More Songs of Angus and Others
Jacob, Violet
Published 1918
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 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 deith 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’ wefechtfor Scotland still.”
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—wham 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 Sawbiths—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’sto mysel’! Here’sto 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 !
Ghaists 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
Hand 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;
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.
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,
skirlin’ on the wing,
Noo East, noo West, amang the kye,
And 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.
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 because he wants a limb ?
Ach ! baud yer tongue, ye fule—the man’s a sairgint,
An’ there’s nae argy-bargyin’ wi’ him!
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 hidin’.
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 deith that’s here on the haughs
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’sillto 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 held.
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 am-tree wi’ its feet amangst the bum.
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.
Deith canna’ kill. The mools o' France lie o’er ye.
An’ yet ye live, O sodger o’ the Lord !
For Him that focht wi’ deith 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 !
THE SHEPHERD TO HIS LOVE
ABUNE the hill ae muckle star is burnin’,
Sae salt an’ still, my dear, sae far awa,
There’s ne’er a wind, noo day to nicht is turnin’.
To lift the branches of 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 baud 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,
ITegs ! 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.
And 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 kistit1
twa.
But a change o’ deils is lichtsome, lass ! ”
Sae dinna think to maister me.
For Scotland’s fu’ o’ brawlike chiels,
And aiblins 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 yestere’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 l
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 !
Eor 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 glourin’ 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.
Quid 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 marrows1
o’ me !
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 ower 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 heatin’.
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 dog here ;
An’ when the morn comes creepin’.
An’ the wauk’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.
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