Title: Bonnie Joann: and other poems
Author: Jacob, Violet
Language: English
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BONNIE JOANN



_BY VIOLET JACOB_

SONGS _of_ ANGUS

FIFTH IMPRESSION


“The dialect is Angus, and in every song there is the sound of the east
wind and the rain.... 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 of vision and clear beauty of
phrase.”

  _From_ MR. JOHN BUCHAN’S _Preface_.


LONDON: JOHN MURRAY



  BONNIE JOANN

  AND OTHER POEMS

  BY VIOLET JACOB

  LONDON

  JOHN MURRAY, ALBEMARLE STREET, W.
  1921



ALL RIGHTS RESERVED



  TO MY NEPHEW

  WILLIAM KENNEDY-ERSKINE

  MOST UNDERSTANDING OF READERS



CONTENTS


           PAGE

  BONNIE JOANN        1

  THE WIND FRAE THE BALTIC       3

  THE TRAMP TO THE TATTIE-DULIE       5

  HALLOWE’EN       8

  ADAM           10

  THE DAFT BIRD          13

  PRIDE        15

  ‘KIRRIE’        17

  THE END O’T       20

  THE KELPIE       22

  BALTIC STREET      25

  BAILIE BRUCE       28

  CHARLEWAYN       31

  THE MUCKLE MOU’      34

  THE GANGEREL      36

  THE TINKLER’S BALOO         38

  THE BANKS O’ THE ESK        40

  THE WISE-LIKE CHAP      41

  INVERQUHARITY         43

  FAUR-YE-WEEL        46


  IN ENGLISH

  A YOUNG MAN’S SONG        50

  THE SHADOWS       51

  A WINTER PHANTASY        52

  MARSEY TOWN        54

  THE SEASONS        55


All these poems, with the exception of the last two in the book, have
appeared in _Country Life_, and I have to thank the editor for his
courteous permission to reproduce them.

  V. J.



BONNIE JOANN

_AND OTHER POEMS_



BONNIE JOANN


  We’ve stookit the hairst an’ we’re needin’
    To gaither it in,
  Syne, gin the morn’s dry, we’ll be leadin’
    An’ wark’ll begin;
  But noo I’ll awa doon the braeside
    My lane, while I can--
  Wha kens wha he’ll meet by the wayside,
    My bonnie Joann?

  East yonder, the hairst-fields are hidin’
    The sea frae my een,
  Gin ye keek whaur the stocks are dividin’
    Ye’ll see it atween.
  Sae douce an’ sae still it has sleepit
    Since hairst-time began
  Like my he’rt--gin ye’d tak’ it an’ keep it
    My bonnie Joann.

  Owre a’thing the shadows gang trailin’,
    Owre stubble an’ strae;
  Frae the hedge to the fit o’ the pailin’
    They rax owre the way;
  But the sun may gang through wi’ his beamin’
    An’ traivel his span,
  For aye, by the licht o’ my dreamin’,
    I see ye, Joann.

  Awa frae ye, naebody’s braver,
    Mair wise-like an’ bauld,
  Aside ye, I hech an’ I haver,
    I’m het an’ I’m cauld;
  But oh! could I tell wi’out speakin’
    The he’rt o’ a man,
  Ye micht find I’m the lad that ye’re seekin’,
    My bonnie Joann!



THE WIND FRAE THE BALTIC


  Below the wa’s, oot-by Montrose,
    The tides ca’ up an’ doon
  And mony’s the gallant mairchantman
    Lies in aside the toon;
  Oh, it’s fine alang the tideway
    The loupin’ waters rin
  When the wind is frae the Baltic wi’ the brigs comin’ in.

  I’d gie the ring upon my hand
    To hide me frae the sea
  That manes by nicht an’ cries by day
    The dule that’s come to me,
  For I’ll hear nae mair the fit-fa’
    When hame the brigs may win
  O’ a man that sailed the Baltic, nor his step comin’ in.

  And noo the toon is fair asteer,
    The weans rin doon the street,
  And I may turn my face aboot
    An’ get me hame to greet,
  There’s sic a joy wi’ a’ fowk
    My tears wad be a sin,
  For the wind is frae the Baltic--an’ the brigs comin’ in.



THE TRAMP TO THE TATTIE-DULIE


  Thrawn-leggit carle wi’ airms on hie
  And jist a hole for ilka ee,
  Ye needna lift yer hand to me
        As though ye’d strike me;
  Ye’re threits abune an’ strae below,
  But what-like use is sic a show?
  Ye maun respec’ me, bogle, tho’
        Ye mauna like me!

  To gutsy doo or thievin’ craw
  Ye mebbe represent the law
  When they come fleein’ owre the wa’
        To tak’ an airin’,
  Dod, I’ll no say they arena richt
  When sic a fell, unchancy sicht
  Gars them think twice afore they licht--
        But _I’m_ no carin’!

  Yer heid’s a neep,[1] yer wame’s[2] a sack,
  Yer ill-faured face gars bairnies shak’,
  But yet the likes o’ you can mak’
        A livin’ frae it;
  Sma’ use to me! It isna fair
  For though there’s mony wad declare
  That I’m no far ahint ye there,
        _I_ canna dae it!

  Life’s a disgust wi’ a’ its ways,
  For free o’ chairge ye get yer claes,
  Nae luck hae I on washin’-days--
        There’s plenty dryin’,
  But gin I see a usefu’ sark
  An’ bide or gloamin’ help my wark,
  The guidwife’s oot afore it’s dark--
        And leaves nane lyin’.

  Weel, weel, I’m aff. It’s little pleasure
  To see ye standin’ at yer leisure
  When I’ve sae mony miles to measure
        To get a meal!
  Ye idle dog! My bonnet’s through,
  An’ yours is no exac’ly new,
  But a’ the same I’ll hae’t frae you,
        And faur-ye-weel!


FOOTNOTES:

[1] Turnip.

[2] Belly.



HALLOWE’EN


  The tattie-liftin’s nearly through,
  They’re ploughin’ whaur the barley grew,
      And aifter dark, roond ilka stack,
      Ye’ll see the horsemen stand an’ crack
  O Lachlan, but I mind o’ you!

  I mind foo often we hae seen
  Ten thoosand stars keek doon atween
      The nakit branches, an’ below
      Baith fairm an’ bothie hae their show,
  Alowe wi’ lichts o’ Hallowe’en.

  There’s bairns wi’ guizards[3] at their tail
  Clourin’ the doors wi’ runts[4] o’ kail,
      And fine ye’ll hear the skreichs an’ skirls
      O’ lassies wi’ their droukit curls
  Bobbin’ for aipples i’ the pail.

  The bothie fire is loupin’ het,
  A new heid horseman’s kist is set
      Richts o’ the lum; whaur by the blaze
      The auld ane stude that kept yer claes--
  I canna thole to see it yet!

  But gin the auld fowks’ tales are richt
  An ghaists come hame on Hallow nicht,
      O freend o’ freends! what wad I gie
      To feel ye rax yer hand to me
  Atween the dark an’ caun’le licht?

  Awa in France, across the wave,
  The wee lichts burn on ilka grave,
      An’ you an’ me their lowe hae seen--
      Ye’ll mebbe hae yer Hallowe’en
  Yont, whaur ye’re lyin’ wi’ the lave.

  There’s drink an’ daffin’, sang an’ dance
  And ploys and kisses get their chance,
      But Lachlan, man, the place I see
      Is whaur the auld kist used to be
  And the lichts o’ Hallowe’en in France!


FOOTNOTES:

[3] Mummers who go from door to door.

[4] Cabbage-stalks.



ADAM


    Ye’re richt weel buskit, yer poke is fu’,
          Ye ride i’ yer ain machine;
    ’Twould tak a fule to hae words wi’ you
          An’ no ken the gowk he’s been.

    At rowp or preachin’ the best ye’ll hae,
        This warld or the neist ane’s gear,
    The breist[5] o’ the laft on a Sawbath day,
        Or a seat by the auctioneer.

    Ye’re no jist auld an’ ye arena young,
        But it doesna affec’ the case,
    For I’m aye that fear’d o’ a wumman’s tongue
        That I’m like to forget her face.

    An’ fowk says “Donal’, ye’re forty past,
        I doot she’ll be fifty-three,
    But ye maun settle yersel’ at last
        That hasna a spare bawbee.

    Oh, youth’s a ploy, but it winna bide
        And a body’s gettin’ on--
    What ails ye, man, at a thrifty bride
        Wi’ a dandy bit hoose like yon?”

    Them’s wise-like bodies I hae to thank
        And mebbe they’re no far wrang;
    But whiles ye’ll step frae a creakin’ plank
        An’ doon i’ the glaur[6] ye’ll gang!

    It’s warm, thae nichts, i’ the auld King’s Heid;
        What better can ye desire
    Than a lass to bring ye the dram ye need
        An’ yer billies aroond the fire?

    An’ wha is’t redes me to tak’ a wife?
        A puckle o’ single men!
    No ane, I’m thinkin’, wad risk his life
        Wi’ a jaud that he disna ken!

    I’ll wish ye luck an’ a braw guidman,
        And weel may ye baith agree,
    But I’m no seekin’ ye, Maggie-Ann,
        And I doot that he’ll no be me!


FOOTNOTES:

[5] The front seat in the gallery.

[6] Mud.



THE DAFT BIRD


  When day is past an’ peace comes doon wi’ gloamin’
      An’ twa by twa the young fowk pass the yett,
  Auld stocks like me maun let their thochts content them,
      Mindin’ o’ coortin’s that they’ll no forget.
  Ye’re no sae far awa the nicht, my Marget,
      Tho’ on the brae-heid, past the dyke ye lie,
  Whaur ae daft bird is singin’ i’ the kirkyaird
      And ae star watches i’ the evenin’ sky.

  Late bird, daft bird, the likes o’ you are bedded,
      The daylicht’s deid, it’s hame that ye should be,
  Yer voice is naucht to them that canna hear ye;
      But sing you on, it isna naucht to me.
  Dod, like yersel’, it’s time that I was sleepin’,
      Sae lang it is since Marget laid her doon,
  And ilka year treids up ahint anither
      Like evenin’s ghaist ahint the aifternoon.

  For rest comes slaw to you an’ me, I’m thinkin’,
      Oor day’s wark’s surely lang o’ wearin’ through,
  The gloamin’s had been wearier an’ langer,
      Thae nichts o’ June, late warker, wantin’ you.
  I maun hae patience yet, I’ll no be grievin’,
      There’s them that disna fail tho’ day be spent,
  An’ yon daft bird’s aye singing i’ the kirkyaird--
      Lord, I will bide my time, an’ bide content.



PRIDE


  Did iver ye see the like o’ that?
  The warld’s fair fashioned to winder at!
  Heuch--dinna tell me! Yon’s Fishie Pete
  That cried the haddies in Ferry Street
  Set up wi’ his coats an’ his grand cigars
  In ane o’ they stinkin’ motor-cars!

  I mind the time (an’ it’s no far past)
  When he wasna for fleein’ alang sae fast
  An’ doon i’ the causey his cairt wad stand
  As he roared oot “Haddies!” below his hand;
  Ye’d up wi’ yer windy an’ doon he’d loup
  Frae the shaft o’ the cairt by the sheltie’s doup[7].

  Aye, muckle cheenges an’ little sense,
  A bawbee’s wut an’ a poond’s pretence!
  For there’s him noo wi’ his neb to the sky
  I’ yon deil’s machinery swiggit[8] by,
  An’ me, that whiles gi’ed him a piece to eat,
  Tramps aye to the kirk on my ain twa feet.

  And, nee’bours, mind ye, the warld’s a-gley
  Or we couldna see what we’ve seen the day,
  Guid fortune’s blate whaur she’s weel desairv’t
  The sinner fu’ an’ the godly stairv’t,
  An’ fowk like me an’ my auld guidman
  Jist wearied, daein’ the best we can!

  I’ve kept my lips an’ my tongue frae guile
  An’ kept mysel’ to mysel’ the while;
  Agin a’ wastrels I’ve aye been set
  And I’m no for seekin’ to thole them yet;
  A grand example I’ve been through life,
  A righteous liver, a thrifty wife.

  But oh! the he’rt o’ a body bleeds
  For favours sclarried[9] on sinfu’ heids.
  Wait you a whilie! Ye needna think
  They’ll no gang frae him wi’ cairds an’ drink!
  They’ll bring nae blessin’, they winna bide,
  For the warst sin, nee’bours, is pride, aye, pride!


FOOTNOTES:

[7] Croup.

[8] Swung, whirled.

[9] Spilt.



‘KIRRIE’


  Comin’ oot frae Kirrie, when the autumn gowd an’ siller
      At the hindmaist o’ September month has grips o’ tree an’ shaw,
  The mune hung, deaved wi’ sunset, no a spunk o’ pride in till her,
      Nae better nor a bogle, till the licht was awa;
  An’ the haughs below the Grampains, i’ the evenin’ they were lyin’
      Like a lang-socht Land o’ Promise that the cauld mist couldna
        smoor;
  An’ tho’ ye didna see it, ye could hear the river cryin’
      If ye stood a while to listen on the road to Kirriemuir.

  There’s an auld wife bides in Kirrie--set her up! a pridefu’ crater--
      And she’s crackin’ aye o’ London an’ the grand fowk ye may see;
  O’ the King, an’ syne his palace, till I’m sure I’m like to hate her,
      For the mairket-day in Kirrie is the sicht for me.
  But ye ken I’m sweir to fash her, an’ it’s best to be agreein’,
      For gin ye dinna heed her, then she’s cankered-like an’ soor,
  Dod, she tells o’ muckle lairnin’--but I doot the bizzar’s[10] leein’,
      For it’s fules wad bide in London when they kent o’ Kirriemuir.

  O, the braw, braw toon o’ Kirrie! What a years that I hae lo’ed it!
      And I winna seek to leave it tho’ I’m spared anither score;
  I’d be greetin’ like a laddie for the auld reid hooses croodit
      Lookin’ down upon the steadin’s and the fields o’ Strathmore.
  Ye may speak o’ heavenly mansions, ye may say it wadna grieve ye
      When ye quit a world sae bonnie--but I canna jist be sure,
  For I’ll hae to wait, I’m thinkin’, or I see if I believe ye,
      For my first braid blink o’ Heaven, an’ my last o’ Kirriemuir!


FOOTNOTES:

[10] Jade.



THE END O’T


  There’s a fine braw thistle that lifts its croon
      By the river-bank whaur the ashes stand,
  An’ the swirl o’ water comes whisp’rin’ doon
      Past birk an’ bramble an’ grazin’ land.
  But simmer’s flittit an’ time’s no heedin’
      A feckless lass nor a pridefu’ flow’r;
  The dark to hide me’s the grace I’m needin’,
            An’ the thistle’s seedin’
              An’ my day’s owre.

  I redd the hoose an’ I meat the hens
      (Oh, it’s ill to wark when ye daurna tire!)
  An’ what’ll I get when my mither kens
      It’s niver a maiden that biggs her fire?
  I mind my pray’rs, but I’m feared to say them,
      I hide my een, for they’re greetin’ fast,
  What though I blind them--for wha wad hae them?
            The licht’s ga’en frae them
              An’ my day’s past.

  Oh, wha tak’s tent for a fadin’ cheek?
      No him, I’se warrant, that gar’d it fade!
  There’s little love for a lass to seek
      When the coortin’s through an’ the price is paid.
  Oh, aince forgotten’s forgotten fairly,
      An’ heavy endit what’s licht begun,
  But God forgie ye an’ keep ye, Chairlie,
            For the nicht’s fa’en airly
              An’ my day’s done!



THE KELPIE


  I’m feared o’ the road ayont the glen,
      I’m sweir to pass the place
  Whaur the water’s rinnin’, for a’ fowk ken
  There’s a kelpie sits at the fit o’ the den,
      And there’s them that’s seen his face.

  But whiles he watches an’ whiles he hides
      And whiles, gin na wind manes,
  Ye can hear him roarin’ frae whaur he bides
  An’ the soond o’ him splashin’ agin the sides
      O’ the rocks an’ the muckle stanes.

  When the mune gaes doon at the arn-tree’s back
      In a wee, wee weary licht,
  My bed-claes up to my lugs I tak’,
  For I mind the swirl o’ the water black
      An’ the cry i’ the fearsome nicht.

  And lang an’ fell is yon road to me
      As I come frae the schule;
  I duarna think what I’m like to see
  When dark fa’s airly on buss an’ tree
      At Martinmas and Yule.

  Aside the crusie[11] my mither reads,
      “My bairn,” says she, “ye’ve heard
  The Lord is mindfu’ o’ a’ oor needs
  An’ His shield an’ buckler’s abune the heids
      O’ them that keeps His word.”

  But I’m a laddie that’s no that douce,
      An’ fechtin’s a bonnie game;
  The dominie’s pawmies[12] are little use,
  An’ mony’s the Sawbath I’m rinnin’ loose
      When a’body thinks I’m hame!

  Dod, noo we’re nearin’ the shorter days,
      It’s cannie I’ll hae to gang,
  An’ keep frae fechtin’ an’ sic-like ways,
  And no be tearin’ my Sawbath claes
      Afore that the nichts grow lang.

  Richt guid an’ couthie I’ll need to be,
      (But it’s leein’ to say I’m glad),
  I ken there’s troubles that fowk maun dree,
  An’ the kelpie’s no like to shift for me,
  Sae, gin thae warlocks are fear’d o’ Thee,
      Lord, mak’ me a better lad!


FOOTNOTES:

[11] Iron oil-lamp.

[12] Canings.



BALTIC STREET


    My dainty lass, lay you the blame
        Upon the richtfu’ heid;
    ’Twas daft ill-luck that bigg’d yer hame
        The wrang side o’ the Tweed.
    Ye hae yer tocher a’ complete,
        Ye’re bonnie as the rose,
    But I was born in Baltic Street,
        In Baltic Street, Montrose!

    Lang syne on mony a waefu’ nicht,
        Hie owre the sea’s distress,
    I’ve seen the great airms o’ the licht
        Swing oot frae Scurdyness;
    An’ prood, in sunny simmer blinks,
        When land-winds rase an’ fell,
    I’d flee my draigon[13] on the links
        Wi’ callants like mysel’.

    Oh, Baltic Street is cauld an’ bare
        An’ mebbe nae sae grand,
    But ye’ll feel the smell i’ the caller air
        O’ kippers on the land.
    ’Twixt kirk an’ street the deid fowk bide
        Their feet towards the sea,
    Ill nee’bours for a new-made bride,
        Gin ye come hame wi’ me.

    The steeple shades the kirkyaird grass,
        The seamen’s hidden banes,
    A dour-like kirk to an English lass
        Wha kens but English lanes;
    And when the haar, the winter through,
        Creeps blind on close and wa’
    My hame micht get a curse frae you,
        Mysel’ get, mebbe, twa.

    I’ll up an’ aff the morn’s morn
        To seek some reid-haired queyn,
    Bauld-he’rted, strang-nieved,[14] bred an’ born
        In this auld toon o’ mine.
    And oh! for mair I winna greet,
        Gin we hae meal an’ brose
    And a but an’ ben in Baltic Street,
        In Baltic Street, Montrose!


FOOTNOTES:

[13] Fly my kite.

[14] Strong-fisted.



BAILIE BRUCE


  Ye’d winder, when creation’s plan
  Seems sae acceptable to man,
  And the Creator, in His power,
  Made brute an’ bird, an’ fruit an’ flower;
  When e’en the wasps that bigg their bike
  An’ clocks[15] an’ golachs, an’ the like
  O’ a’ yon vairmin has their use,
  What gar’d Him fashion Bailie Bruce?

  He couldna thole to see a wean
  Wheepin’ his pearie[16] on the green,
  Nae sweethe’rts coorted but he saw
  Auld Homie’s tail ahint the twa.
  In godly wrath he aye wad show
  His hate o’ sinfu’ men; but tho’
  The wicked fled afore his face
  The guid aye passed them i’ the race.

  Oot frae the foremaist seat at kirk
  He roared the psalms like ony stirk,
  For gripp’d was he by sic a zeal
  As nane but the elect micht feel;
  An’ when the kirk-door plate was set,
  Wi’ looks o’ pride ye’d ne’er forget,
  When puir fowk laid their pennies doon
  He’d gi’e his Maker half a croon.

  Weel, whiles oor ancient customs change
  An’ fowk accep’ what’s new an’ strange;
  Oor decent plate awa was laid
  For bonny baggies--English made.
  Sawbath cam’ roond; the kirk was in;
  The Bailie sat an’ glow’red on sin;
  The Elder brocht wi’ reverent feet
  His baggie to the foremaist seat.

  In drapp’d the money; Bailie Bruce
  Wi’ open hand an’ purse-strings loose
  And e’en upliftit, kept his place;
  The bag passed on its road o’ grace.
  Weel was’t he couldna see the smile
  That a’ yon kirk-fu’ had the while
  Nor yet the Elder’s twisted mou’
  That wrocht him a’ the journey through!

  For oh! ahint the Bailie’s back
  Was done a deed o’ shame to mak’
  His righteous he’rt wi’ anger swell
  _Nane gie’d a bodle but himsel’!_
  An’ at the coontin’, plain to see,
  The baggie held but ae bawbee!

         *       *       *       *       *

  His health noo gars him keep the hoose;
  Losh-aye! what ails him, Bailie Bruce?


FOOTNOTES:

[15] Beetles.

[16] Whipping-top.



CHARLEWAYN[17]

  (_Yestere’n was Hallowe’en,
        To-day is Hallow-day,
  It’s nine free nichts to Martinmas,
        And then we’ll get away._

  OLD SONG AMONG ANGUS FARM SERVANTS.)


    Frae Hallowe’en to Martinmas
        There’s little time to fill,
    And yet there’s mony a warkin’ lass
        Thinks a’ the days stand still.

    Oh, cauld the mornin’ creeps on nicht
        Alang the eerie skies,
    An’ cauld the blink o’ caun’le-licht
        That lets me see to rise.

    For late an’ airly at the fairm
        The wark seems niver past,
    But a week, come Monday, brings the tairm
        When I may flit at last.

    My mither hauds her docters ticht,
        My mither’s hoose is sma’,
    An’ I niver lo’ed my mither richt
        Until I gaed awa.

    But yestere’en was Hallowe’en
        When a’ may dance an’ sing;
    The auld guidwife shut doon her e’en,
        The young anes got their fling;

    Set up, the fiddler wrocht. Below,
        The reel swang ilka ane,
    But my feet danced oot to meet my joe
        By the licht o’ Charlewayn.

    My mither’s hame’s a happy hame
        Whaur easy I may lie,
    And o’ mysel’ I’m thinkin’ shame,
        Sic a feckless queyn am I.

    For, by the licht o’ Charlewayn,
        It’s Rab that gar’d me lairn
    To see a lover’s lass mair plain
        E’en than a mither’s bairn.

    Aye, yestere’en was Hallowe’en,
        An’ Martinmas is near;
    It’s wae for Martinmas I’ve been
        But it’s like to find me here!


FOOTNOTES:

[17] Charles’ Wain, the Plough.



THE MUCKLE MOU’


    When ye are auld an’ pitten past,
        Ye’ll whiles be sittin’ wi’ a freen’
    And crackin’, as ye hear the blast
        Rage i’ the lum, o’ fowk ye’ve seen.
    There’s some gangs whingein’,[18] singin’ sma’,
        An’ some that taks a baulder tune,
    But ae thing’s aye the same wi’ a’--
        Their mou’s owre muckle for their spune.

    Ye’ll see a lad--his hoose the best,
        A thrivin’ swine in till his yaird,
    His gairden fu’--he winna rest,
        He’s wud because he’s no a laird!
    He coorts a lass; she’ll tak’ her aith
        He isna fit to dicht her shune,
    What’s wrang wi’ ane is wrang wi’ baith--
        Their mou’s owre muckle for their spune.

    O’ tinkler-fowk, an’ fowk wi’ means
        Ye’ll scarcely hae the time to speak,
    Men, wives an’ widdies, lords an’ weans,
        The mair they get, the mair they’ll seek.
    Ye’d think the vera warld was deav’d
        Wi’ them that’s roarin’ for the mune,
    Nae maitter what they’ve a’ receiv’d
        Their mou’s owre muckle for their spune.

    But when ye’ve lookit mony a year
        Upon yersel’ and ither men,
    Although to lairn ye’ve whiles been sweir,
        There’s twa-three things ye’re like to ken;
    Ye winna need to mak’ ado
        An’ warstle wi’ the powers abune,
    Yer spune’s the measure o’ yer mou’,
        Gin ane is wrang, it’s no the spune!


FOOTNOTES:

[18] Whining.



THE GANGEREL


    It’s ye maun whustle for a breeze
        Until the sails be fu’;
    They bigg yon ships that ride the seas
        To pleasure fowk like you.

    For ye hae siller i’ yer hand
        And a’ that gowd can buy,
    But weary, in a weary land,
        A gangerel-loon am I.

    Ye’ll feel the strang tides lift an’ toss
        The scud o’ nor’land faem,
    And when ye drap the Southern Cross
        It’s a’ roads lead ye hame.

    And ye shall see the shaws o’ broom
        Wave on the windy hill,
    Alang the strath the hairst-fields toom[19]
        And syne the stackyairds fill.

    Ye’ll hear fu’ mony a raittlin’ cairt
        On Forfar’s causey-croon,[20]
    Wi’ young stirks loupin’ to the Mairt
        That roars in Forfar toon.

    O’ nichts, ayont yer snibbet door,
        Ye’ll see in changeless band,
    Abune Craig Oule, to keep Strathmore,
        The stars of Scotland stand.

    But tho’ ye think ye sicht them fine
        Gang ben an’ tak’ yer rest,
    Frae lands that niver kent their shine
        It’s me that sees them best!

    For they shall brak’ their ancient trust,
        Shall rise nae mair nor set,
    The Sidlaw hills be laid in dust
        Afore that I forget.

    Lowse ye the windy-sneck a wheen,
        An’ glowre frae ilka airt
    Fegs! Ye may see them wi’ yer een--
        _I_ see them wi’ my he’rt!


FOOTNOTES:

[19] Empty.

[20] The middle of the street.



THE TINKLER’S BALOO


  Haud yer whisht, my mannie,
      Hide yer heid the noo,
  There’s a jimp young mune i’ the branches abune
      An’ she’s keekin’ at me an’ you.
  Near she is to settin’,
      Waukin’ she shouldna be,
  An’ mebbe she sees i’ the loan by the trees
      Owre muckle for you an’ me.

  Dinna cry on Daddie,
      Daddie’s by the fairm,
  There’s a specklie hen that strays i’ the den
      An’ he’s fear’d she may come to hairm.
  Thieves is bauld an’ mony,
      That’s what guid fowk say,
  An’ they’d a’ complain gin the limmer was ta’en
      An’ cheughit afore it’s day.

  Sleep, an’ then, come Sawbath,
      A feather o’ gray ye’ll get
  Wi’ specklies on it to set i’ yer bonnet
      An’ gar ye look brawer yet.
  Sae hide yer heid, my mannie,
      Haud yer whisht, my doo,
  For we’ll hae to shift or the sun’s i’ the lift
      An’ I’m singin’ baloo, baloo!



THE BANKS O’ THE ESK


  Gin I were whaur the rowans hang
      Their berried heids aside the river,
  I’d hear the water slip alang,
      The rowan-leaves abune me shiver;
  And winds frae Angus braes wad sail
  To blaw me dreams owre peat an’ gale.

  An’ blawn frae youth, thae dreams o’ mine
      Wad find me, tho’ the rowans hide me,
  Like hoolets gray they’d flit, an’ syne
      They’d fauld their wings an’ licht aside me;
  And aye the mair content I’d be
  The closer that they cam’ to me.

  Aside the Esk I’d lay me doon,
      Atween the rowans and its windin’,
  An’ tho’ the waters rase to droon
      A weary carle, I’d no be mindin’;
  For I wad sleep, my rovin’ past,
  Upon thae banks o’ dreams at last.



THE WISE-LIKE CHAP


  Aye, billies, I’m a wise-like chap,
      I dinna smoke nor drink,
  And gin I gi’e my poke a slap
      Ye’ll hear the siller chink.
  My feyther has an aicht-pair[21] fairm
      Weel set wi’ byre an’ stack;
  There’s mony will obey me
  An’ tak’ their pattern frae me,
  But Annie winna hae me
      An’ my he’rt’s near brak’!

  My Grannie’s saved a bit hersel’,
    She’s three-score year an’ ten,
  Wha’ll get the profit nane can tell
    (An’ yet I think I ken!)
  It’s fules wad cross a rich auld wife,
      Sae a’ her fleers[22] I tak’,
  An’ tho’ it’s like to pay me,
  Richt little guid ’twill dae me,
  For Annie winna hae me
      An’ my he’rt’s near brak’!

  Ye’ll mebbe mind the miller’s loon
      That was a fair disgrace;
  His auld dune hat was clour’d abune
      An’ mill-dust on his face.
  The gowk! He gaed awa to fecht
      And syne cam’ crippl’t back;
  Yestre’en he passed my Grannie
  Wi’ his left airm bandig’t cannie--
  But his richt ane happit Annie,
      An’ my he’rt’s near brak’!


FOOTNOTES:

[21] The size of Angus farms is expressed by the number of horses
required to work them.

[22] Jibes.



INVERQUHARITY


  Aside the Quharity burn
      I ken na what I’m seein’
      Wi’ the licht near deein’
  An’ the lang year at the turn;
      But the dog that gangs wi’ me
      Creeps whingein’ at my knee,
  And we baith haud thegither
  Like a lad an’ his brither
      At the water o’ Quharity.

  Alang the Quharity glen
      I mind on warlock’s faces,
      I’ the still, dark places
  Whaur the trees hae airms like men;
      And I ken the beast can see
      Yon een that’s watchin’ me,
  Whaur the arn-boughs darken
  An’ I’m owre fear’d to harken
      I’ the glen o’ Quharity.

  By Quharity Castle wa’s
      The toor is like a prison,
      Or a deid man risen
  Amang the birken shaws;
  And the sweit upon my bree
  Is drappin’ cauld frae me
      Till the ill spell’s broken
      By the Haly Word spoken
  At the wa’s o’ Quharity.

  Alang the Valley o’ Deith
      There’ll be mony a warlock wait’n
      Wi’ the thrangin’ hosts o’ Sat’n
  Till I tak’ my hin’maist breith;
      An’ I’m fear’d there winna be
      The dog to gang wi’ me
  An’ I doot the way is wearier
  An’ the movin’ shadows eerier
      Than the jaws o’ Quharity.

  But I’ll whisper the Haly Name
      For thae list’nin’ lugs to hear me,
      An’ the herds o’ Hell’ll fear me
  An’ tak’ the road they came;
      For the wild dark wings’ll flee
      Frae their bield in branch an’ tree--
  Nae mair the black airms thrawin’!
  Nae mair the ill sough blawin’!
  For my day o’ days is dawin’
      Owre the Castle o’ Quharity!



FAUR-YE-WEEL


  As ye come through the Sea-Gate ye’ll find a hoose we ken
  Whaur, when a man is drouthy, his drouth an’ he gang ben,
  And whiles o’ nichts there’s dancin’ and aye there’s drink by day
  And a fiddler-carle sits yonder an’ gars his fiddle play:
        “Oh come, ye ancient mariners,
            Nae maitter soond or lame,
        For tho’ ye gae on hirplin’[23] tae
            Ye’ll syne gang dancin’ hame;
        The years are slippin’ past ye
            Like water past the bows,
  _Roond half the warld ye’ve toss’d yer dram but sune ye’ll hae to
    lowse._”[24]
  The toon is like a picture, the sea is bonnie blue,
  The fiddle’s cryin’ aff the shore to captain, mate, an’ crew,
  An’ them that’s had for music the swirl o’ gannet’s wings,
  The winds that drive frae Denmark, they dootna what it sings:
        “Oh come, ye dandy Baltic lads
            That sail to Elsinore,
        Ye’re newly in, ye’ll surely win
            To hae a spree ashore;
        Lairn frae the sea, yer maister,
            When fortune’s i’ ye’re debt,
  _The cauld waves washin’ past the bar tak’ a’ that they can get!_”

  And when the quays are lichtit an’ dark the ocean lies,
  The daft mune, like a feckless fule, keeks doon to mock the wise;
  Awa’ in quiet closes the fiddle’s voice is heard
  Whaur some that should be sleepin’ are listenin’ for its word:
        “Sae haste ye noo, ye rovin’ queyns,
            An’ gie yer dads the slip,
        Tho’ dour auld men sit girnin’ ben
            There’s young anes aff the ship,
        Come, tak’ yer fill o’ dancin’,
            Yer he’rts at hame maun bide,
  _For the lad that tak’s a he’rt to sea will drap it owre the side!_”

  And aye the fiddle’s playin’, the auld bow wauks the string,
  The auld carle, stampin’ wi’ his fit, gies aye the time a swing;
  Gang East, gang West, ye’ll hear it, it lifts ye like a reel:
  _It’s niver dumb, an’ the tune sings “Come,” but its name is
    Faur-ye-weel!_


FOOTNOTES:

[23] Limping.

[24] To give up, to leave off.



POEMS IN ENGLISH



A YOUNG MAN’S SONG


  My girl is true, my girl is sweet,
      When in the town we chance to meet
  It almost seems to me as though
      A rose were growing in the street.

  And if I see her in the lane,
      Though winter’s freezing might and main,
  I half suspect, in spite of all,
      That Spring’s upon us once again.

  When luck is out and things look blue
      And folks are up against me too,
  There’s naught in that to cast me down
      Because she trusts me through and through.

  And at the altar-railings when
      My faith and truth I swear, oh then
  I’ll pray, “God strike me if I fail--
      So help me! World without end. Amen!”



THE SHADOWS


  Boughs of the pine and stars between,
      In woods where shadows fill the air,
  Oh, who may rest that once has been
            A shadow there?

  Sounds of the night and tears between,
      The grey owl hooting, dimly heard;
  Can footsteps reach those lands unseen,
            Or wings of bird?

  Days of the years and worlds between,
      Still through the boughs the stars may burn,
  The heart may break for lands unseen,
      For woods wherein its life has been,
            But not return.



A WINTER PHANTASY


  The day was all delight,
      Chorus and golden tune;
  Rides the steep night
      The white ship of the moon.

  Now that the night is come
      And silence wakes to power,
  All that was dumb
      Has its triumphal hour.

  My soul, behold a sail
      The seas of Heaven upon,
  Rise up and hail
      That roving galleon.

  High above winter frost
      Speed on uncharted ways,
  Enraptured, lost,
      Past thrall of nights and days.

  Burnt fervent-white with rime,
      The blurred earth hangs beneath,
  Frost-light sublime,
      Frost-tapers lit for death.

  Look down the mists and see
      The orchards mazed with snow;
  Grey, tangled tree,
      Lichen and mistletoe.

  But, ere the dim world falls
      Engulfed, upon your track,
  Even at Heaven’s walls,
      Turn back, turn back!

  And as the miles decrease,
      By all that foils regret,
  By all that is your peace,
      My soul, forget.



MARSEY TOWN


  As I came over the Hill of Clayne
          Or ever the leaf was brown,
      The wind blew light in the pods of broom,
      For the gay, gold flower had lost its bloom,
  And “O the jewel,” I sang again,
          “That’s waiting in Marsey Town!”

  The shadows raced on the sun-swept hill,
          And dappled its ancient crown,
      The kestrel hovered on wings outspread,
      The rabbit slipped through the bracken-bed
  And the world beat time as I sang my fill
          And travelled to Marsey Town.

  O foolish singer and foolish song!
          The lure of a pinchbeck clown
      Had thieved my jewel, my heart’s own core,
      My goal was gained, but I sang no more,
  And I turned me home as the shades grew long
          From the steeples of Marsey Town.

  A lad came over the Hill of Clayne
          A-singing as he stepped down--
      Aye me! forget what a fool has said,
      For I called him “I” but he’s long, long dead--
  Dumb--gone like the sound of his own refrain
          And buried in Marsey Town!



THE SEASONS


  “Mother, I know Spring bears her gifts
      Of young buds scarce unfurled,
  For through bare apple-boughs I see
      The blue hills of the world;
  And the pale daffodils are set
      Sharp, in the April light----”
  “The gift that Spring has brought to me
      Is fight, my son, fight.”

  “And, Mother, on the heels of Spring
      The seasons follow hard,
  When Summer glorifies the field
      And Autumn stacks the yard;
  Time was, I watched their gifts unroll,
      And scarce could choose the best----”
  “The gift that I would have of them
      Is rest, my son, rest.”

  “But, Mother, might they grant your boon
      And were the conflict done,
  O Mother, have you strength to stand----?”
      “I would lie down, my son.”
  “Where would you look to ease your eyes
      When strife with tears had ceas’t?
  And whither would your feet be turned----?”
      “East, my son, east.”


_Printed by Hazell Watson & Viney, Ld., London and Aylesbury, England_



*** End of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "Bonnie Joann: and other poems" ***


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