REV. GEORGE JAMES LAURIE, D.D.

If the mark of a true lyrical poet is the favour in which his verses are held by the musical fraternity, then Dr George Laurie by virtue of his one song, "Lang, Lang Syne," is entitled to the honour of being classed a true lyrical poet. George James Laurie belongs to a historical family of Ayrshire ministers, who for three generations occupied the pulpit of the  Church of Scotland. In the old Manse of Loudoun, Newmilns, till within a few years ago, might have been seen in situ a small window sash on which Robert Burns, the poet, scratched  the words, "Lovely Mrs Laurie, she is all charms." The minister of Loudoun who so graciously entertained Burns when on the eve of emigrating to Jamaica was the grandfather of  George James Laurie, author of "Lang, Lang Syne." Dr Laurie ministered for the long period of thirty-four years to the parishioners of Monkton, where he was familiarly known as  "the dear old doctor," and by his open-heartedness and genial disposition, especially towards the young, secured for himself a warm corner of their hearts.

The doctor has been described as a "fine, big man, with a healthy red face, long curly white hair hanging down his back,  and a clear, nervous blue eye."

On demitting his charge at Monkton he removed to Kent, there to spend the brief remainder of his days in quietude.

A mural brass of handsome design was erected by his relatives some years ago in the Parish Church of Monkton and Prestwick.



REV. GEORGE JAMES LAURIE, D.D.

LANG, LANG SYNE.

Ha'e ye mind o' lang, lang syne,
When the summer days were fine,
An' the sun shone brighter far
Than he's ever dune since syne ;
Do ye mind the Hag Brig turn,
Whaur we guddled m the burn,*
And were late for the schule in the mornin' ?

Do you mind the sunny braes,
Whar we gathered hips and slaes,
And fell amang the bramble busses,
Tearin' a' oor claes;
And for fear they wad be seen

We gaed slippin' hame at e'en,
But were lickit for oor pains in the mornin' P

Do ye mind the miller's dam,
When the frosty winter cam' ,
Hoo we slade alang the curlers' rinks,
And made their game a sham ;
When they chased us through the snaw,
We took leg-bail ane and a',
But we did it o'er again in the mornin' ?

What famous fun was there,
Wi' our game at houn' and hare,
When we played the truant frae the schule,
Because it was the fair ;
And we ran fra-e Patie's Mill
To the woods at Windy Hill,
But were fear'd for the tawse in the mornin'.

Where are those bright hearts noo,
That were then sae leal and true?
Oh! some ha'e left life's troubled scene;
Some still are struggling through;
And some ba'e risen high
In life's changeful destiny,
For they rose wi' the lark in the mornin'.

Now life's sweet Spring is past,
And our Autumn's come at last;
Oor Summer day has passed away;
Life's Winter's comin' fast;
But though lang its night may seem,
We shall sleep without a dream,
Till we wauken on yon bright Sabbath mornin'.



* The Hag Burn falls into the River Irvine about half a mile
west of the Manse of Loudoun, the early home of Dr Laurie.



204 REV. GEORGE JAMES LAURIE, D.D.

THE HOME OF MEMORY.

I have found a home in many a land,
O'er many a distant sea,
But Love has touched with his magic wand
The home of infancy.
There first I heard the voice of prayer,
Bent at my mother's knee,
And the hallowing pow'r of my father's care
Were life and strength to me.

0, there the morn of youth first dawned
O'er childhood's setting star,
And the gushing joys of youthful hearts
No earthly cares could mar.
That hallowed spot was ne'er forgot,
Nor the love that blessed me there,
Nor the trembling notes of my father's voice
As he sang at evening prayer.

I was left alone of that happy band,
Hushed is the mirth and glee
Of the loving hearts who, hand in hand,
Sang home's sweet minstrelsy.
Some sleep beside their father's grave,
Some lie beneath the sea,
And one fair boy rests with the brave
On the field of victory.

Come back ! ye spirits of the blest,
And whisper hope to me!
Oh ! take me where the weary rest,
From life's dark sorrows free.
Come teach my lonely heart to bear
The weary weird I dree,
Till I join the gathered wanderers there
From the home of memory.


As a nursery-song writer Dr Laurie comes well up with the authors of "Wee Willie Winkie,""Cuddle Boon," and other celebrated writers who made childhood the theme of their wonderfully fascinating lays. A good specimen of the doctor's lighter vein is that entitled

A SANG TO THE BAIRN.

Hey ! hisky doggie I
Hey ! cheety puss !
Come awa' to Harry's room
And catch a wee mouse.
Look below the bed first,
And syne upon the shelf
See! there's the wee beasty,
Glow'rin' like an elf.