Part 2

The dother--he had only ane--gaed hine awa' to France To learn to sing an' thoom the harp, to parley-voo an' dance; It cost a protty penny but 'twas siller wisely wared For the lass made oot to marry on a strappin' Deeside laird; She wasna just a beauty, but he didna swither lang, For he had to get her tocher or his timmer had to gang: Sae noo she sits "My Lady" an' nae langer than the streen I saw her wi' her carriage comin' postin' ower Culblean.

But tho' his bairns are sattled noo, he still can cast the coat An' work as hard as ever to mak' saxpence o' a groat; He plans as keen for years to come as when he first began, Forgettin' he's on borrowed days an' past the Bible span. See, yon's his hoose, an' there he sits; supposin' cry in, It's cheaper drinkin' toddy there than payin' at the Inn, You'll find we'll hae a shortsome nicht an' baith be bidden back, But--in your lug--ye maunna say a word aboot the Pack.

*THE LETTERGAE*

Sundays see his saintly look-- What grace he maun be feelin', When stridin' slawly ben the pass, Or to the lettrin speelin'! What unction in his varied tones, As aff the line he screeds us, Syne bites the fork, an' bums the note, Ere to the tune he leads us! Plain paraphrase, or quirky hymn, Come a' the same to Peter, He has a tune for ilka psalm Nae matter what the metre. "St. Paul's" or "University" Wi' equal ease is lifted; At "Martyrdom" he fair excels-- Eh! keep's sirs, but he's gifted!

But see him now, some workin' day When aproned in his smiddy, An' mark the thuds 'at shape the shoon, An' dint the very studdy; Or when he cocks his elbuck up To work the muckle bellows, An' tells the clachan's latest joke To loud-lunged farmer fellows; Or hear him in the forenicht lilt, Wi' sober face nae langer, Some sang, nae fae a Sunday book; A tune that isna "Bangor": To recognize him then, I'll wad, A stranger it would baffle; On Sabbath he's the Lettergae, The Smith at roup or raffle.

*MARGARET DODS*

LATE VINTER IN ST. RONAN's

Nae mair the sign aboon the door Wi' passin' winds is flappin'; Fish Nellie comes nae as afore Wi' nervous chappin'. The Captain 's followed Francie Tyrell-- Mind ance he gaed to seek him, An' felt your besom shaft play dirl Doon-by at Cleikum. Wi' thrift as great as made you build To save the window taxin', Death closed your e'en when greedy Eild Cam' schedule raxin'.

How gladly would we lea' the Clubs, "Wildfire" or "Helter Skelter," Dicht fae our feet a' earthly dubs, Had ye a shelter Whaur trauchled chiels--"an' what for no?" Gin sae it pleased the gods-- Could rest an' fish a week or so At Marget Dods'. 'Twould hearten strangers gin they saw Across some caller loanin' A wavin' sign whaur crook an' a' Hung auld St. Ronan.

Then haudin' hard to new-won grace, Rejectin' aucht 'at's evil, Ye wouldna thole in sic a place Dick Tinto's Deevil, But send him sornin' doon the howe To some tamteen or hottle, Whaur birselt vratches fain, I trow, Wad dreep a bottle. An' since you're bye wi' anger noo, Send wi' him something caller-- As muckle's slock the gizzened mou' O' ae damned "Waller."

*THE BACK O' BEYONT IS DRY*

Fae the Back o' Beyont the carlie cam', He fittit it a' the wye; The hooses were few, an' the road was lang, Nae winner the man was dry-- He was covered wi' stoor fae head to heel, He'd a drooth 'at ye couldna buy, But aye he sang as he leggit alang "The Back o' Beyont is dry."

He'd a score o' heather-fed wethers to sell, An' twa or three scrunts o' kye, An unbroken cowt to niffer or coup, A peck o' neep seed to buy; But never a price would the crater mak', The dealers got "No" nor "Ay," Till they tittit the tow, he'd dae naething but sough "The Back o' Beyont is dry."

I' the year o' short corn he dee'd o' drooth, But they waked him weel upbye, 'Twas a drink or a dram to the cronies that cam', Or baith an they cared to try. When the wag-at-the-wa' had the wee han' at twa Ye shoulda jist heard the cry, As the corp in the bed gied a warsle an' said "The Back o' Beyont is dry."

Fae Foggyloan to the Brig o' Potarch, An' sooth by the Glen o' Dye, Fae the Buck o' the Cabrach thro' Midmar, Whaurever your tryst may lie; At ilka toll on the weary road There's a piece an' a dram forbye, Gin ye show them your groat, an' say laich i' your throat "The Back o' Beyont is dry."

"The Back o' Beyont is dry, The Back o' Beyont is dry, To slacken a drooth can never be wrang, Sae help yoursel' an' pass it alang, The Back o' Beyont is dry"

*A GREEN YULE*

I'm weary, weary houkin', in the cauld, weet, clorty clay, But this will be the deepest in the yaird; It's nae a four fit dibble for a common man the day-- Ilk bane I'm layin' by is o' a laird. Whaever slips the timmers, lippens me to mak' his bed, For lairds maun just be happit like the lave; An' kistit corps are lucky, for when a'thing's deen an' said, There's lythe, save for the livin', in a grave.

Up on the watch-tower riggin' there's a draggled hoodie craw That hasna missed a funeral the year; He kens as weel's anither this will fairly ding them a', Nae tenant on the land but will be here. Sae up an' doon the tablin' wi' a gloatin' roupy hoast, He haps, wi' twistit neck an' greedy e'e, As if some deil rejoicin' that anither sowl was lost An' waitin' for his share o' the dregie.

There's sorrow in the mansion, an' the Lady that tak's on Is young to hae sae muckle on her ban', Wi' the haugh lands to excamb where the marches cross the Don, An' factors aye hame-drauchted when they can. Come spring, we'll a' be readin', when the kirk is latten oot, "Displenish" tackit up upon the yett; For hame-fairm, cairts an' cattle, will be roupit up, I doot, The policies a' pailined aff an' set.

Twa lairds afore I've happit, an' this noo will mak' the third, An' tho' they spak' o' him as bein' auld, It seerly seemed unlikely I would see him in the yird, For lang ere he was beardit I was bald. It's three year by the saxty, come the week o' Hallow Fair, Since first I laid a divot on a grave; The Hairst o' the Almighty I hae gathered late an' ear', An' coont the sheaves I've stookit, by the thrave.

I hae kent grief at Marti'mas would neither haud nor bin'-- It was sair for even unco folk to see; Yet ere the muir was yellow wi' the blossom on the whin, The tears were dry, the headstane a' ajee. Nae bairns, nae wife, will sorrow, when at last I'm laid awa', Nae oes will plant their daisies at my head; A' gane, but I will follow soon, an' weel content for a' There's nane but fremt to lay me in my bed.

Earth to earth, an' dust to dust, an' the sowl gangs back to God: An' few there be wha think their day is lang; Yet here I'm weary waitin', till the Master gies the nod, To tak' the gait I've seen sae mony gang. I fear whiles He's forgotten on his eildit gard'ner here, But ae day He'll remember me, an' then My birn o' sins afore Him I'll spread on the Judgment fleer, Syne wait until the angel says "Come ben."

There noo, the ill bird's flaffin' on the very riggin' stane, He sees them, an' could tell ye, did ye speer, The order they will come in, ay, an' name them ilka ane, An' lang afore the funeral is here. The feathers will be noddin' as the hearse crawls past the Toll, As soon's they tap the knowe they'll be in sicht; The driver on the dickey knappin' sadly on his mull, Syne raxin' doon to pass it to the vricht.

The factor in the carriage will be next, an' ridin' close The doctor, ruggin' hard upon his grey; The farmers syne, an' feuars speakin' laich aboot their loss, Yet thankfu' for the dram on sic a day. Ay, there at last they're comin', I maun haste an' lowse the tow An' ring the lang procession doon the brae; I've heard the bell sae aften, I ken weel its weary jow, The tale o' weird it tries sae hard to say.

_Bring them alang, the young, the strong,_ _The weary an' the auld;_ _Feed as they will on haugh or hill,_ _This is the only fauld._

_Dibble them doon, the laird, the loon_ _King an' the cadgin' caird,_ _The lady fine beside the queyn,_ _A' in the same kirkyaird._

_The warst, the best, they a' get rest;_ _Ane 'neath a headstane braw,_ _Wi' deep-cut text; while ower the next_ * The wavin' grass is a'.*

_Mighty o' name, unknown to fame_ _Slipptt aneth the sod;_ _Greatest an' least alike face_ _Waitin' the trump o' God._

*HAME*

There's a wee, wee glen in the Hielan's, Where I fain, fain would be; There's an auld kirk there on the hillside I weary sair to see. In a low lythe nook in the graveyard Drearily stands alane, Marking the last lair of a' I lo'ed, A wee moss-covered stane.

There's an auld hoose sits in a hollow Half happit by a tree; At the door the untended lilac Still blossoms for the bee; But the auld roof is sairly seggit, There's nane now left to care; And the thatch ance sae neatly stobbit Has lang been scant and bare.

Aft as I lie 'neath a foreign sky In dreams I see them a'-- The auld dear kirk, the dear auld hame, The glen sae far awa'. Dreams flee at dawn, and the tropic sun Nae ray o' hope can gie; I wander on o'er the desert lone, There's nae mair hame for me.

*SPRING IN THE HOWE O' ALFORD*

There's burstin' buds on the larick now A' the birds are paired an' biggin'; Saft soughin' win's dry the dubby howe, An' the eildit puir are thiggin'.

The whip-the-cat 's aff fae hoose to hoose, Wi' his oxtered lap-buird lampin', An' hard ahint, wi' the shears an' goose, His wee, pechin' 'prentice trampin'.

The laird's approach gets a coat o' san', When the grieve can spare a yokin'; On the market stance there's a tinker clan, An' the guidwife's hens are clockin'.

The mason's harp is set up on en', He's harlin' the fire-hoose gable; The sheep are aff to the hills again As hard as the lambs are able.

There's spots o' white on the lang brown park, Where the sacks o' seed are sittin'; An' wily craws fae the dawn to dark At the harrow tail are flittin'.

The liftward lark lea's the dewy seggs, In the hedge the yeldrin 's singin'; The teuchat cries for her harried eggs, In the bothy window hingin'.

Nae snaw-bree now in the Leochel Burn, Nae a water baillie goupin'-- But hear the whirr o' the miller's pirn, The plash where the trouts are loupin'.

*THE HINT O' HAIRST*

O for a day at the Hint o' Hairst, With the craps weel in an' stackit, When the farmer steps thro' the corn-yard, An' counts a' the rucks he's thackit:

When the smith stirs up his fire again, To sharpen the ploughman's coulter; When the miller sets a new picked stane, An' dreams o' a muckle moulter:

When cottars' kail get a touch o' frost, That male's them but taste the better; An' thro' the neeps strides the leggined laird, Wi' 's gun an' a draggled setter:

When the forester wi' axe an' keel Is markin' the wind-blawn timmer, An' there 's truffs aneuch at the barn gale To reist a' the fires till simmer.

Syne O for a nicht, ae lang forenicht, Ower the dambrod spent or cairtin', Or keepin' tryst wi' a neebour's lass--- An' a mou' held up at pairtin'.

*WINTER*

Now Winter rides wi' angry skirl On sleety winds that rive an' whirl, An' gaberlunzie-like plays tirl At sneck an' lozen. The bairns can barely bide the dirl O' feet gane dozin.

The ingle's heaped wi' bleezin' peats An' bits o' splutt'rin' firry reets Which shortly thow the ploughmen's beets; An' peels appear That trickle oot aneth their seats A' ower the fleer.

The auld wife's eident wheel gaes birr, The thrifty lasses shank wi' virr; Till stents are finished nane will stir Lest Yule should come, When chiels fae wires the wark mith tirr To sweep the lum.

The shepherd newly fae the hill Sits thinkin' on his wethers still; He kens this frost is sure to kill A' dwinin' sheep: His collie, tired, curls in its tail An' fa's asleep.

Now Granny strips the bairns for bed: Ower soon the extra quarter fled For which sae sairly they had pled: But there, it chappit; An' sleepy "gweed words" soon are said, An' cauld backs happit.

The milkers tak' their cogues at last, Draw moggins on, tie mutches fast, Syne hap their lantrens fae the blast Maun noo be met; An' soon the day's last jot is past, Milk sey'd an' set.

Syne Sandy, gantin', raxes doon His fiddle fae the skelf aboon, Throws by the bag, an' souffs a tune, Screws up a string, Tries antics on the shift, but soon Starts some auld spring.

Swith to the fleer ilk eager chiel Bangs wi' his lass to start the reel, Cries "Kissin' time"; the coy teds squeal, An' struggle vainly: The sappier smacks whiles love reveal, But practice mainly.

An opening chord wi' lang upbow The fiddler strikes, syne gently now Glides into some Strathspey by Gow, Or Marshall't may be; The dancers lichtly needle thro'; Rab sets to Leebie.

Wi' crackin' thooms "Hooch! Hooch!" they reel. The winceys, spreadin' as they wheel, Gie stolen glints o' souple heel An' shapely queet. The guidman claps his hands, sae weel He's pleased to see't.

The wrinkles leave the shepherd's broo, For see the sonsy mistress too Shows what the aulder fouks can do, An', licht's a bird, Some sober country dance trips thro' Wi' Jock the herd.

Syne lads wha noo can dance nae mair To cauldrife chaumers laith repair; An' lasses, lauchin', speel the stair, Happy an' warm. For liftin' hearts an' killin' care Music's the charm!

_When frost is keen an' winter bauld,_ _An' deep the drift on muir an' fauld;_ _When mornin's dark an' snell an' cauld_ _Bite to the bane;_ _We turn in thocht, as to a hauld,_ _To some sic e'en._

*R. L. S.*

He hears nae mair the Sabbath bells Borne on the breeze amang Lowden's dells, Nor waukens when the bugle tells The dawn o' day.

Fate was the flute the Ganger played, Cheerin' him on wi' its hopes ahead; Now "O'er the hills" the master's laid "An' far away."

Tho' frail the bark, O he was brave, Nor heedit the stormy winds that drave; But lanely now the sailor's grave Across the faem.

The deer unhunted roam at will, The whaup cries sair on the dreary hill, The chase is o'er, the horn is still: The hunter's hame.

*BURNS' CENTENARY*

"I'll be more respected a hundred years after I am dead than I am at present."--R. B., 1796.

"My fame is sure; when I am dead A century," the Poet said, "They'll heap the honours on my head They grudge me noo"; To-day the hundred years hae sped That prove it true.

Whiles as the feathered ages flee, Time sets the sand-glass on his knee, An' ilka name baith great an' wee Shak's thro' his sieve; Syne sadly wags his pow to see The few that live.

An' still the quickest o' the lot Is his wha made the lowly cot A shrine, whaur ilka rev'rent Scot Bareheadit turns. Our mither's psalms may be forgot, But never Burns.

This nicht, auld Scotland, dry your tears, An' let nae sough o' grief come near's; We'll speak o' Rab's gin he could hear's; Life's but a fivver, And he's been healed this hundred years To live for ever.

*FAME*

_I saw a truant schoolboy chalk his name_ _Upon the Temple door; then with a shout_ _Run off; that night a weary beggar came,_ _Leant there his ragged back and rubbed it out._

Dry-lipped she stands an' casts her glance afar, Ae hand across her brows to shield her een, Her horn flung careless on the tapmost scaur, Where names deep chiselled in the rocks are seen. An' far below, on ilka ridge an' knowe, A warslin' thrang o' mortals still she spies, Wha strive an' fecht an' spurn the grassy howe-- Thro' whins an' heather ettlin' aye to rise. Ane whiles she sees, wha, perched upon a stane, Proclaims that he at least the goal has won, But shortly finds he 's shiverin' there his lane Wi' scores aboon, between him an' the sun. Another, sair forfochen wi' the braes, Enjoys the view while he has strength to see; "Weel 's better aye than waur," content, he says, "Thus far is far an' far aneuch for me." Some wise, or lazy, never quit the glen, But stretched at easedom watch the hill aboon, Glad whiles to see ane gettin' up they ken, But aft'ner pleased to see him rumblin' doon. Ane, better shod or stronger than the lave, Gets near aneuch to grip her skirts at last; She lifts her horn an' o'er a new-made grave Awakes the echoes wi' a fun'ral blast.

*THE AE REWARD*

Gae wauken up the Muses nine; Tho' we've nae plaited bays Aroon' their curly pows to twine, We winna stent them praise. Gin music tak' her chanter doon, Her sister start a sang, The other saeven join the tune An' lift it lood an' lang.

First set the tune to suit the time When we were loons at school, The sang can be a careless rhyme Nae measured aff by rule. We stole our pleasures then, prepared Wi' hands held out to pay; Were aulder sins as easy squared, Oor slates were clean the day.

Syne twa three bars in safter key For days o' youthfu' love, When lasses a' to you an' me Were angels fae above. Lang-leggit Time, but he was fleet When we'd a lass the piece, When bondage aye o'er a' was sweet, An' freedom nae release.

Noo stamp an' blaw a skirl o' war-- The times that noo we hae, An' gin the need be near or far We're ready for the day. The tykes are roon' the lion's lair, We've seen the like before, An' seldom hae they wanted mair When ance they heard him roar.

Syne choke the drones--ae reed's enew To play the days to come, When auld Age stachers into view An' adds up a' the sum. We've loved an' focht an' sell't an' bocht Until we're short o' breath; The auld kirkyard the ae reward, An' that we get fae Death.

*"MY LORD"*

Nakit tho' we're born an' equal, Lucky anes are made Police; An' if civil life's the sequel, Honours but wi' age increase, Till a Baillie, syne selected Ruler ower the Council Board, An' tho' never re-elected, "Ance a Provost, aye 'My Lord.'"

Credit's got by advertisin' Ye hae siller still to lend; Get the word o' early risin', Ye can sleep a week on end. Gie a man a name for fightin'-- Never need he wear a sword; Men will flee afore his flytin'-- "Ance a Provost, aye 'My Lord.'"

But for mischief name a body, He can never win aboon 't, Folk wad swear he chate the wuddy In the lint-pot gin he droon't; For unless ye start wi' thrivin', A' your virtues are ignored, Vain a' future toil an' strivin'-- "Ance a Provost, aye 'My Lord.'"

*IN THE GLOAMIN'*

Why sinks the sun sae slowly doon Behind the Hill o' Fare? What restless cantrip's ta'en the moon?-- She's up an hour an' mair. I doubt they're in a plot the twa To cheat me o' the gloamin'; Yestreen they saw me slip awa', An' ken where I gang roamin'.

The trees bent low their list'nin' heads A' round the Loch o' Skene; The saft winds whispered 'mang the reeds As we gaed by yestreen. The bee, brushed fae the heather bell, Hummed loudly at our roamin', Syne hurried hame in haste to tell The way we spent the gloamin'.

The mavis told his mate to hush An' hearken fae the tree; The robin keekit fae a bush Fu' pawkily an' slee. An' now they sing o' what they saw Whenever we gang roamin'; They pipe the very words an' a' We whispered in the gloamin'.

The wintry winds may tirr the trees, Clouds hide baith sun an' moon, An early frost the loch may freeze, An' still the birdies' tune. The bee a harried bike may mourn, An' mirk o'ertak' the gloamin', But aye to thee my thochts will turn, Wherever I gang roamin'.

*THE MAID O' THE MILL*

The cushie doos are cooin' in the birk, The pee-weets are cryin' on the lea, The starlings in the belfry o' the kirk Are layin' plans as merry as can be. The mavis in the plantin' has a mate, The blackbird is busy wi' his nest, Then why until the summer should we wait When spring could see us happy as the rest?

There's leaves upon the bourtree on the haugh, The blossom is drappin' fae the gean, There's buds upon the rantree an' the saugh, The ferns about the Lady's Well are green. A' day the herd is liltin' on the hill, The o'ercome o' ilka sang 's the same: "There are ower mony maidens at the Mill, It's time the ane I trysted wi' cam' hame!"

*THE WITCH O' THE GOLDEN HAIR*

Auld carlins ride on their brooms astride Awa' thro' the midnight air, But they cast nae spell on a man sae fell As the Witch o' the Golden Hair.

Nae a fairy free 'neath the hazel tree That dances upon the green Ever kent a charm that could heal or harm Like the glint o' her twa blue een.

Fae the earth she's reived, fae the Heav'n she's thieved, For her cauldron's deadly brew; She laughs at the stounds o' the hearts she wounds, For what recks the Witch o' rue?

Lang, lang may the vine in its envy twine To compass a bower sae rare, As will peer, I trow, wi' her broad low brow An' her wavin' golden hair.

The bloom fae the peach that we ne'er could reach The red that the apple missed, You'll find if you seek on the Witch's cheek, Left there when the summer kissed.

The blue drappit doon fae the lift aboon To shine in her dancin' een; An' the honey-bee sips fae her red, red lips, Syne brags o' the sweets between.

Wi' a magic wile she has won the smile That the mornin' used to wear, An' the gold the sun in his splendour spun Lies tangled amang her hair.

The saft south wind cam' to her to find A haven to sink an' die, An' the breath o' myrrh it bequeathed to her You'll find in the Witch's sigh.

The dimples three that you still can see Are a' she can claim her ain, For in Nature fair naught can compare With them; they are hers alane.

*ARLES*

For arles he gae me a kiss, An' twa ilka day was my fee; A bargain nae surely amiss, If paid where naebody could see.

But scarce was the compact complete Ere I would hae broken't again, The arles he gae were sae sweet, For mair o' them, Sirs, I was fain.