In the Days When the World Was Wide [27]
-- The first one was signed by an Elder, the other by Cameron's aunt. The meenister called him `ungodly -- a stray frae the fauld o' the Lord', And his aunt set him down as a spendthrift, `a rebel at hame and abroad'.
He got drunk now and then and he gambled (such heroes are often the same); That's all they could say in connection with Alister Cameron's name. He was straight and he stuck to his country and spoke with respect of his kirk; He did his full share of the cooking, and more than his share of the work. And many a poor devil then, when his strength and his money were spent, Was sure of a lecture -- and tucker, and a shakedown in Cameron's tent.
He shunned all the girls in the camp, and they said he was proof to the dart -- That nothing but whisky and gaming had ever a place in his heart; He carried a packet about him, well hid, but I saw it at last, And -- well, 'tis a very old story -- the story of Cameron's past: A ring and a sprig o' white heather, a letter or two and a curl, A bit of a worn silver chain, and the portrait of Cameron's girl.
. . . . .
It chanced in the first of the Sixties that Ally and I and McKean Were sinking a shaft on Mundoorin, near Fosberry's puddle-machine. The bucket we used was a big one, and rather a weight when 'twas full, Though Alister wound it up easy, for he had the strength of a bull. He hinted at heart-disease often, but, setting his fancy apart, I always believed there was nothing the matter with Cameron's heart.
One day I was working below -- I was filling the bucket with clay, When Alister cried, `Pack it on, mon! we ought to be bottomed to-day.' He wound, and the bucket rose steady and swift to the surface until It reached the first log on the top, where it suddenly stopped, and hung still. I knew what was up in a moment when Cameron shouted to me: `Climb up for your life by the footholes. I'LL STICK TAE TH' HAUN'LE -- OR DEE!'
And those were the last words he uttered. He groaned, for I heard him quite plain -- There's nothing so awful as that when it's wrung from a workman in pain. The strength of despair was upon me; I started, and scarcely drew breath, But climbed to the top for my life in the fear of a terrible death. And there, with his waist on the handle, I saw the dead form of my mate, And over the shaft hung the bucket, suspended by Cameron's weight.
I wonder did Alister think of the scenes in the distance so dim, When Death at the windlass that morning took cruel advantage of him? He knew if the bucket rushed down it would murder or cripple his mate -- His hand on the iron was closed with a grip that was stronger than Fate; He thought of my danger, not his, when he felt in his bosom the smart, And stuck to the handle in spite of the Finger of Death on his heart.
The Shame of Going Back
When you've come to make a fortune and you haven't made your salt, And the reason of your failure isn't anybody's fault -- When you haven't got a billet, and the times are very slack, There is nothing that can spur you like the shame of going back; Crawling home with empty pockets, Going back hard-up; Oh! it's then you learn the meaning of humiliation's cup.
When the place and you are strangers and you struggle all alone, And you have a mighty longing for the town where you are known; When your clothes are very shabby and the future's very black, There is nothing that can hurt you like the shame of going back.
When we've fought the battle bravely and are beaten to the wall, 'Tis the sneers of men, not conscience, that make cowards of us all; And the while you are returning, oh! your brain is on the rack, And your heart is in the shadow of the shame of going back.
When a beaten man's discovered with a bullet in his brain, They POST-MORTEM him, and try him, and they say he was insane; But it very often happens that he'd lately got the sack, And his onward move was owing to the shame of going back.
Ah! my friend, you call it nonsense, and your upper lip is curled, I can see that you have never worked your
He got drunk now and then and he gambled (such heroes are often the same); That's all they could say in connection with Alister Cameron's name. He was straight and he stuck to his country and spoke with respect of his kirk; He did his full share of the cooking, and more than his share of the work. And many a poor devil then, when his strength and his money were spent, Was sure of a lecture -- and tucker, and a shakedown in Cameron's tent.
He shunned all the girls in the camp, and they said he was proof to the dart -- That nothing but whisky and gaming had ever a place in his heart; He carried a packet about him, well hid, but I saw it at last, And -- well, 'tis a very old story -- the story of Cameron's past: A ring and a sprig o' white heather, a letter or two and a curl, A bit of a worn silver chain, and the portrait of Cameron's girl.
. . . . .
It chanced in the first of the Sixties that Ally and I and McKean Were sinking a shaft on Mundoorin, near Fosberry's puddle-machine. The bucket we used was a big one, and rather a weight when 'twas full, Though Alister wound it up easy, for he had the strength of a bull. He hinted at heart-disease often, but, setting his fancy apart, I always believed there was nothing the matter with Cameron's heart.
One day I was working below -- I was filling the bucket with clay, When Alister cried, `Pack it on, mon! we ought to be bottomed to-day.' He wound, and the bucket rose steady and swift to the surface until It reached the first log on the top, where it suddenly stopped, and hung still. I knew what was up in a moment when Cameron shouted to me: `Climb up for your life by the footholes. I'LL STICK TAE TH' HAUN'LE -- OR DEE!'
And those were the last words he uttered. He groaned, for I heard him quite plain -- There's nothing so awful as that when it's wrung from a workman in pain. The strength of despair was upon me; I started, and scarcely drew breath, But climbed to the top for my life in the fear of a terrible death. And there, with his waist on the handle, I saw the dead form of my mate, And over the shaft hung the bucket, suspended by Cameron's weight.
I wonder did Alister think of the scenes in the distance so dim, When Death at the windlass that morning took cruel advantage of him? He knew if the bucket rushed down it would murder or cripple his mate -- His hand on the iron was closed with a grip that was stronger than Fate; He thought of my danger, not his, when he felt in his bosom the smart, And stuck to the handle in spite of the Finger of Death on his heart.
The Shame of Going Back
When you've come to make a fortune and you haven't made your salt, And the reason of your failure isn't anybody's fault -- When you haven't got a billet, and the times are very slack, There is nothing that can spur you like the shame of going back; Crawling home with empty pockets, Going back hard-up; Oh! it's then you learn the meaning of humiliation's cup.
When the place and you are strangers and you struggle all alone, And you have a mighty longing for the town where you are known; When your clothes are very shabby and the future's very black, There is nothing that can hurt you like the shame of going back.
When we've fought the battle bravely and are beaten to the wall, 'Tis the sneers of men, not conscience, that make cowards of us all; And the while you are returning, oh! your brain is on the rack, And your heart is in the shadow of the shame of going back.
When a beaten man's discovered with a bullet in his brain, They POST-MORTEM him, and try him, and they say he was insane; But it very often happens that he'd lately got the sack, And his onward move was owing to the shame of going back.
Ah! my friend, you call it nonsense, and your upper lip is curled, I can see that you have never worked your