Hey the rantin' Murray's ha'!
Mirth and glee amang them a'!
The courtly laird, the leddy braw,
They'll welcome ye to Murray's ha'.
Come ye hungry, come ye dry,
Nane had ever need to wait;
Come ye brisk, or come ye shy,
They'll meet ye or ye're at the yett.

Some were feasting in the ha',
Some at sports upon the green;
Peggy, flower amang them a,
Dancin' like a Fairy Queen.
Blithest o' my blithesome days
I ha'e spent at Murray's ha',
But oh, my heart was like to break
When I saw Peggy gang awa.

Whaur she gaed or why gaed she,

Not locomotive-engines, snorting dragons
Belching black smoke, I sing, but tented wagons:
Wagons that like the battered caravels
Of Christopher Columbus by their spells
Wrested the unknown from its secret cells;
Wagons that conquered plain and mountain-belt—
Cradles that rocked the Children of the Veld
Into a nation stubborn strong and hard,
Narrow, suspicious, slow to give regard
To the rights and views of those of other race,
But, won to friendship, friends of steadfast breed.
Nor sing I petrol's toys of dizzy pace

Would but indulgent Fortune send
To me a kind, and faithful Friend,
One who to Virtue's Laws is true,
And does her nicest Rules pursue;
One Pious, Lib'ral, Just and Brave,
And to his Passions not a Slave;
Who full of Honour, void of Pride,
Will freely praise, and freely chide;
But not indulge the smallest Fault,
Nor entertain one slighting Thought:
Who still the same will ever prove,
Will still instruct, and still will love:
In whom I safely may confide,
And with him all my Cares divide:
Who has a large capacious Mind,

I come the rushing wind that shook the place
Where those once sat who spake with tongues of fire
O'er thee to shed the freely given grace
And bid them speak while I thy verse inspire
The world shall hear and know that thou art sent
To preach glad tidings to the needy poor
And witness that by me the power is lent
That wakes the dead, the halt and lame can cure
Thy words shall breathe refreshment to the mind
That long has borne the heavy yoke of pain
For thou art to the will of Him who lives resigned
And from thy sorrows reap the promised gain

Each naked branch, the yellow leaf or brown,
The rugged rock, and death-deformed plain
Lies white beneath the winter's feathery down,
Nor doth a spot unsightly now remain;
On sheltering roof, on man himself it falls;
But him no robe, not spotless snow makes clean;
For 'neath his corse-like spirit ever calls,
That on it too may fall the heavenly screen;
But all in vain, its guilt can never hide
From the quick spirit's heart-deep searching eye,
There barren plains, and caverns yawning wide
Must e'er lay naked to the passer by;

The sun is sinking fast;
The daylight dies;
Let love awake and pay
Her evening sacrifice.

As Christ, upon the Cross,
In death reclin'd,
Into His Father's hands
His parting soul resign'd;

So now herself my soul
Would wholly give,
Into His sacred charge,
In whom all spirits live:

So now beneath His eye
Would calmly rest,
Without a wish or thought
Abiding in the breast,

Save that His will be done;
Whate'er betide;
Dead to herself; and dead
In Him, to all beside.

Thus would I live;—yet now

Help, mighty God!
The strong man bows himself,
The good and wise are few,
The standard-bearers faint,
The enemy prevails.
Help, God of might,
In this thy Church's night!

Help, mighty God!
Evil is now our good,
And error is our truth,
Darkness is now our light,
Iniquity o'erflows.
Help, God of might,
Defend, defend the right!

Help, mighty God!
Men turn their ear away
From the great voice divine;
And each one seeks his own
Dark oracle of lies.
Help, God of might,
The idols, Lord, affright!

Help, mighty God!

Where once our fathers offer'd praise and prayer,
And sacrifice sublime;
Where rose upon the incense-breathing air
The chant of olden time;—

Now, amid arches mouldering to the earth,
The boding night-owl raves;
And pleasure-parties dance in idle mirth
O'er the forgotten graves.

Or worse; the heretic of modern days
Has made those walls his prize;
And in the pile our Faith alone could raise,
That very Faith denies!

God of our fathers, look upon our woe!
How long wilt Thou not hear?
How long shall Thy true vine be trodden low,

I go to life and not to death;
From darkness to life's native sky
I go from sickness and from pain
To health and immortality.
Let our farewell then be tearless,
Since I bid farewell to tears;
Write this day of my departure
Festive in your coming years.

I go from poverty to wealth,
From rags to raiment angel-fair,
From the pale leanness of this flesh
To beauty such as saints shall wear.
Let our farewell then be tearless,
Since I bid farewell to tears;
Write this day of my departure
Festive in your coming years.

Our warrior went to meet the foe
With good stout heart and steadfast face,
Becoming one with whom did go
Hopes, prayers, the freedom of a race!

Our warrior played the hero's part,
Returned the conquered chief his sword,
And won again his humbled heart
By kindly soldier act and word.

Our warrior met a deadlier foe—
More grim and terrible than he—
Whose sword was charmed 'gainst any blow,
Who met his gaze and would not flee.

Oh, dreadful Fate, that overthrew
The blade that flashed when Vicksburg fell!
Be generous as him you slew;