Part 2

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_