Chapter 1

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