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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/17933.txt b/17933.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..83fd28b --- /dev/null +++ b/17933.txt @@ -0,0 +1,2616 @@ +Project Gutenberg's Songs of Angus and More Songs of Angus, by Violet Jacob + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Songs of Angus and More Songs of Angus + +Author: Violet Jacob + +Release Date: March 6, 2006 [EBook #17933] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SONGS OF ANGUS AND MORE *** + + + + +Produced by Andrew Sly + + + + +[Transcriber's Note: Two small volumes of Violet Jacob's poetry +have been combined together to produce this text.] + + + + +SONGS OF ANGUS + +By + +VIOLET JACOB + +Author of "Flemington" + + + +London +John Murray, Albemarle Street, W. +1919 + +(First published in 1915) + + +NOTE + +I have to thank the Editors of the _Cornhill Magazine_, +_Country Life_, and _The Outlook_, respectively, for their +permission to reprint in this Collection such of the following +poems as they have published. + +V. J. + + + + +PREFACE + + +There are few poets to-day who write in the Scots vernacular, and +the modesty of the supply is perhaps determined by the slenderness +of the demand, for pure Scots is a tongue which in the changes of +the age is not widely understood, even in Scotland. The various +accents remain, but the old words tend to be forgotten, and we may +be in sight of the time when that noble speech shall be degraded +to a northern dialect of English. The love of all vanishing things +burns most strongly in those to whom they are a memory rather than a +presence, and it is not unnatural that the best Scots poetry of our +day should have been written by exiles. Stevenson, wearying for his +"hills of home," found a romance in the wet Edinburgh streets, which +might have passed unnoticed had he been condemned to live in the +grim reality. And we have Mr. Charles Murray, who in the South +African veld writes Scots, not as an exercise, but as a living +speech, and recaptures old moods and scenes with a freshness which +is hardly possible for those who with their own eyes have watched +the fading of the outlines. It is the rarest thing, this use of +Scots as a living tongue, and perhaps only the exile can achieve it, +for the Scot at home is apt to write it with an antiquarian zest, as +one polishes Latin hexameters, or with the exaggerations which are +permissible in what does not touch life too nearly. But the exile +uses the Doric because it is the means by which he can best express +his importunate longing. + +Mrs. Jacob has this rare distinction. She writes Scots because +what she has to say could not be written otherwise and retain its +peculiar quality. It is good Scots, quite free from misspelt English +or that perverted slang which too often nowadays is vulgarising the +old tongue. But above all it is a living speech, with the accent of +the natural voice, and not a skilful mosaic of robust words, which, +as in sundry poems of Stevenson, for all the wit and skill remains +a mosaic. The dialect is Angus, with unfamiliar notes to my Border +ear, and in every song there is the sound of the east wind and the +rain. Its chief note is longing, like all the poetry of exiles, +a chastened melancholy which finds comfort in the memory of old +unhappy things as well as of the beatitudes of youth. The metres are +cunningly chosen, and are most artful when they are simplest; and +in every case they provide the exact musical counterpart to the +thought. Mrs. Jacob has an austere conscience. She eschews facile +rhymes and worn epithets, and escapes the easy cadences of hymnology +which are apt to be a snare to the writer of folk-songs. She has +many moods, from the stalwart humour of "The Beadle o' Drumlee," and +"Jeemsie Miller," to the haunting lilt of "The Gean-Trees," and the +pathos of "Craigo Woods" and "The Lang Road." But in them all are +the same clarity and sincerity of vision and clean beauty of phrase. + +Some of us who love the old speech have in our heads or in our +note-books an anthology of modern Scots verse. It is a small +collection if we would keep it select. Beginning with Principal +Shairp's "Bush aboon Traquair," it would include the wonderful +Nithsdale ballad of "Kirkbride," a few pieces from _Underwoods_, +Mr. Hamish Hendry's "Beadle," one or two of Hugh Haliburton's Ochil +poems, Mr. Charles Murray's "Whistle" and his versions of Horace, +and a few fragments from the "poet's corners" of country newspapers. +To my own edition of this anthology I would add unhesitatingly Mrs. +Jacob's "Tam i' the Kirk," and "The Gowk." + +JOHN BUCHAN. + + + +CONTENTS + + TAM I' THE KIRK + THE HOWE O' THE MEARNS + THE LANG ROAD + THE BEADLE O' DRUMLEE + THE WATER-HEN + THE HEID HORSEMAN + JEEMSIE MILLER + THE GEAN-TREES + THE TOD + THE BLIND SHEPHERD + THE DOO'COT UP THE BRAES + LOGIE KIRK + THE PHILOSOPHY OF THE DITCH + THE LOST LICHT + THE LAD I' THE MUNE + THE GOWK + THE JACOBITE LASS + MAGGIE + THE WHUSTLIN' LAD + HOGMANAY + CRAIGO WOODS + THE WILD GEESE + + + + +TAM I' THE KIRK + + +O Jean, my Jean, when the bell ca's the congregation +Owre 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 Buik o' the Word 'afore ye +That was growin' braw on its bush at the keek o' day, +But the lad that pu'd yon flower 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 wa, +For nane but the reid rose kens what my lassie gie'd him-- + It an' us twa! + +He canna sing for the sang that his ain he'rt 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 plough + An' the days draw in, +When the burnin' yellow's awa' that was aince a-lowe + On the braes o' whin, +Do ye mind o' me that's deaved wi' the wearyfu' south + An' it's puir concairns +While the weepies fade on the knowes at the river's mouth + 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 courtin'-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 + Through the changefu year. +O, a lad thinks lang o' hame ere he thinks his fill + As his breid he airns-- +An' they're thrashin' noo at the white fairm 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' done wi' the fash o' their English ways + 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 owre auld an' heavy to haud the plough + I'll win hame at last, +An we'll bide our 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, and far alang the glen, +The road rins southward, southward, that grips the souls o' men, +That draws their fitsteps aye awa' frae hearth and frae fauld, +That pairts ilk freen' frae ither, and the young frae the auld. +And whiles I stand at mornin' and whiles I stand at nicht, +To see it through 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 abune the hills, +There is the black toon standin' mid the roarin' o' the mills. +Whaur the reek frae mony engines hangs 'atween it and the sun +An the lives are weary, weary, that are just begun. +Doon yon lang road that winds awa' my ain three sons they went, +They turned their faces southward frae the glens they aye had kent, +And 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 grass is hiech abune the gallant deid, +An ane whaur England's michty ships sail proud abune 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 flower o' the ling. +But whaur the road is twistin' through yon streets o' care an' sin, +My third braw son toils nicht and day for the gowd he fain would win, +Whaur ilka man grapes i' the dark to get his neebour's share, +An' it's lang, lang strivin' i' the mirk that's there. + +The een o' love can pierce the mools that hide a sodger's grave, +An' love that doesna' 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 through 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-- +And 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 owre free. + +Me an' the meenister, ye ken, +Are no the same as a' thae men +We hae for neebours i' the glen. + +The Lord gie'd him some lairnin' sma' +An me guid sense abune 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' loup 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 schule +Gin _my_ auld bonnet crooned a fule! + +But oh! Jehovah's unco' kind! +Whaur wad this doited pairish find +A man wi' sic a powerfu' mind? + +Sae, let the pairish sleep at nicht +Blind wi' the elders' shinin' licht, +Nor ken wha's hand keeps a' things richt. + +It's what they canna understan' +That brains hae ruled since time began, +An' that the beadle is the man! + + + + +THE WATER-HEN + + +As I gae'd doon by the twa mill dams i' the mornin' +The water-hen cam' oot like a passin' wraith +And her voice cam' through the reeds wi' a sound of warnin', + "Faith--keep faith!" +"Aye, bird, tho' ye see but ane ye may cry on baith!" + +As I gae'd doon the field when the dew was lyin', +My ain love stood whaur the road an' the mill-lade met, +An it seemed to me that the rowin' wheel was cryin', + "Forgi'e--forget, +An turn, man, turn, for ye ken that ye lo'e her yet!" + +As I gae'd doon the road 'twas a weary meetin', +For the ill words said yest're'en they were aye the same, +And my het he'rt 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 gae'd doon by the toon when the day was springin' +The Baltic brigs lay thick by the soundin' quay +And the riggin' hummed wi' the sang that the wind was singin', + "Free--gang free, +For there's mony a load on shore may be skailed at sea!" + +* * * * * * + +When I cam' hame wi' the thrang o' the years 'ahint me +There was naucht to see for the weeds and the lade in spate, +But the water-hen by the dams she seemed aye to mind me, + Cryin' "Hope--wait!" +"Aye, bird, but my een grow dim, an' it's late--late!" + + + + +THE HEID HORSEMAN + + +O Alec, up at Soutar's fairm, + You, that's sae licht o' he'rt, +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, +And set abune 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 and 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 suspec' the truth, + Tho' weel I ken it's true, +There's mony ane that trails in silk + Wha fain wad gang wi' you. + +But I am just a serving lass, + Wha toils to get her breid, +An' O! ye're sweir to see the gowd + I braid about 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 harness 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 sune forget + Yon limmer o' a mear! + + + + +JEEMSIE MILLER + + +There's some that mak' themsels a name +Wi' preachin', business, or a game, +There's some wi' drink hae gotten fame + And 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 had his seat + Was bent near double; +And gin yon wood had na been strang +It hadna held oor Jeemsie lang, +He had been landit wi' a bang, + And there'd been trouble. + +Ye could but mind, to see his face, +The reid mune glowerin' on the place, +Nae man had e'er sic muckle space + To haud his bonnet: +An owre yon bonnet on his brow, +Set cockit up owre Jeemsie's pow, +There waggit, reid as lichtit tow, + The toorie on it. + +And Jeemsie's poke was brawly lined, +There wasna mony couldna' find +His cantie hoosie i' the wynd, + "The Salutation": +For there ye'd get, wi' sang and clink, +What some ca'd comfort, wi' a wink, +And 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 had laid, + He wadna spare o't, +For, happit whaur it wasna 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 wasna' fou--na, na! +A wee thing pleasant--that was a', + An' drivin' canny) +Fegs! he cam' hurlin' owre the front +An' struck the road wi' sic a dunt, +Ye'd thocht the causey got the brunt + And no the mannie! + +Aweel, it was his hin'most drive, +Aifter yon clour he couldna thrive, +For twa pairts deid, an' ane alive, + His billies foond him: +And, bedded then, puir Jeemsie lay, +And a' the nicht and 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 disgrac't, +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, +Fu' sune they got the writer in + His mind to settle; +And O their loss! sae sair they felt it +To a' the toon wi' tears they tell't it, +Their dule for Jeemsie wad hae meltit + A he'rt o' metal! + +Puir Jeemsie dee'd. In a' their braws +The faim'ly cam' as black as craws, +Men, wifes, an' weans wi' their mamas + That scarce could toddle! +They grat--an' they had cause to greet; +The wull was read that garred them meet-- +The U. P. Kirk, just 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 dark'nin' land +An their heids i' the licht; +An the thochts o' youth roll back +Like wreaths frae the hillside track +In the Vale o' Strathmore; +And the autumn leaves are turnin' +And the flame o' the gean-trees burnin' +Roond the white hoose door. + +Aye me, when spring cam' green +And May-month decked the shaws +There was scarce a blink o' the wa's +For the flower o' the gean; +But when the hills were blue +Ye could see them glintin' through +An the sun i' the lift; +An the flower o' the gean-trees fa'in' +Was like pairls frae the branches snawin' +In a lang white drift. + +Thae trees are fair and gay +When May-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', +And 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, +And 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 himsel' is ca'd awa'! + +The laddie saw the tod gang by an' killed him wi' a stane +And 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 BLIND SHEPHERD + + +The land is white, an' far awa' + Abune ae bush an' tree +Nae fit is movin' i' the snaw + On the hills I canna see; +For the sun may 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 ways + An' the silly yowes that bleat. + +But noo wi' them I mauna' be, + An' by the fire I bide, +To sit and listen patiently + For a fit on the great hillside, +A fit that'll come to the door for me + Doon through the pasture wide, + +Maybe I'll hear the baa'in' 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 matter tho' they're blind, +For Ane will treid the stanes between + And I will walk behind, +Till up, far up i' the midnicht keen + The licht o' Heaven I'll find. + +An' maybe, when I'm up the hill + An' stand abune the steep, +I'll turn aince mair to look 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 DOO'UCOT UP THE BRAES + + +Beside the doo'cot up the braes + The fields slope doon frae me, +An fine's the glint on blawin' days + O' the bonnie plains o' sea. + +Below's my mither's hoosie sma', + The smiddy by the byre +Whaur aye my feyther dings awa' + And my brither blaws the fire. + +For Lachlan lo'es the smiddy's reek, + An' Geordie's but a fule +Wha' drives the plough his breid to seek, + And Rob's to teach the schule; + +He'll haver roond the schulehoose wa's, + And ring the schulehoose 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 plough. + +But by the doo'cot 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, +And the lasses wave to the Baltic men + Wi' the gowd rings i' their lugs. + +My mither's sweir to let me gang. + My feyther gi'es me blame, +But youth is sair and life is lang + When yer he'rt's sae far frae hame. + +But i' the doo'cot up the braes, + When a'tumn nichts are mirk, +I've hid my pennies an' my claes + An' the Buik I read at kirk, + +An' come ae nicht when a' fowks sleep, + I'll lift them whaur they lie, +An' to the harbour-side I'll creep + I' the dim licht o' the sky; + +An' when the eastern blink grows wide, + An' dark still smoors 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 ways + That led me far frae Logie! + +Fine do I mind when I was young + Abune thy graves the mavis sung +An' ilka birdie had 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 took the lassie wha was mine +An' laid her sleepin' lang, lang syne + Amang the braes at Logie. + + + + +THE PHILOSOPHY OF THE DITCH + + +Aweel, I'm couped. 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 just give way!_ + +If man's nae framed to lift his fit + Agin' a nat'ral law, +I winna' lift my heid, for it + Wad dae nae guid ava'. + +Puir worms are we; the poo'pit 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 raes'nin'; an' forby, + This pairish has nae sense, +There's mony traiv'lin wad deny + Natur and Providence; + +For loud 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 soughing o' the springtide breeze + Abune her heid blaws sweet, +There's nests amang the kirkyaird trees + And gowans at her feet. + +She gae'd 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. + +And, bedded, 'twixt the nicht an' day, + Yest're'en, I couldna bide +For thinkin', thinkin' as I lay + O' the wean that lies outside. + +O, mickle licht to me was gie'n + To reach my bairn's abode, +But heaven micht blast a mither's een + And her feet wad find the road. + +The kirkyaird loan alang the brae + Was choked wi' brier and whin, +A' i' the dark the stanes were grey + As wraiths when I gae'd in. + +The wind cried frae the western airt + Like warlock tongues at strife, +But the hand o' fear hauds aff the he'rt + That's lost its care for life. + +I sat me lang upon the green, + A stanethraw frae the kirk, +And syne a licht shone dim between + The shaws o' yew and birk. + +'Twas na the wildfire's flame that played + Alang the kirkyaird land, +It was a band o' bairns that gae'd + Wi' lichts in till their hand. + +O white they cam', yon babie thrang, + A' silent o'er the sod; +Ye couldna hear their feet amang + The graves, sae saft they trod. + +And aye the can'les flickered pale + Below the darkened sky, +But the licht was like a broken trail + When the third wee bairn gae'd by. + +For whaur the can'le-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 he'rt was sair, + I cried, "My ain! my doo'! +For a' thae weans the licht burns fair, + But it winna' burn for you!" + +She smiled to me, my little Jean, + Said she, "The dule and pain, +O mither! frae your waefu' een + They strike on me again: + +"For ither babes the flame leaps bricht + And fair and braw appears, +But I canna keep my bonnie licht, + For it's droukit wi' your tears!" + +There blew across my outstreeked 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 + Although my een grow blind, +Although they twa to saut should turn + Wi' the tears that lie behind. + +O Jeanie, on my bended knee + I'll pray I may forget, +My grief is a' that's left to me, + But there's something dearer yet! + + + + +THE LAD I' THE MUNE + + +I + +O gin I lived i' the gowden mune + Like the mannie that smiles at me, +I'd sit a' nicht in my hoose abune +An the wee-bit stars they wad ken me sune, +For I'd sup my brose wi' a gowden spune + And they wad come out to see! + +II + +For weel I ken that the mune's his ain + And he is the maister there; +A' nicht he's lauchin', for, fegs, there's nane +To draw the blind on his windy-pane +And tak' an' bed him, to lie his lane + And pleasure himsel' nae mair. + +III + +Says I to Grannie, "Keek up the glen + Abune by the rodden tree, +There's a braw lad 'yont i' the mune, 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 + +And, nicht by nicht, we will a' convene + And 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 + And the lad i' the mune an' me! + + + + +THE GOWK + + + I see the Gowk an' the Gowk sees me + Beside a berry-bush by the aipple-tree. + _Old Scots Rhyme_. + +'Tib, my auntie's a deil to wark, + Has me risin' 'afore the sun; +Aince her heid is abune 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 woods o' Dun + He kens him fine! + +Past the yaird an' ahint the stye, + O the aipples grow 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 aipple-tree + He winna' tell! + +Aprile-month, or the aipples flower, + Tib, my auntie, will rage an' ca'; +Jimmie lad, she may rin an' glower-- + What care I? We'll be far awa'! +Let her seek me the leelang 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 stood 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, +And for his sake but yestre'en + I sent my love frae me. + +I gi'ed my love the white white rose + That's at my feyther's wa', +It is the bonniest flower that grows + Whaur ilka flower is braw; +There's but ae bonnier that I ken + Frae Perth unto the main, +An' that's the flower o' Scotland's men + That's fechtin' for his ain. + +Gin I had kept whate'er was mine + As I hae gie'd my best, +My he'rt were licht by day, and syne + The nicht wad bring me rest; +There is nae heavier he'rt to find + 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 happ'd in glory + And nane can gar ye greet; +The joys o' Heaven are evermair afore ye, + It's licht about 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 dule seems mair nor double + I'll need to dae my best, +For aye ye took the half o' ilka trouble, + And noo I'd hae ye rest. + +Yer he'rt'll be the same he'rt since yer flittin', + Gin auld love doesna tire, +Sae dinna look 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; and on ilk December + There waits a New Year yet, +An naething bides but what our he'rts remember-- + Maggie, ye'll na forget? + + + + +THE WHUSTLIN' LAD + + +There's a wind comes doon frae the braes when the licht is spreadin' + Chilly an' grey, +An' the auld cock craws at the yett o' the muirland steadin' + Cryin' on day; +The hoose lies sound an' the sma' mune's deein' an' weary + Watchin' her lane, +The shadows 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 fu' 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 sound like the sneck o' the backdoor turnin', + Fash na for it; +It's just the crack i' the lum o' the green wood burnin', + Ill to be lit; +Gin ye hear a step, it's the auld mear loose i' the stable + Stampin' the strae, +Or mysel' that's settin' the parritch-spunes on the table, +Sae turn ye aboot an' sleep, mither, sleep while ye're able, + Rest while ye may. + +Up at the steadin' the trail o' the mist has liftit + Clear frae the grund, +Mither breathes saft an' her face to the wa' she's shiftit-- + Aye, but she's sound! +Lad, ye may 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 and the Auld Year meet, +An' the lads gang roarin' i' the lichtit street, +An' there's me and 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 shune, +Tho' the bailies an' the provost be to sort us a'! + +We've three bonnie bottles, but the third ane's toom, +Gin' the road ran whisky, it's mysel' wad soom! +But we'll stan' while we can, an' be dancin' while we may, +For there's twa we hae to finish, an' it's Hogmanay. + Geordie Faa! Geordie Faa! +There's an auld carle glow'rin' oot ahint yon wa', +But we'll sune gar him loup to the pipin' till he coup, +For we'll gi'e him just 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 maybe get alang, +An' the deevil tak' the laddie that's the first to fa'! + + + + +CRAIGO WOODS + + +Craigo Woods, wi' the splash o' the cauld rain beatin' + I' the back end o' the year, +When the clouds hang laigh wi' the weicht o' their load o' greetin' + And the autumn wind's asteer; +Ye may stand like gaists, ye may 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 Woods, i' the licht o' September sleepin' + And the saft mist o' the morn, +When the hairst climbs to yer feet, an' the sound o' reapin' + Comes up frae the stookit corn, +And the braw reid puddock-stules are like jewels blinkin' + And the bramble happs ye baith, +O what do 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 woods o' fir an' the licht atween them, + I winna speir its name, +But I'll lay me doon by the puddock-stules 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 dee'in for the north." +"My man, I heard the siller tides rin up the Firth o' Forth." + +"Aye, Wind, I ken them weel eneuch, and fine they fa' an' rise, +And fain I'd feel the creepin' mist on yonder shore that lies, +But tell me, ere ye passed them by, what saw ye on the way?" +"My man, I rocked the rovin' gulls that sail abune 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 hae'na trod for years." +"O Wind, forgi'e a hameless loon that canna see for tears!" + +"And far abune the Angus straths I saw the wild geese flee, +A lang, lang skein o' beatin' wings, wi' their heids towards the sea, +And aye their cryin' voices trailed ahint them on the air--" +"O Wind, hae maircy, haud yer whisht, for I daurna listen mair!" + + + +GLOSSARY + + +_Airt_, point (of compass). +_Billies_, cronies. +_Braws_, finery. +_Bubbly-jock_, turkey-cock. +_Cankered_, cross-grained. +_Causey_, paved edge of a street. +_Chanter_, mouth-piece of a bag-pipe. +_Clour_, a blow. +_Coup_, to fall. +_Deaved_, deafened, bewildered. +_Droukit_, soaked. +_Dunt_, a blow. +_Fit_, foot. +_Fleggit_, frightened. +_Gean-tree_, a wild cheerry-tree. +_Girnin'_, groaning. +_Gowk_, a cuckoo. +_Grapes_, gropes. +_Hairst_, harvest. +_Happit, happ'd_, wrapped. +_Haughs_, low-lying lands. +_Keek_, peer. +_Kep_, meet. +_Laigh_, low. +_Lane, his lane_, alone. +_Loan_, disused, overgrown road, a waste place. +_Loon_, a fellow. +_Lowe_, flame. +_Lum_, chimney. +_Mear_, mare. +_Mill-lade_, mill-race. +_Neep_, turnip. +_Poke_, pocket. +_Puddock-stules_, toadstools. +_Rodden-tree_, rowan-tree. +_Rug_, to pull. +_Sark_, shift, smock. +_Shaws_, small woods. +_Sheltie_, pony. +_Skailed_, split, dispersed. +_Smoors_, smothers. +_Sneck_, latch. +_Soom_, swim. +_Sort them_, deal with them. +_Speels_, climbs. +_Speir_, to inquire. +_Steerin'_, stirring. +_Sweir_, loth. +_Syne_, since, ago, then. +_Tawse_, a leather strap used for correcting children. +_Thole_, to endure. +_Thrawn_, twisted. +_Tint_, lost. +_Tod_, fox. +_Toom_, empty. +_Toorie_, a knob, a topknot. +_Traivel_, to go afoot; literally, to go at a foot's pace. +_Warslin'_, wrestling. +_Wauks_, wakes. +_Waur_, worse. +_Wean_, infant. +_Weepies_, rag-wort. +_Whaup_, curlew. +_Wildfire_, summer lightning. +_Writer_, attorney. +_Yett_, gate. + + + + + +MORE SONGS +OF ANGUS +AND OTHERS + +By +VIOLET JACOB + + + Published at the offices of "Country + Life," 20 Tavistock Street, Covent Garden, + London, W.C. 2, and by George Newnes, LTD., + 8-11, Southampton Street, Strand, W.C. 2. + New York: Charles Scribner's Sons + MCMXVIII + + + +To A. H. J. + +Past life, past tears, far past the grave, + The tryst is set for me, +Since, for our all, your all you gave + On the slopes of Picardy. + +On Angus, in the autumn nights, + The ice-green light shall lie, +Beyond the trees the Northern Lights + Slant on the belts of sky. + +But miles on miles from Scottish soil + You sleep, past war and scaith, +Your country's freedman, loosed from toil, + In honour and in faith. + +For Angus held you in her spell, + Her Grampians, faint and blue, +Her ways, the speech you knew so well, + Were half the world to you. + +Yet rest, my son; our souls are those + Nor time nor death can part, +And lie you proudly, folded close + To France's deathless heart. + + + +The whole of the poems under the heading In Scots appeared +in Country Life. Of the others, one or two have appeared in +The Cornhill or The Outlook. They are all reprinted by kind +permission of the respective editors. + + + +CONTENTS + +IN SCOTS + + JOCK, TO THE FIRST ARMY + THE TWA WEELUMS + THE FIELD BY THE LIRK O' THE HILL + MONTROSE + THE ROAD TO MARYKIRK + KIRSTY'S OPINION + THE BRIG + THE KIRK BESIDE THE SANDS + GLORY + THE SHEPHERD TO HIS LOVE + A CHANGE O' DEILS + REJECTED + THE LAST O' THE TINKLER + +IN ENGLISH + + FRINGFORD BROOK + PRISON + PRESAGE + THE BIRD IN THE VALLEY + BACK TO THE LAND + THE SCARLET LILIES + FROSTBOUND + ARMED + "THE HAPPY WARRIOR" + UNITY + + + + +IN SCOTS + + + + +JOCK, TO THE FIRST ARMY + + +O Rab an' Dave an' rantin' Jim, + The geans were turnin' reid +When Scotland saw yer line grow dim, + Wi' the pipers at its heid; +Noo, i' yon warld we dinna ken, + Like strangers ye maun gang-- +_"We've sic a wale[1] 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 skirling through 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' doot. + Ye're far frae airthly ill-- +--"_We're near, we're here, my wee recruit,_ + _An' we fecht for Scotland still._" + +[1] Choice. + + + + +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 hadna reckoned +Wi' Sairgeant Weelum Henderson, an' wi' + The Forty-Second! + +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 just 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 hasn't met his match + He'll sune be wiser. +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 sow 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, + And they howms o' France + Haud me for guid an' a'; + And 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 owre 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 + Loupin' in its place, + An' see the steeple's face + Dim i' the creepin' haar;[2] + And the toon-clock's sang + Will cry through the weit, +And the coal-bells ring, aye ring, on the cairts as they gang + I' the drookit street. + + Heaven's hosts are glad, + Heaven's hames are bricht, + And in yon streets o' licht + Walks mony an Angus lad; + But my he'rt's aye back + Whaur my ain toon stands, +And the steeple's shade is laid when the tide's at the slack + On the lang sands. + +[2] Sea-fog. + + + + +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 glow'rin' on ye as ye gang. +By Martin's Den, through beech an' birk, +A breith comes soughin', sweet an' strang, + Alang the road to Marykirk. + +Frae mony a field ye'll hear the cry +O' teuchits,[3] 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 lying deid in Flanders, Jock. + +[3] Lapwings. + + + + +KIRSTY'S OPINION + + +Fine div I ken what ails yon puddock, Janet, + That aince would hae her neb set up sae hie; +There's them that disna' seem to understan' it, + I'se warrant ye it's plain eneuch to me! + +Maybe ye'll mind her man--a fine wee cratur, + Owre blate to speak (puir thing, he didna' daur); +What gar'd 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 contradic' her flat; +He smokes a' day, comes late to get his denner, + (I mind the time she'd sort him weel for that!) + +What's gar'd her turn an' tak' a road divairgint? + Ye think she's wae[4] because he wants a limb? +Ach! haud yer tongue, ye fule--_the man's a sairgint,_ + An' there's nae argy-bargyin' wi' _him_! + +[4] Sad. + + + + +THE BRIG + + +I whiles gang to the brig-side + That's past the briar tree, +Alang the road when the licht is wide + Owre Angus an' the sea. + +In by the dyke yon briar grows + 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'; +And atween the brig an' the briar tree + Ther gangs na' ane, but twa. + +Oot owre yon sea, through dule 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 may 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 niver 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 word 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 roofless kirk i' the bield o' the cliff-fit bidin', + And the deid laid near the wa'; +A wheen auld coupit stanes i' the sea-grass hidin', + Wi' the sea-sound ower them a'. + +But it's mair nor daith that's here on the hauchs o' Flanders, + And 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'; + And the warst o' a's disgrace; +For there's nae grave deep eneuch 'mang the graves in bein' + To cover a coward's face. + +Syne, a' is weel, though 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 + O'er 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 he'rt 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 gae'd frae mill and mart; frae wind-blawn places, + And 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, and soughin' through the rashes, + Yer voice comes back to me at ilka turn, +Amang the whins, an' whaur the water washes + The arn-tree[5] wi' its feet amangst the burn. + +Whiles ye come back to me when day is fleein', + And 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 blind wi' licht. + +Daith canna' kill. The mools o' France lie o'er ye, + An' yet ye live, O sodger o' the Lord! +For Him that focht wi' daith an' dule afore ye, + He gie'd the life--'twas Him that gie'd the sword. + +But gin ye see my face or gin ye hear me, + I daurna' ask, I maunna' seek to ken, +Though I should dee, wi' sic a glory near me, + By nicht or day, come ben, my bairn, come ben! + +[5] Alder. + + + + +THE SHEPHERD TO HIS LOVE + + +Abune 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 just the sheep an' me, +And 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' through? + +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 forgi'e ye, + I'fegs! there's naucht can gar me lo'e ye less; + Heaven's i' yer een, an' whiles + There's heaven i' yer smiles, +But oh! ye tak' a deal o' courtin', Jess! + + + + +A CHANGE O' DEILS + +"A change o' deils is lichtsome."-- + _Scots Proverb_. + + +My Grannie spent a merry youth, + She niver wantit for a joe, +An gin she tell't me aye the truth, + Richt little was't she kent na o'. + +An' whiles afore she gae'd awa' + To bed her doon below the grass, +Says she, "Guidmen I've kistit[6] twa, + But a change o' deils is lichtsome, lass!" + +Sae dinna think to maister me, + For Scotland's fu' o' brawlike chiels, +And aiblins[7] ither folk ye'll see + Are fine an' pleased to change their deils. + +Aye, set yer bonnet 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 sweethe'rt i' the toon, +Or cast my he'rt across the Spey + An' tak' some pridefu' Hieland loon. + +I ken a man has 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 flowers in till my hair + Beside the may-bush yestre'en. + +Jist tak' you tent, an' mind forbye, + The braw guid sense my Grannie had, +_My Grannie's dochter's bairn am I,_ + _And a change o' deils is lichtsome, lad!_ + +[6] Coffined. +[7] Sometimes. + + + + +REJECTED + + +I'm fairly disjaskit, Christina, + The warld an' its glories are toom; +I'm laid like a stane whaur ye left me, + To greet wi' my heid i' the broom. + +A' day has the lav'rock 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 has the cushie been courtin' + His joe i' the boughs o' the ash, +But gin Love was wheeped frae the pairish, + It isn't mysel' that wad fash! + +For losh! what a wark I've had 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 had 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 just 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, + And whiles it's no easy to see; +Ye micht tryst wi' the Laird or the Provost, + But ye'll no find the marrows[8] o' me! + +[8] Match. + + + + +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 owre 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 he'rt's turned cauld; +An' whaur the trees are meetin', +There's a sound 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 waukw'nin' birds are cheipin', +It'll find me lyin' sleepin' + As I've slept saxty year. + +Ye'll rise to meet the sun, lad, + An' baith be traiv'lin west, +But me that's auld an' done, lad, + I'll bide an' tak' my rest; +For the grey heid is bendin', +An' the auld shune's needin' mendin', +But the traiv'lin's near its endin', + And the end's aye the best. + + + + +IN ENGLISH + + + + +FRINGFORD BROOK + + +The willows stand by Fringford brook, + From Fringford up to Hethe, +Sun on their cloudy silver heads, + And shadow underneath. + +They ripple to the silent airs + That stir the lazy day, +Now whitened by their passing hands, + Now turned again to grey. + +The slim marsh-thistle's purple plume + Droops tasselled on the stem, +The golden hawkweeds pierce like flame + The grass that harbours them; + +Long drowning tresses of the weeds + Trail where the stream is slow, +The vapoured mauves of water-mint + Melt in the pools below; + +Serenely soft September sheds + On earth her slumberous look, +The heartbreak of an anguished world + Throbs not by Fringford brook. + +All peace is here. Beyond our range, + Yet 'neath the selfsame sky, +The boys that knew these fields of home + By Flemish willows lie. + +They waded in the sun-shot flow, + They loitered in the shade, +Who trod the heavy road of death, + Jesting and unafraid. + +Peace! What of peace? This glimpse of peace + Lies at the heart of pain, +For respite, ere the spirit's load + We stoop to lift again. + +O load of grief, of faith, of wrath, + Of patient, quenchless will, +Till God shall ease us of your weight + We'll bear you higher still! + +O ghosts that walk by Fringford brook, + 'Tis more than peace you give, +For you, who knew so well to die, + Shall teach us how to live. + + + + +PRISON + + +In the prison-house of the dark + I lay with open eyes, +And pale beyond the pale windows + I saw the dawn rise. +From past the bounds of space + Where earthly vapours climb, +There stirred the voice I shall not hear + On this side Time. +There is one death for the body, + And one death for the heart, +And one prayer for the hope of the end, + When some links part. +Christ, from uncounted leagues, +Beyond the sun and moon, +Strike with the sword of Thine own pity-- + Bring the dawn soon. + + + + +PRESAGE + + +The year declines, and yet there is + A clearness, as of hinted spring; +And chilly, like a virgin's kiss, + The cold light touches everything. + +The world seems dazed with purity, + There hangs, this spell-bound afternoon, +Beyond the naked cherry tree + The new-wrought sickle of the moon. + +What is this thraldom, pale and still, + That holds so passionless a sway? +Lies death in this ethereal chill, + New life, or prelude of decay? + +In the frail rapture of the sky + There bodes, transfigured, far aloof, +The veil that hides eternity, + With life for warp and death for woof. + +We see the presage--not with eyes, + But dimly, with the shrinking soul-- +Scarce guessing, in this fateful guise, + The glory that enwraps the whole, + +The light no flesh may apprehend, + Lent but to spirit-eyes, to give +Sign of that splendour of the end + That none may look upon and live. + + + + +THE BIRD IN THE VALLEY + + +Above the darkened house the night is spread, + The hidden valley holds + Vapour and dew and silence in its folds, +And waters sighing on the river-bed. + No wandering wind there is + To swing the star-wreaths of the clematis + Against the stone; +Out of the hanging woods, above the shores, +One liquid voice of throbbing crystal pours, + Singing alone. + +A stream of magic through the heart of night + Its unseen passage cleaves; + Into the darkened room below the eaves +It falls from out the woods upon the height, + A strain of ecstasy + Wrought on the confines of eternity, + Glamour and pain, +And echoes gathered from a world of years, +Old phantoms, dim like mirage seen through tears, + But young again. + +"Peace, peace," the bird sings on amid the woods, + "Peace, from the land that is the spirit's goal,-- + The land that nonce may see but with his soul,-- +Peace on the darkened house above the floods." +Pale constellations of the clematis, + Hark to that voice of his + That will not cease, + Swing low, droop low your spray, +Light with your white stars all the shadowed way + To peace, peace! + + + + +BACK TO THE LAND + + +Out in the upland places, + I see both dale and down, +And the ploughed earth with open scores + Turning the green to brown. + +The bare bones of the country + Lie gaunt in winter days, +Grim fastnesses of rock and scaur, + Sure, while the year decays. + +And, as the autumn withers, + And the winds strip the tree, +The companies of buried folk + Rise up and speak with me;-- + +From homesteads long forgotten, + From graves by church and yew, +They come to walk with noiseless tread + Upon the land they knew;-- + +Men who have tilled the pasture + The writhen thorn beside, +Women within grey vanished walls + Who bore and loved and died. + +And when the great town closes + Upon me like a sea, +Daylong, above its weary din, + I hear them call to me. + +Dead folk, the roofs are round me, + To bar out field and hill, +And yet I hear you on the wind + Calling and calling still; + +And while, by street and pavement, + The day runs slowly through, +My soul, across these haunted downs, + Goes forth and walks with you. + + + + +THE SCARLET LILIES + + +I see her as though she were standing yet + In her tower at the end of the town, +When the hot sun mounts and when dusk comes down, + With her two hands laid on the parapet; +The curve of her throat as she turns this way, + The bend of her body--I see it all; +And the watching eyes that look day by day + O'er the flood that runs by the city wall. + +The winds by the river would come and go + On the flame-red gown she was wont to wear, +And the scarlet lilies that crowned her hair, + And the scarlet lilies that grew below. +I used to lie like a wolf in his lair, + With a burning heart and a soul in thrall, +Gazing across in a fume of despair + O'er the flood that runs by the river wall. + +I saw when he came with his tiger's eyes, + That held you still in the grip of their glance, +And the cat-smooth air he had learned in France, + The light on his sword from the evening skies; +When the heron stood at the water's edge, + And the sun went down in a crimson ball, +I crouched in a thicket of rush and sedge + By the flood that runs by the river wall. + +He knew where the stone lay loose in its place, + And a foot might hold in the chink between, +The carven niche where the arms had been, + And the iron rings in the tower's face; +For the scarlet lilies lay broken round, + Snapped through at the place where his tread would fall, +As he slipped at dawn to the yielding ground, + Near the flood that runs by the river wall. + +I gave the warning--I ambushed the band + In the alder-clump--he was one to ten-- +Shall I fight for my soul as he fought then, + Lord God, in the grasp of the devil's hand? +As the cock crew up in the morning chill, + And the city waked to the watchman's call, +There were four left lying to sleep their fill + At the flood that runs by the city wall. + +Had I owned this world to its farthest part, + I had bartered all to have had his share; +Yet he died that night in the city square, + With a scarlet lily above his heart. +And she? Where the torrent goes by the slope, + There rose in the river a stifled call, +And two white hands strove with a knotted rope + In the flood that runs by the river wall. + +Christ! I had thought I should die like a man, + And that death, grim death, might himself be sweet, +When the red sod rocked to the horses' feet, + And the knights went down as they led the van;-- +But the end that waits like a trap for me, + Will come when I fight for my latest breath, +With a white face drowned between God and me + In the flood that runs by the banks of death. + + + + +FROSTBOUND + + +When winter's pulse seems dead beneath the snow, + And has no throb to give, +Warm your cold heart at mine, beloved, and so + Shall your heart live. + +For mine is fire--a furnace strong and red; + Look up into my eyes, +There shall you see a flame to make the dead + Take life and rise. + +My eyes are brown, and yours are still and grey, + Still as the frostbound lake +Whose depths are sleeping in the icy sway, + And will not wake. + +Soundless they are below the leaden sky, + Bound with that silent chain; +Yet chains may fall, and those that fettered lie + May live again. + +Yes, turn away, grey eyes, you dare not face + In mine the flame of life; +When frost meets fire, 'tis but a little space + That ends the strife. + +Then comes the hour, when, breaking from their bands, + The swirling floods run free, +And you, beloved, shall stretch your drowning hands, + And cling to me. + + + + +ARMED + + +Give me to-night to hide me in the shade, + That neither moon nor star +May see the secret place where I am laid, + Nor watch me from afar. + +Let not the dark its prying ghosts employ + To peer on my retreat, +And see the fragments of my broken toy + Lie scattered at my feet. + +I fashioned it, that idol of my own, + Of metal strange and bright; +I made my toy a god--I raised a throne + To honour my delight. + +This haunted byway of the grove was lit + With lamps my hand had trimmed, +Before the altar in the midst of it + I kept their flame undimmed. + +My steps turned ever to the hidden shrine; + Aware or unaware, +My soul dwelt only in that spot divine, + And now a wreck lies there. + +Give me to-night to weep--when dawn is spread + Beyond the heavy trees, +And in the east the day is heralded + By cloud-wrought companies, + +I shall have gathered up my heart's desire, + Broken, destroyed, adored, +And from its splinters, in a deathless fire, + I shall have forged a sword. + + + + +"THE HAPPY WARRIOR" + + +I have brought no store from the field now the day is ended, + The harvest moon is up and I bear no sheaves; +When the toilers carry the fruits hanging gold and splendid, + I have but leaves. + +When the saints pass by in the pride of their stainless raiment, + Their brave hearts high with the joy of the gifts they bring, +I have saved no whit from the sum of my daily payment + For offering. + +Not there is my place where the workman his toil delivers, + I scarce can see the ground where the hero stands, +I must wait as the one poor fool in that host of givers, + With empty hands. + +There was no time lent to me that my skill might fashion + Some work of praise, some glory, some thing of light, +For the swarms of hell came on in their power and passion, + I could but fight. + +I am maimed and spent, I am broken and trodden under, + With wheel and horseman the battle has swept me o'er, +And the long, vain warfare has riven my heart asunder, + I can no more. + +But my soul is still; though the sundering door has hidden + The mirth and glitter, the sound of the lighted feast, +Though the guests go in and I stand in the night, unbidden, + The worst, the least. + +My soul is still. I have gotten nor fame nor treasure, + Let all men spurn me, let devils and angels frown, +But the scars I bear are a guerdon of royal measure, + My stars--my crown. + + + + +UNITY + + +I dreamed that life and time and space were one, + And the pure trance of dawn; + The increase drawn +From all the journeys of the travelling sun, +And the long mysteries of sound and sight, + The whispering rains, +And far, calm waters set in lonely plains, + And cry of birds at night. + +I dreamed that these and love and death were one, + And all eternity, + The life to be +Therewith entwined, throughout the ages spun; +And so with Grief, my playmate; him I knew + One with the rest,-- +One with the mounting day, the east and west-- + Lord, is it true? +Lord, do I dream? Methinks a key unlocks +Some dungeon door, in thrall of blackened towers, +On ecstasies, half hid, like chill white flowers +Blown in the secret places of the rocks. + + + + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Songs of Angus and More Songs of Angus, by +Violet Jacob + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SONGS OF ANGUS AND MORE *** + +***** This file should be named 17933.txt or 17933.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/1/7/9/3/17933/ + +Produced by Andrew Sly + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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