forbye, The braw guid sense my Grannie had, _My Grannie's dochter's bairn am I,_ _And a change o' deils is lichtsome, lad!_

[6] Coffined. [7] Sometimes.

REJECTED

I'm fairly disjaskit, Christina, The warld an' its glories are toom; I'm laid like a stane whaur ye left me, To greet wi' my heid i' the broom.

A' day has the lav'rock been singin' Up yont, far awa' i' the blue, I thocht that his sang was sae bonnie, Bit it disna' seem bonnie the noo!

A' day has the cushie been courtin' His joe i' the boughs o' the ash, But gin Love was wheeped frae the pairish, It isn't mysel' that wad fash!

For losh! what a wark I've had wi' ye! At mairkit, at kirk, an' at fair, I've ne'er let anither lad near ye-- An' what can a lassie need mair?

An' oh! but I've socht ye an' watched ye, Whauriver yer fitsteps was set, Gin ye had but yer neb i' the gairden I was aye glowerin' in at the yett!

Ye'll mind when ye sat at the windy, Dressed oot in yer fine Sawbath black, Richt brawly I kent that ye saw me, But ye just slippit oot at the back.

Christina, 'twas shamefu'--aye was it! Affrontin' a man like mysel', I'm thinkin' ye're daft, for what ails ye Is past comprehension to tell.

Guid stuff's no sae common, Christina, And whiles it's no easy to see; Ye micht tryst wi' the Laird or the Provost, But ye'll no find the marrows[8] o' me!

[8] Match.

THE LAST O' THE TINKLER