Some touching words written by William Sharp in 1938 upon the death of the well known Dr Cowan Wilson in Blantyre. Shared here, transcribed from a local newspaper report by Wilma Bolton.
Oh Death how could’st thou speed the dart
That pierced our dear aul’ doctor’s heart,
Wha nobly wrought an’ play’s his part
This mony a year,
Thro Blantyre toon thou’s made’st to start
The pityin’ tear,
For mair than fifty years or so
To human ills a stern foe,
Aft, aft, he foil’d the deadly blow
At fouk whan ill,
Wha wad this day been lyin’ low
But for his skill.
Now Time an’ thee ha’e allies been,
An bore him aff frae sicht o’ e’en,
Oh hard to think on him ye preen
Thy fatal spell,
Wha sav’d sae mony fouk yestreen,
Now no’ himsel’.
Attentive aye, to rich an’ poor,
He gallant strove their ills to cure,
An whiles, gif it was somethin’ dour
In serious guise,
To hear his chap at midnight hour
Was nae surprise.
He was “the maister” in his trade,
Few cam’ near him. Be it said,
He broucht a brichtness to your bed,
“An friendly glow,”
Ye aye felt better whan he bade
guid-nicht, to go.
Mourn, ye wee feeble, sickly weans,
Mourn, a’ ye fouk wi’ caulds an’ pains,
Mourn, braithless eild, wi rheumy banes,
Nae mair he’ll ca’,
Cruel Death has gar’t him drap the reins,
An’ he’s awa’,
Fareweel, thou grand aul’ man. Fareweel,
To higher planes now thou maun spiel,
Yet, as the years row by we’ll feel
Proud, to ha’e met ye,
An’ while aul’ Blantyre boasts a biel
She’ll ne’er forget ye.
Here lies a man, age-weary, worn,
Beneath this sod, sae grassy green,
His death caus’d mony fouk to mourn
In Blantyre toon, whaur he was seen,
Oh, tyrant Death, tears blin’ our e’en
At this sad calamity,
Wi’ his demise thou’s ta’en the frien’
O’ sufferin’ humanity.
Dr Wilson is remembered by the memorial arch in the Stonefield Public Park, which is pictured here in 1965 and shared here by Robert Stewart.
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Great days on a Sunday after church to play putting with our dad. Happy days.
The park was great and they should have kept it the same including the boating pond.