An' I was but a child, Jean,
A boastfu', boist'rous boy,
That pulled ye in his wooden cart,
Jean Anderson, my joy.
Jean Anderson, my joy, Jean,
I 'comp'nied ye to school;
Your basket hung between us,
To keep the gowden rule;
An' hameward when we strolled, Jean,
It was a joy fu' sweet
For us to gang our lane, and pluck
Spring violets at our feet.
Jean Anderson, my joy, Jean,
When first we twa were wed, Your cheeks were like the blush rose,
As dewy and as red;
Your e'en were like the sky, Jean,
As gentle and as blue;
An' oh, your trustfu', wifely touch,
It thrilled me through and through.
Jean Anderson, my joy, Jean,
Ye've been my anely lo'e;
I lo'ed ye in your bairnheid;
I've lo'ed ye steadfast through;
I lo'ed your girlhood curls, Jean;
I lo'e the locks of snaw
That Time has drifted on your head,
An' spring will never thaw.
Jean Anderson, my joy, Jean,
Our bairns, they too are grown;
An' roun' the cheerfu' ingle,
Have wee things o' their own:
Three lives, I think, we've lived, Jean,
Since we were girl and boy-
Our ain, our bairnies', and their bairns'-
Jean Anderson, my joy.
Jean Anderson, my joy, Jean,
There is ane life beyon',
An', though I'm dull o' hearin',
I seem to catch its soun';
An', through the mist, I see, Jean,
Heights o' that gowden lan',
Up which we baith shall mount to God,
Led by His lo'in han'.
Jean Anderson, my joy, Jean,
It makes cauld bluid leap warm,
To think that Hame we're nearin',
Beyon' life's beatin' storm;
To think that there, at last, Jean,
We'll lean upon His breast,
Who gathers wearie, waitin' anes,
An' gi'es them His ain rest.
When first the human heart-strings felt the touch
Of Death's cold fingers-when upon the earth
Shroudless and coffinless Death's first-born lay,
Slain by the hand of violence, the wail
Of human grief arose:-" My son, my son!
Awake thee from this strange and awful sleep;
A mother mourns thee, and her tears of grief
Are falling on thy pale, unconscious brow;
Awake and bless her with thy wonted smile."
In vain, in vain! that sleeper never woke.
His murderer fled, but on his brow was fixed
A stain which baffled wear and washing. As he fled
A voice pursued him to the wilderness:
"Where is thy brother, Cain?"
"Am I my brother's keeper?"
O black impiety! that seeks to shun
The dire responsibility of sin-
That cries with the ever-warning voice:
"Be still-away, the crime is not my own-
My brother lived—is dead, when, where,
Or how, it matters not, but he is dead.
Why judge the living for the dead one's fall?"
"Am I my brother's keeper?"
Thou art thy brother's keeper, and his blood
Cries up to Heaven against thee; every stone
Will find a tongue to curse thee, and the winds
Will ever wail this question in thy ear:
"Where is thy brother?"
Will mind thee of the lost.
Deal death unto his brother.
The poison was distilled for cursed gold;
And in the wine cup's ruddy glow sat Death,
Invisible to that poor trembling slave.
He seized the cup, he drank the poison down,
Rushed forth into the streets-home had he none-
Staggered and fell and miserably died.
They buried him-ah! little recks it where
His bloated form was given to the worms.
No stone marked that neglected, lonely spot;
No mourner sorrowing at evening came,
To pray by that unhallowed mound; no hand
Planted sweet flowers above his place of rest.
Years passed, and weeds and tangled briers grew
Above that sunken grave, and men forgot
Who slept there.
A happy home was his, and love was his.
His MARY loved him, and around him played
His smiling children. Oh, a dream of joy
Were those unclouded years, and, more than all,
He had an interest in the world above.
The big “Old Bible" lay upon the stand,
And he was wont to read its sacred page
And then to pray: "Our Father, bless the poor
And save the tempted from the tempter's art;
Save us from sin, and let us ever be
United in Thy love, and may we meet,
When life's last scenes are o'er, around the throne."
Thus prayed he—thus lived he-years passed,
And o'er the sunshine of that happy home,
A cloud came from the pit; the fatal bolt
Fell from that cloud. The towering tree
Was shivered by the lightning's vengeful stroke,
And laid its coronal of glory low.
A happy home was ruined; want and woe
Played with his children, and the joy of youth
Left their sweet faces no more to return.
His MARY's face grew pale and paler still,
Her eyes were dimmed with weeping, and her soul
Went out through those blue portals. MARY died,
And yet he wept not. At the demon's call
He drowned his sorrow in the maddening bowl,
And when they buried her from sight, he sank
In drunken stupor by her new-made grave!
His friend was gone-he never had another,
And the world shrank from him, all save one,
And he still plied the bowl with deadly drugs
And bade him drink, forget his God, and die!
Cain! Cain! where is thy brother now?
Lives he still-if dead, still where is he?
Where? In Heaven? Go read the sacred page:
"No drunkard ever shall inherit there."
Who sent him to the pit? Who dragged him down?
Who bound him hand and foot? Who smiled and smiled
While yet the hellish work went on? Who grasped
His gold—his health—his life—his hope-his all?
Who saw his MARY fade and die? Who saw
His beggared children wandering in the streets?
Speak-Coward—if thou hast a tongue,
Tell why with hellish art you slew a man.
"Where is my brother?"
"Am I my brother's keeper?".
Ah, man! A deeper mark is on your brow
Than that of Cain. Accursed was the name
Of him who slew a righteous man, whose soul
Was ripe for Heaven; thrice accursed he
Whose art malignant sinks a soul to hell.
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