Violet Jacob
TAM I' THE KIRK
O JEAN, my Jean, when the bell ca's the congregation
Ower valley an hill wi the ding frae its iron mou,
When a'body's thochts is set on his ain salvation,
Mine's set on you.
There's a reid rose lies on the Beuk o the Wird 'afore ye
That was growin braw on its bush at the keek o day,
But the lad that pou'd yon flouer i' the mornin's glory,
He canna pray.
He canna pray; but there's nane i' the kirk will heed him
Whaur he sits sae still his lane at the side o the waa,
For nane but the reid rose kens what my lassie gied him-
It an us twa!
He canna sing for the sang that his ain hert raises,
He canna see for the mist that's 'afore his een,
An a voice drouns the hale o the psalms an the paraphrases,
Cryin "Jean, Jean, Jean!"
THE HOWE O THE MEARNS
LADDIE, my lad, when ye gang at the tail o the ploo
An the days draw in,
When the burnin yellows awa that was aince a-lowe
On the braes o whin,
Dae ye mind o me that's deaved wi the wearyfu sooth
An it's puir concairns
While the weepies fade on the knowes at the river's mooth
In the Howe o the Mearns?
There was nae twa lads frae the Grampians doon to the Tay
That could best us twa;
At bothie or dance, or the field on a fitba day,
We could sort them a';
An at coortin-time when the stars keeked doon on the glen
An its theek o fairns,
It was you an me got the pick o the basket then
In the Howe o the Mearns.
London is fine, an for ilk o the lasses at hame
There'll be saxty here,
But the springtime comes an the hairst-an it's aye the same
Throu the changefu year.
O, a lad thinks lang o hame or he thinks his fill
As his breid he airns-
An they're thrashin noo at the white ferm up on the hill
In the Howe o the Mearns.
Gin I mind mysel an toil for the lave o my days
While I've een to see,
When I'm auld an duin wi the fash o their English weys
I'll come hame to dee;
For the lad dreams aye o the prize that the man'll get,
But he lives an lairns,
An it's far, far 'ayont him still-but it's farther yet
To the Howe o the Mearns.
Laddie, my lad, when the hair is white on yer pow
An the work's put past,
When yer hand's ower auld an heavy to haud the ploo
I'll win hame at last,
An we'll bide oor time on the knowes whaur the broom stands braw
An we played as bairns,
Till the last lang gloamin shall creep on us baith an fa'
On the Howe o the Mearns.
THE LANG ROAD
BELOW the braes o heather, an far alang the glen,
The road rins southward, southward, that grips the sauls o men,
That draws their fitsteps aye awa frae hearth an frae fauld,
That pairts ilk freen' frae ither, an the young frae the auld.
An whiles I stand at mornin an whiles I stand at nicht,
To see it throu the gaisty gloom, gang slippin oot o sicht;
There's mony a lad will ne'er come back amang his ain to lie,
An its lang, lang waitin till the time gangs by.
An far ayont the bit o sky that lies abuin the hills,
There is the black toon standin mid the roarin o the mills.
Whaur the reek frae mony engines hangs 'atween it an the sun
An the lives are weary, weary, that are juist begun.
Doon yon lang road that winds awa my ain three sons they went,
They turned their faces southward frae the glens they aye haed kent,
An twa will never see the hills wi livin een again,
An it's lang, lang waitin while I sit my lane.
For ane lies whaur the gress is hiech abuin the gallant deid,
An ane whaur England's michty ships sail prood abuin his heid,
They couldna sleep mair saft at hame, the twa that sairved their king,
Were they laid aside their ain kirk yett, i' the flouer o the ling.
But whaur the road is twistin throu yon streets o care an sin,
My third braw son toils nicht an day for the gowd he fain wad win,
Whaur ilka man grapes i' the dark to get his neebor's share,
An it's lang, lang strivin i' the mirk that's there.
The een o love can pierce the muils that hide a sodger's grave,
An love that disna heed the sod will naither hear the wave,
But it canna see 'ayont the cloud that hauds my youngest doon
Wi its mist o greed an sorrow i' the smokin toon.
An whiles, when throu the open door there fades the deein licht,
I think I hear my ain twa men come up the road at nicht,
But him that bides the nearest seems the furthest aye frae me-
An it's lang, lang listenin till I hear the three!
THE BEADLE O DRUMLEE
THEM that's as highly placed as me
(Wha am the beadle o Drumlee)
Should na be prood, nor yet ower free.
Me an the meenister, ye ken,
Are no the same as a' thae men
We hae for neebors i' the glen.
The Lord gied him some lairnin sma'
An me guid sense abuin them a',
An them nae wuts to ken wha's wha.
Ye'd think, to hear the lees they tell,
The Sawbath day could mind itsel
Withoot a hand to rug the bell,
Ye'd think the Reverend Paitrick Broun
Could ca' the Bible up an doon
An lowp his lane in till his goon.
Whiles, gin he didna get frae me
The wicelike wird I weel can gie,
Whaur wad the puir bit callant be?
The elders, Ross an Weellum Aird,
An fowk like Alexander Caird,
That think they're cocks o ilka yaird,
Fegs aye! they'd na be sweir to rule
A lad sae newly frae the schuil
Gin my auld bunnet crooned a fuil!
But oh! Jehovah's unco kind!
Whaur wad this doited pairish finnd
A man wi sic a pouerfu mind?
Sae, let the pairish sleep at nicht
Blinnd wi the elders' shinin licht,
Nor ken wha's hand keeps a' things richt.
It's what they canna understaun
That brains hae ruled since time began,
An that the beadle is the man!
THE WATTER-HEN
As I gaed doon by the twa mill dams i' the mornin
The watter-hen cam oot like a passin wraith
An her voice cam throu the reeds wi a soond o warnin,
"Faith-keep faith!"
"Aye, bird, tho ye see but ane ye mey cry on baith!"
As I gaed doon the field when the dew was lyin,
My ain love stuid whaur the road an the milllade met,
An it seemed to me that the rowin wheel was cryin,
"Forgie-forget,
An turn, man, turn, for ye ken that ye loe her yet!"
As I gaed doon the road 'twas a weary meetin,
For the ill wirds said yestreen they were aye the same,
An my het hert drouned the wheel wi its heavy beatin.
"Lass, think shame,
It's no for me to speak, for it's you to blame!"
As I gaed doon by the toon when the day was springin
The Baltic brigs lay thick by the soundin quay
An the riggin hummed wi the sang that the wind was singin,
"Free-gang free,
For there's mony a load on shore mey be skailed at sea!"
* * * * * *
When I cam hame wi the thrang o the years 'ahint me
There was naucht to see for the weeds an the lade in spate,
But the watter-hen by the dams she seemed aye to mind me,
Cryin "Hope-wait!"
"Aye, bird, but my een growe dim, an it's late-late!"
THE HEID HORSEMAN
O ALEC, up at Soutar's ferm,
You, that's sae licht o hert,
I ken ye passin by the tune
Ye whustle i' the cairt;
I hear the rowin o the wheels,
The clink o haims an chain,
An set abuin yer stampin team
I see ye sit yer lane.
Ilk morn, agin the kindlin sky
Yer liftit heid is black,
Ilk nicht I watch ye hameward ride
Wi the sunset at yer back.
For wark's yer meat an wark's yer play,
Heid horseman tho ye be,
Ye've ne'er a glance for wife nor maid,
Ye tak nae tent o me.
An man, ye'll no suspeck the truith,
Tho weel I ken it's true,
There's mony ane that trails in silk
Wha fain wad gang wi you.
But I am juist a sairvin lass,
Wha toils to get her breid,
An O! ye're sweir to see the gowd
I braid aboot my heid.
My cheek is like the brier rose,
That scents the simmer wind,
An fine I'd keep the wee bit hoose,
'gin I'd a man to mind!
It's sair to see, when ilka lad
Is dreamin o his joe,
The bonnie mear that leads yer team
Is a' ye're thinkin o.
Like fire upon her satin coat
Ye gar the hairness shine,
But, lad, there is a safter licht
In thae twa een o mine!
Aye-wark yer best-but youth is short,
An shorter ilka year-
There's ane wad gar ye suin forget
Yon limmer o a mear!
JEEMSIE MILLER
THERE'S some that mak themsels a name
Wi preachin, business, or a gemme,
There's some wi drink hae gotten fame
An some wi siller:
I kent a man got glory cheap,
For nane frae him their een could keep,
Losh! he was shapit like a neep,
Was Jeemsie Miller!
When he gaed drivin doon the street
Wi cairt an sheltie, a' complete,
The plankie whaur he haed his sate
Was bent near dooble;
An gin yon wud haed na been strang
It haedna held oor Jeemsie lang,
He haed been landit wi a bang,
An there'd been trouble.
Ye could but mind, to see his face,
The reid muin glowerin on the place,
Nae man haed e'er sic muckle space
To haud his bunnet:
An ower yon bunnet on his brou,
Set cockit up ower Jeemsie's pow,
There waggit, reid as lichtit tow,
The toorie on it.
An Jeemsie's poke was brawly lined,
There wisna mony couldna finnd
His cantie hoosie i' the wynd,
"The Salutation":
For there ye'd get, wi sang an clink,
What some ca'd comfort, wi a wink,
An some that didna care for drink
Wad ca' damnation!
But dinna think, altho he made
Sae grand a profit o his trade,
An muckle i' the bank haed laid,
He wadna spare o't,
For, happit whaur it wisna seen,
He'd aye a dram in his machine,
An never did he meet a freen'
But got a share o't.
Ae day he let the sheltie fa'
(Whisht, sirs! he wisna fou-na, na!
A wee thing pleasant-that was a',
An drivin canny)
Fegs! he cam hurlin ower the front
An struck the road wi sic a dunt,
Ye'd thocht the causey got the brunt
An no the mannie!
Aweel, it was his hin'maist drive,
Aifter yon clour he couldna thrive,
For twa pairts deid, an ane alive,
His billies foond him:
An, bedded then, puir Jeemsie lays
An a' the nicht an a' the day
Relations cam to greet an pray
An gaither roond him.
Said Jeemsie, "Cousins, gie's a pen,
Awa an bring the writer ben,
What I hae spent wi sinfu men
I weel regret it;
In daith I'm sweir to be disgraced,
I've plenty left forby my waste,
An them that I've negleckit maist
It's them'll get it."
It was a sicht to see them rin
To save him frae the sense o sin,
Fou suin they got the writer in
His mind to settle;
An O their loss! sae sair they felt it
To a' the toon wi tears they telt it,
Their duil for Jeemsie wad hae meltit
A hert o metal!
Puir Jeemsie dee'd. In a' their braws
The faimly cam as black as craws,
Men, wifes, an weans wi their maws
That scarce could toddle!
They grat-an they haed cause to greet;
The wull was read that garred them meet-
The U. P. Kirk, juist up the street,
Got ilka bodle!
THE GEAN-TREES
I MIND, when I dream at nicht,
Whaur the bonnie Sidlaws stand
Wi their feet on the darkenin land
An their heids i' the licht;
An the thochts o youth rowe back
Like wreaths frae the hillside track
In the Vale o Strathmore;
An the autumn leaves are turnin
An the flame o the gean-trees burnin
Roond the white hoose door.
Aye me, when spring cam green
An Mey-month decked the shaws
There was scarce a blink o the wa's
For the flouer o the gean;
But when the hills were blue
Ye could see them glintin throu
An the sun i' the lift
An the flouer o the gean-trees fa'in
Was like pains frae the brainches snawin
In a lang white drift.
Thae trees are fair an gay
When Mey-month's in her prime,
But I'm thrawn wi the blasts o time
An my heid's white as they;
But an auld man aye thinks lang
O the hauchs he played amang
In his braw youth-tide;
An there's ane that aye keeps yearnin
For a hoose whaur the leaves are turnin
An the flame o the gean-tree burnin
By the Sidlaws' side.
THE TOD
THERE'S a tod aye blinkin when the nicht comes doon,
Blinkin wi his lang een an keekin roond an roon',
Creepin by the fairmyaird when gloamin is to fa',
An syne there'll be a chicken or a deuk awa-
Aye, when the guidwife rises, there's a deuk awa!
There's a lass sits greetin ben the hoose at hame,
For when the guidwife's cankered she gie's her aye the blame,
An sair the lassie's sabbin an fast the tears fa',
For the guidwife's tint her bonnie hen an it's awa-
Aye, she's no sae easy dealt wi when her gear's awa!
There's a lad aye roamin when the day gets late,
A lang-leggit deevil wi his hand upon the gate,
An aye the guidwife cries to him to gar the toddie fa',
For she canna thole to let her deuks an hens awa-
Aye, the muckle bubbly-jock him sel is ca' d awa!
The laddie saw the tod gang by an killed him wi a stane
An the bonnie lass that grat sae sair she sabs nae mair her lane,
But the guidwife's no contentit yet, her like ye never saw!
Cries she - "This time it is the lass, an she's awa!
Aye, yon laddie's waur nor ony tod, for Bell's awa!
THE BLINND SHEPHERD
THE land is white, an far awa
Abuin ae bush an tree
Nae fit is movin i' the snaw
On the hills I canna see;
For the sun mey shine an the darkness fa',
But aye it's nicht to me.
I hear the whaup on windy days
Cry up amang the peat
Whaur, on the road that speels the braes,
I've heard my ain sheep's feet,
An the bonnie lambs wi their canny weys
An the silly yowes that bleat.
But noo wi them I mauna be,
An by the fire I bide,
To sit an listen patiently
For a fit on the great hillside,
A fit that'll come to the door for me
Doon throu the pasture wide,
Mibbie I'll hear the baain flocks
Ae nicht when time seems lang,
An ken there's a step on the scattered rocks
The fleggit sheep amang,
An a voice that cries an a hand that knocks
To bid me rise an gang.
Then to the hills I'll lift my een
Nae maiter tho they're blinnd,
For Ane will treid the stanes between
An I will walk behind,
Till up, far up i' the midnicht keen
The licht o Heeven I'll finnd.
An mibbie, when I'm up the hill
An stand abuin the steep,
I'll turn aince mair to leuk my fill
On my ain auld flock o sheep,
An I'll leave them lyin sae white an still
On the quiet braes asleep.
THE DOUCOT UP THE BRAES
BESIDE the doucot up the braes
The fields slope doon frae me,
An fine's the glint on blawin days
O the bonnie plains o sea.
Ablo's my mither's hoosie sma',
The smiddy by the byre
Whaur aye my feyther dings awa
An my brither blaws the fire.
For Lachlan loes the smiddy's reek,
An Geordie's but a fuil
Wha drives the ploo his breid to seek,
An Rob's to teach the schuil;
He'll haiver roond the schuilhoose wa's,
An ring the schuilhoose bell,
He'll skelp the scholars wi the tawse
(I'd like that fine mysel!)
They're easy pleased, my brithers three-
I hate the smiddy's lowe,
A weary dominie I'd be,
An I canna thole the ploo.
But by the doucot up the braes
There's nane frae me can steal
The blue sea an the ocean haze
An the ships I like sae weel.
The brigs ride oot past Ferryden
Ahint the girnin tugs,
An the lasses wave to the Baltic men
Wi the gowd rings i' their lugs.
My mither's sweir to let me gang.
My feyther gies me blame,
But youth is sair an life is lang
When yer hert's sae far frae hame.
But i' the doucot up the braes,
When a'tumn nichts are mirk,
I've hid my pennies an my claes
An the Beuk I read at kirk,
An come ae nicht when a' fowks sleep,
I'll lift them whaur they lie,
An to the herbour-side I'll creep
I' the dim licht o the sky;
An when the eastern blink growes wide,
An dark still smuirs the west,
A Baltic brig will tak the tide
Wi a lad that canna rest!
LOGIE KIRK
O LOGIE KIRK amang the braes,
I'm thinkin o the merry days
Afore I trod thae weary weys
That led me far frae Logie!
Fine dae I mind when I was young
Abuin thy graves the mavis sung
An ilka birdie haed a tongue
To ca' me back to Logie.
O Logie Kirk, tho aye the same
The burn sings ae remembered name,
There's ne'er a voice to cry "Come hame
To bonnie Bess at Logie!"
Far, far awa the years decline
That teuk the lassie wha was mine
An laid her sleepin lang, lang syne
Amang the braes at Logie.
THE PHILOSOPHY O THE DITCH
AWEEL, I'm cowped. But wha could tell
The road wad rin sae sair?
I couldna gang yon pace mysel,
An I winna try nae mair!
There's them wad coonsel me to stan',
But this is what I say:
When Natur's forces fecht wi man,
Dod, he maun juist gie wey!
If man's nae framed to lift his fit
Agin a natral law,
I winna lift my heid, for it
Wad dae nae guid ava.
Puir worms are we; the poupit rings
Ilk Sawbath wi the same,
Gin airth's the place for sic-like things,
I'm no sae far frae hame!
Yon's guid plain raesonin; an forby,
This pairish haes nae sense,
There's mony traivelin wad deny
Natur an Providence;
For lood an bauld the leears wage
On men like me their war,
Elected saints to thole their rage
Is what they're seekin for.
But tho a man wha's drink's his tea
Their malice maun despise,
It's no for naething, div ye see,
That I'm sae sweir to rise!
THE LOST LICHT (A PERTHSHIRE LEGEND)
THE weary, weary days gang by,
The weary nichts they fa',
I mauna rest, I canna lie
Since my ain bairn's awa.
The souchin o the springtide breeze
Abuin her heid blaws sweet,
There's nests amang the kirkyaird trees
An gowans at her feet.
She gaed awa when winds were hie,
When the deein year was cauld,
An noo the young year seems to me
A waur ane nor the auld.
An, bedded, 'twixt the nicht an day,
Yestreen, I couldna bide
For thinkin, thinkin as I lay
O the wean that lies ootside.
O, mickle licht to me was gien
To reach my bairn's abode,
But heeven micht blast a mither's een
An her feet wad finnd the road.
The kirkyaird loan alang the brae
Was choked wi brier an whin,
A' i' the dark the stanes were grey
As wraiths when I gaed in.
The wind cried frae the western airt
Like warlock tongues at strife,
But the hand o fear hauds aff the hert
That's lost its care for life.
I sat me lang upon the green,
A stanethraw frae the kirk,
An syne a licht shone dim between
The shaws o yew an birk.
'twas na the wildfire's flame that played
Alang the kirkyaird land,
It was a band o bairns that gaed
Wi lichts in till their hand.
O white they cam, yon babie thrang,
A' silent ower the sod;
Ye couldna hear their feet amang
The graves, sae saft they trod.
An aye the caunles flickered pale
Below the darkened sky,
But the licht was like a broken trail
When the third wee bairn gaed by.
For whaur the caunle-flame should be
Was naither blink nor shine-
The bairnie turned its face to me
An I kent that it was mine.
An O! my broken hert was sair,
I cried, "My ain! my dou!"
For a' thae weans the licht burns fair,
But it winna burn for you!"
She smiled to me, my little Jean,
Said she, "The duil an pain,
O mither! frae your waefu een
They strike on me again:
"For ither babes the flame leaps bricht
An fair an braw appears,
But I canna keep my bonnie licht,
For it's droukit wi your tears!"
There blew across my ootstreeked hand
The white mist o her sark,
But I couldna reach yon babie band
For it faded i' the dark.
My ain, my dear, your licht shall burn
Altho my een growe blinnd,
Altho they twa to saut should turn
Wi the tears that lie behind.
O Jeanie, on my bended knee
I'll pray I mey forget,
My grief is a' that's left to me,
But there's something dearer yet!
THE LAD I' THE MUIN
I
O GIN I lived i' the gowden muin
Like the mannie that smiles at me,
I'd sit a' nicht in my hoose abuin
An the wee-bit stars they wad ken me suin,
For I'd sup my brose wi a gowden spuin
An they wad come oot to see!
II
For weel I ken that the muin's his ain
An he is the maister there;
A' nicht he's lauchin, for, fegs, there's nane
To draw the blinnd on his windy-pane
An tak an bed him, to lie his lane
An pleasure himsel nae mair.
III
Says I to Grannie, " Keek up the glen
Abuin by the rodden tree,
There's a braw lad 'yont i' the muin, ye ken."
Says she, "Awa wi ye, bairn, gang ben,
For noo it's little I fash wi men
An it's less that they fash wi me!"
IV
When I'm as big as the tinkler-man
That sings i' the loan a' day,
I'll bide wi him i' the tinkler-van
Wi a wee-bit pot an a wee-bit pan;
But I'll no tell Grannie my bonnie plan,
For I dinna ken what she'll say.
V
An, nicht by nicht, we will a' convene
An we'll be a cantie three;
We'll lauch an crack i' the loanin green,
The kindest billies that ever was seen,
The tinkler-man wi his twinklin een
An the lad i' the muin an me!
THE GOWK
I see the Gowk an the Gowk sees me
Beside a berry-bush by the aiple-tree.
Auld Scots Rhyme.
'TIB, my auntie's a deil to wark,
Haes me risin 'afore the sun;
Aince her heid is abuin her sark
Then the clash o her tongue's begun!
Warslin, steerin wi hens an swine,
Naucht kens she o a freend o mine-
But the Gowk that bides i' the wids o Dun
He kens him fine!
Past the yaird an ahint the stye,
O the aiples growe bonnilie!
Tib, my auntie, she canna spy
Wha comes creepin to kep wi me.
Aye! she'd sort him, for, dod, she's fell!
Whisht nou, Jimmie, an hide yersel
An the wice-like bird i' the aiple-tree
He winna tell!
Aprile-month, or the aiples flouer,
Tib, my auntie, will rage an ca';
Jimmie lad, she mey rin an glower-
What care I? We'll be far awa!
Let her seek me the lee-lang day,
Wha's to tell her the road we'll gae?
For the cannie Gowk, tho he kens it a',
He winna say!
THE JACOBITE LASS
MY love stuid at the loanin side
An held me by the hand,
The bonniest lad that e'er did bide
In a' this waefu land-
There's but ae bonnier to be seen
Frae Pentland to the sea,
An for his sake but yestreen
I sent my love frae me.
I gied my love the white white rose
That's at my feyther's waa,
It is the bonniest flouer that growes
Whaur ilka flouer is braw;
There's but ae bonnier that I ken
Frae Perth unto the main,
An that's the flouer o Scotland's men
That's fechtin for his ain.
Gin I haed kept whate'er was mine
As I hae gied my best,
My hert were licht by day, an syne
The nicht wad bring me rest;
There is nae heavier hert to finnd
Frae Forfar toon to Ayr,
As aye I sit me doon to mind
On him I see nae mair.
Lad, gin ye fa' by Chairlie's side
To rid this land o shame,
There winna be a prooder bride
Than her ye left at hame,
But I will seek ye whaur ye sleep
Frae lawlands to the peat,
An ilka nicht at mirk I'll creep
To lay me at yer feet.
MAGGIE
MAGGIE, I ken that ye are happed in glory
An nane can gar ye greet;
The joys o Heeven are evermair afore ye,
It's licht aboot yer feet.
I ken nae waefu thochts can e'er be near ye
Nor sorrow fash yer mind,
In yon braw place they winna let ye weary
For him ye left behind.
Thae nichts an days when duil seems mair nor dooble
I'll need to dae my best,
For aye ye teuk the hauf o ilka trouble,
An noo I'd hae ye rest.
Yer hert'll be the same hert since yer flittin,
Gin auld love disna tire,
Sae dinna leuk an see yer lad that's sittin
His lane aside the fire.
The sky is keen wi dancin stars in plenty,
The New Year frost is strang;
But, O my lass! because the Auld Year kent ye
I'm sweir to let it gang!
But time drives forrit; an on ilk December
There waits a New Year yet,
An naething bides but what oor he'rts remember-
Maggie, ye'll na forget?
THE WHUSTLIN LAD
THERE'S a wind comes doon frae the braes when the licht is spreedin
Chilly an grey,
An the auld cock craws at the yett o the muirland steadin'
Cryin on day;
The hoose lies soond an the sma' muin's deein an weary
Watchin her lane,
The shaidaes creep by the dyke an the time seems eerie,
But the lad i' the fields he is whustlin cheery, cheery,
'yont i' the rain.
My mither stirs as she wauks wi her twa een blinkin,
Bedded she'll bide,
For foo can an auld wife ken what a lassie's thinkin
Close at her side?
Mither, lie still, for ye're needin a rest fou sairly,
Weary an worn,
Mither, I'll rise, an ye ken I'll be warkin fairly-
An I dinna ken wha can be whustlin, whustlin, aerly,
Lang or it's morn!
Gin ye hear a soond like the sneck o the backdoor turnin,
Fash na for it;
It's juist the crack i' the lum o the green wud burnin,
Ill to be lit;
Gin ye hear a step, it's the auld mear lowse i' the stable
Stampin the strae,
Or mysel that's settin the parritch-spuins on the table,
Sae turn ye aboot an sleep, mither, sleep while ye're able,
Rest while ye mey.
Up at the steadin' the trail o the mist haes liftit
Clear frae the grund,
Mither breathes saft an her face to the waa she's shiftit-
Aye, but she's soond!
Lad, ye mey come, for there's nane but mysel will hear ye
Oot by the stair,
But whustle you on an I winna hae need to fear ye,
For, laddie, the lips that keep whustlin, whustlin cheery
Canna dae mair!
HOGMANAY
(TO A PIPE TUNE)
O, IT'S fine when the New an the Auld Year meet,
An the lads gang roarin i' the lichtit street,
An there's me an there's Alick an the miller's loon,
An Geordie that's the piper oot o Forfar toon.
Geordie Faa! Geordie Faa!
Up wi the chanter, lad, an gie's a blaw!
For we'll step to the tune while we've feet in till oor shuin,
Tho the bailies an the provost be to sort us a'!
We've three bonnie bottles, but the third ane's tuim,
Gin the road ran whisky, it's mysel wad soom!
But we'll stan' while we can, an be dancin while we mey,
For there's twa we hae to feenish, an it's Hogmanay.
Geordie Faa! Geordie Faa!
There's an auld carle glowerin oot ahint yon waa,
But we'll suin gar him lowp to the pipin till he cowp,
For we'll gie him juist a drappie, an he'll no say na!
My heid's dementit an my feet's the same,
When they'll no wark thegither it's a lang road hame;
An we've twa mile to traivel or it's mair like three,
But I've got a grip o Alick, an ye'd best grip me:
Geordie Faa! Geordie Faa!
The morn's near brakin an we'll need awa,
Gin ye're aye blawin strang, then we'll mibbie get alang,
An the deevil tak the laddie that's the first to fa'!
CRAIGO WIDS
CRAIGO WIDS, wi the splash o the cauld rain beatin
I' the back end o the year,
When the clouds hang laich wi the weicht o their load o greetin
An the autumn wind's asteer;
Ye mey stand like gaists, ye mey fa' i' the blast that's cleft ye
To rot i' the chilly dew,
But when will I mind on aucht since the day I left ye
Like I mind on you-on you?
Craigo Wids, i' the licht o September sleepin
An the saft mist o the morn,
When the hairst climbs to yer feet, an the soond o reapin
Comes up frae the stookit corn,
An the braw reid puddock-stuils are like jewels blinkin
An the brummle happs ye baith,
O what dae I see, i' the lang nicht, lyin an thinkin
As I see yer wraith - yer wraith?
There's a road to a far-aff land, an the land is yonder
Whaur a' men's hopes are set;
We dinna ken foo lang we maun hae to wander,
But we'll a' win to it yet;
An gin there's wids o fir an the licht atween them,
I winna speir its name,
But I'll lay me doon by the puddock-stuils when I've seen them,
An I'll cry "I'm hame-I'm hame!"
THE WILD GEESE
"O TELL me what was on yer road, ye roarin norlan' Wind,
As ye cam blawin frae the land that's niver frae my mind?
My feet they traivel England, but I'm deein for the north."
"My man, I heard the siller tides rin up the Firth o Forth."
"Aye, Wind, I ken them weel eneuch, an fine they fa' an rise,
An fain I'd feel the creepin mist on yonder shore that lies,
But tell me, or ye passed them by, what saw ye on the wey?"
"My man, I rocked the rovin gulls that sail abuin the Tay."
"But saw ye naething, leein Wind, afore ye cam to Fife?
There's muckle lyin 'yont the Tay that's mair to me nor life."
"My man, I swept the Angus braes ye hinna trod for years."
"O Wind, forgie a hameless loon that canna see for tears!"
"An far abuin the Angus straths I saw the wild geese flee,
A lang, lang skein o beatin wings, wi their heids towards the sea,
An aye their cryin voices trailed ahint them on the air.-"
"O Wind, hae maircy, haud yer whisht, for I daurna listen mair!"
JOCK, TO THE FIRST AIRMY
O RAB an Dave an rantin Jim,
The geans were turnin reid
When Scotland saw yer line growe dim,
Wi the pipers at its heid;
Noo, i' yon warld we dinna ken,
Like strangers ye maun gang--
"We've sic a wale o Angus men
That we canna weary lang."
An little Wat--my brither Wat--
Man, are ye aye the same?
Or is yon sma' white hoose forgot
Doon by the strath at hame?
An div ye mind foo aft we trod
The Isla's banks before?-
-"My place is wi the Hosts o God,
But I mind me o Strathmore."
It's daith comes skirlin throu the sky,
Below there's naucht but pain,
We canna see whaur deid men lie
For the drivin o the rain;
Ye a' hae passed frae fear an dout.
Ye're far frae airthly ill-
-"We're near, we're here, my wee recruit.
An we fecht for Scotland still."
THE TWA WEELUMS
I'M Sairgeant Weelum Henderson frae Pairth,
That's wha I am!
There's jist ae bluidy regiment on airth
That's worth a damn;
An gin the bonniest fechter o the lot
Ye seek to see,
Him that's the best-whaur ilka man's a Scot-
Speir you at me!
Gin there's a hash o Gairmans pitten oot
By aichts an tens,
That Wully Henderson's been thereaboot
A'body kens.
Fegs-aye! Yon Weelum that's in Gairmanie,
He haedna reckoned
Wi Sairgeant Weelum Henderson, an wi
The Forty-Saicont!
Yon day we lichtit on the shores o France,
The lassies standin
Trod ilk on ither's taes to get the chance
To see us landin;
The besoms! O they smiled to me-an yet
They couldna help it,
(Mysel, I juist was thinkin foo we'd get
The Gairmans skelpit.)
I'm wearied wi them, for it's aye the same
Whaure'er we gang,
Oor Captain thinks we've got his een to blame,
But, man! he's wrang;
I winna say he's no as smairt a lad
As ye micht see
Atween twa Sawbaths-aye, he's no sae bad,
But he's no me!
Weel, let the limmers bide; their bonnie lips
Are fine an reid;
But me an Weelum's got to get to grips
Afore we're deid;
An gin he thinks he haesna met his match
He'll suin be wicer.
Here's to mysel! Here's to the auld Black Watch!
An damn the Kaiser!
THE FIELD BY THE LIRK O THE HILL
DAYTIME an nicht,
Sun, wind an rain;
The lang, cauld licht
O the spring months again,
The yaird's a' weed,
An the fairm's a' still-
Wha'll sou the seed
I' the field by the lirk o the hill?
Prood maun ye lie,
Prood did ye gang;
Auld, auld am I,
But O! life's lang!
Gaists i' the air,
Whaups cryin shrill,
An you nae mair
I' the field by the lirk o the hill-
Aye, bairn, nae mair, nae mair,
I' the field by the lirk o the hill!
MONTROSE
GIN I should fa',
Lord, by ony chance,
An they howms o France
Haud me for guid an a';
An gin I gang to Thee,
Lord, dinna blame,
But oh! tak tent, tak tent o an Angus lad like me
An let me hame!
I winna seek to bide
Awa ower lang,
Gin but Ye'll let me gang
Back to yon rowin tide
Whaur aye Montrose-my ain-
Sits like a queen,
The Esk ae side, ae side the sea whaur she's set her lane
On the bents between.
I'll hear the bar
Lowpin in its place,
An see the steeple's face
Dim i' the creepin haar;
An the toon-clock's sang
Will cry throu the weet,
An the coal-bells ring, aye ring, on the cairts as they gang
I' the drookit street.
Heeven's hosts are gled,
Heeven's hames are bricht,
An in yon streets o licht
Walks mony an Angus lad;
But my hert's aye back
Whaur my ain toon stands,
An the steeple's shade is laid when the tide's at the slack
On the lang sands.
THE ROAD TO MARYKIRK
To Marykirk ye'll set ye forth,
An whustle as ye step alang,
An aye the Grampians i' the North
Are glowerin on ye as ye gang.
By Martin's Den, throu beech an birk,
A breith comes souchin, sweet an strang,
Alang the road to Marykirk.
Frae mony a field ye'll hear the cry
O teuchats, skirlin on the wing,
Noo East, noo West, amang the kye,
An smell o whins the wind 'll bring;
Aye, lad, it blaws a thocht to mock
The licht o day on ilka thing-
For you, that went yon road last spring,
Are lyin deid in Flanders, Jock.
KIRSTY'S OPEENION
FINE div I ken what ails yon puddock, Janet,
That aince wad hae her neb set up sae hie;
There's them that disna seem to understaun it,
I'se warrant ye it's plain eneuch to me!
Mibbie ye'll mind her man-a fine wee cratur,
Ower blate to speak (puir thing, he didna daur);
What garred him fecht was jist his douce-like natur;
Gairmans is bad, but Janet's tongue was waur.
But noo he's hame again, ye wadna ken her,
He isna feared to contradick her flet;
He smokes a' day, comes late to get his denner,
(I mind the time she'd sort him weel for that!)
What's garred her turn an tak a road divairgint?
Ye think she's wae because he wants a limb?
Ach! haud yer tongue, ye fuil-the man's a sair-gint,
An there's nae argy-bargyin wi him!
THE BRIG
I WHILES gang to the brig-side
That's past the briar tree,
Alang the road when the licht is wide
Ower Angus an the sea.
In by the dyke yon briar growes
Wi leaf an thorn, it's lane
Whaur the spunk o flame o the briar rose
Burns saft agin the stane.
An whiles a step treids on by me,
I mauna hear its fa';
An atween the brig an the briar tree
Ther gangs na ane, but twa.
Oot ower yon sea, throu duil an strife,
Ye tak yer road nae mair,
For ye've crossed the brig to the fields o life,
An ye walk for iver there.
I traivel on to the brig-side,
Whaur ilka road maun cease,
My weary war mey be lang to bide,
An you hae won to peace.
There's ne'er a nicht but turns to day,
Nor a load that's niver cast;
An there's nae wind cries on the winter brae,
But it spends itsel at last.
O you that flyer failed me yet,
Gin aince my step ye hear,
Come to yon brig atween us set,
An bide till I win near!
O weel, aye, weel, ye'll ken my treid,
Ye'll seek nae wird nor sign,
An I'll no can fail at the Brig o Dreid,
For yer hand will be in mine.
THE KIRK BESIDE THE SANDS
IT was faur-ye-weel, my dear, that the gulls were cryin
At the kirk beside the sands,
Whaur the saumon-nets lay oot on the bents for dryin,
Wi the tar upon their strands;
A ruifless kirk i' the bield o the cliff-fit bidin,
An the deid laid near the waa;
A wheen auld cowpit stanes i the sea-gress hidin,
Wi the sea-soond ower them a'.
But it's mair nor daith that's here on the hauchs o Flanders,
An the deid lie closer in;
It's no the gull, but the hoodit craw that wanders
When the lang, lang nichts begin.
It's ill to dee, but there's waur things yet nor deein;
An the warst o a's disgrace;
For there's nae grave deep eneuch 'mang the graves in bein
To cover a couard's face.
Syne, a' is weel, tho my banes lie here for iver,
An hame is no for me,
Till the reid tide brak's like the spate in a roarin river
Ower the micht o Gairmanie.
Sae gang you back, my dear, whaur the gulls are cryin,
Gie thanks by kirk an grave,
That yer man keeps faith wi the land whaur his hert is lyin,
An the Lord will keep the lave.
GLORY
I CANNA see ye, lad, I canna see ye,
For a' yon glory that's aboot yer heid,
Yon licht that haps ye, an the hosts that's wi ye,
Aye, but ye live, an it's mysel that's deid!
They gaed frae mill an mart; frae wind-blawn places,
An grey toon-closes; i' the empty street
Nae mair the bairns ken their steps, their faces,
Nor stand to listen to the trampin feet.
Beside the brae, an souchin throu the rashes,
Yer voice comes back to me at ilka turn,
Amang the whins, an whaur the watter washes
The arn-tree wi its feet amangst the burn.
Whiles ye come back to me when day is fleein,
An a' the road oot-by is dim wi nicht,
But weary een like mine is no for seein,
An, gin they saw, they wad be blinnd wi licht.
Daith canna kill. The muils o France lie ower ye,
An yet ye live, O sodger o the Lord!
For Him that focht wi daith an duil afore ye,
He gied the life - 'twas Him that gied the sword.
But gin ye see my face or gin ye hear me,
I daurna ask, I maunna seek to ken,
Tho I should dee, wi sic a glory near me,
By nicht or day, come ben, my bairn, come ben!
THE SHEPHERD TO HIS LOVE
ABUIN the hill ae muckle star is burnin,
Sae saft an still, my dear, sae far awa,
There's ne'er a wind, noo day to nicht is turnin,
To lift the brainches o the whisperin shaw;
Aye, Jess, there's nane to see,
There's juist the sheep an me,
An ane's fair wastit when there micht be twa!
Alang the knowes there's no a beast that's movin,
They sheep o mine lie sleepin i' the dew;
There's jist ae thing that's wearyin an rovin,
An that's mysel, that wearies, wantin you.
What ails ye, that ye bide
In-by - an me ootside
To curse an daunder a' the gloamin throu?
To haud my tongue an aye hae patience wi ye
Is waur nor what a lass like you can guess;
For a' yer pranks I canna but forgie ye,
I'fegs! there's naucht can gar me loe ye less;
Heeven's i' yer een, an whiles
There's heeven i' yer smiles,
But oh! ye tak a deal o coortin, Jess!
A CHANGE O DEILS
"A change o dells is lichtsome." - Scots Proverb.
MY Grannie spent a merry youth,
She niver wantit for a joe,
An gin she telt me aye the truith,
Richt little was't she kent na o.
An whiles afore she gaed awa
To bed her doon below the gress,
Says she, "Guidmen I've kistit twa,
But a change o deils is lichtsome, lass!"
Sae dinna think to maister me,
For Scotland's fou o brawlike chiels,
An aiblins ither folk ye'll see
Are fine an pleased to change their deils.
Aye, set yer bunnet on yer heid,
An cock it up upon yer bree,
O a' yer tricks ye'll hae some need
Afore ye get the best o me!
Sma' wark to fill yer place I'd hae,
I'll seek a sweethert i' the toon,
Or cast my hert across the Spey
An tak some pridefu Hieland loon.
I ken a man haes hoose an land,
His airm is stoot, his een are blue,
A ring o gowd is on his hand,
An he's a bonnier man nor you!
But hoose an gear an land an mair,
He'd gie them a' to get the preen
That preened the flouers in till my hair
Beside the mey-bush yestreen.
Jist tak you tent, an mind forby,
The braw guid sense my Grannie bad,
My Grannie's dochter's bairn am I,
An a change o deils is lichtsome, lad!
REJECTED
I'M fairly disjaskit, Christina,
The warld an its glories are tuim;
I'm laid like a stane whaur ye left me,
To greet wi my held i' the broom.
A' day haes the laverock been singin
Up yont, far awa i' the blue,
I thocht that his sang was sae bonnie,
Bit it disna seem bonnie the noo!
A' day haes the cushie been coortin
His joe i' the bous o the ash,
But gin Love was wheeped frae the pairish,
It isna mysel that wad fash!
For losh! what a wark I've haed wi ye!
At mairkit, at kirk, an at fair,
I've ne'er let anither lad near ye-
An what can a lassie need mair?
An oh! but I've socht ye an watched ye,
Whauriver yer fitsteps was set,
Gin ye haed but yer neb i' the gairden
I was aye glowerin in at the yett!
Ye'll mind when ye sat at the windy,
Dressed oot in yer fine Sawbath black,
Richt brawly I kent that ye saw me,
But ye juist slippit oot at the back.
Christina, 'twas shamefu-aye was it!
Affrontin a man like mysel,
I'm thinkin ye're daft, for what ails ye
Is past comprehension to tell.
Guid stuff's no sae common, Christina,
An whiles it's no easy to see;
Ye micht tryst wi the Laird or the Provost,
But ye'll no finnd the marrows o me!
THE LAST O THE TINKLER
LAY me in yon place, lad,
The gloamin's thick wi nicht;
I canna see yer face, lad,
For my een's no richt,
But it's ower late for leein,
An I ken fine I'm deein,
Like an auld craw fleein
To the last o the licht.
The kye gang to the byre, lad,
An the sheep to the fauld,
Ye'll mak a spunk o fire, lad,
For my hert's turned cauld;
An whaur the trees are meetin,
There's a soond like waters beatin,
An the bird seems near to greetin,
That was aye singin bauld.
There's jist the tent to leave, lad,
I've gaithered little gear,
There's jist yersel to grieve, lad,
An the auld dug here;
An when the morn comes creepin,
An the waukwnin birds are cheepin,
It'll finnd me lyin sleepin
As I've slept saxty year.
Ye'll rise to meet the sun, lad,
An baith be traivelin west,
But me that's auld an duin, lad,
I'll bide an tak my rest;
For the grey heid is bendin,
An the auld shuin's needin mendin,
But the traivelin's near its endin,
An the end's aye the best.