The Lilt and other verses
Angus, Marion
Published 1922
BY CANDLE LIGHT
Mary Forbes weaves in the candle light
When the straw is stacked in the barn.
Round and about her fingers slim
She twists the fleecy yarn—
The candle light—the candle light—
And the shadows on the floor
And the wrinkled leaves of the rowan bush
A’-rustling beyond the door—
“ Now what is’t you think on
My yellow haired lad,
With your fiddle upon your knee ” 'l
“ On the days when I counted the lambs, mother
By the bonnie green links o’ Dee ”—
The candle light—the candle light—
And a wind that sparks the peat
And a sleety rain, on the window pane,
Like the patter o’ birdies’ feet.
“ Come play me—‘ Whaur Gowdie Rins ’ my son,
Or a reel with a heartsome tune.”
But he minds how he danced at the Castleton
In the long clear gloamings o’ June—
The candle light—the candle light—
And the lass with the tawny shoon,
That danced with him at the Castleton
In the silver shine of the moon.
Mary Forbes weaves in the candle light—
Her fiddler plays in the gloom
The dowiest airs in all the world
Trail round and about the room,
And Mary blesses the candle light—
The witchin’, watchin’ Flame—
The eerie night and the candle light
That keeps her bairn at hame.
REMEMBRANCE DAY.
Some one was singing
Up a twisty stair,
A fragment of a song,
One sweet, spring day,
When twelve o'clock was ringing,
Through the sunny square—
“ There was a lad baithfrank and free,
Cam! doon the bonnie banks o’ Dee
Wi’ tartan plaid and buckled shoon,
An’ he’ll come nae mair to oor toon.”—
“ He dwells within a far countree,
Where great ones do him courtesie,
They’ve gien him a golden croon,
An! he’ll come nae mair to oor toon ”—
No one is singing
Up the twisty stair.
Quiet as a sacrament
The November day.
Can’t you hear it swinging,
The little ghostly air ?—
Hear it sadly stray
Through the misty square,
In and out a doorway,
Up a twisty stair—
Tartan plaid and buckled shoon,
He’ll come nae mair to oor toon.
THE FOX’S SKIN.
When the wark’s a’ dune and the world’s a’ still,
And whaups are swoopin’ across the hill,
And mither stands cryin’ “ Bairns, come ben,”
It’s the time for the Hame o’ the Pictish Men.
A sorrowfu’ wind gaes up and doon,
An’ me my lane in the licht o’ the moon,
Gatherin’ a bunch o’ the floorin’ whin,
Wi’ my auld fur collar happed roond ma chin.
A star is shinin’ on Morven Glen—
It shines on the Hame o’ the Pictish Men.
Hither and yont their dust is blown,
But there’s ane o’ them keekin’ ahint yon stone.
His queer auld face is wrinkled and riven,
Like a raggedy leaf, sae drookit and driven.
There’s nocht to be feared at his ancient ways.
For this is a’ that iver he says—
The same auld wind at its weary cry :
The blin’ faced moon in the misty sky ;
A thoosand years o’ clood and flame,
An’ a’thing’s the same an’ aye the same—
The lass is the same in the fox’s skin,
Gatherin’ the bloom o’ the floorin’ whin.
TREASURE TROVE.
Do you mind rinnin’ barefit
In the saft, summer mist
Liltin’ and linkin’ on the steep hill heids 1
In below your tartan shawl, your hand wad aye twist
Your bonnie green beads.
Do you mind traivellin’, traivellin’
Ower and ower the braes,
Reistlin’ the heather, and keekin’ ’naith the weeds,
Seekin’ and greetin’ in the cauld weet days
For yer tint green beads.
Whist! Dinna rouse him,
The auld sleepin’ man—
Steek, the door; the mune-licht’s on the lone hill heids
Wee elfin craturs is delvin’ in the sand,
They canna’ miss the glimmer
O’ yer auld green beads.
Here they come, the wee folk,
Speedin’ fast and fleet—
There’s a queer, low lauchin’ on the grey hill heids—
An’ the bricht drops, glancin’, followin’ at their feet—
It’s green, green beads—
The last ye’ll ever see o’ yer bonnie green beads.
THE TURN OF THE DAY.
Under the cauld, green grass
I hear the waukenin’ burn.
The day’s at the turn—
Oh, winter, dinna pass !
Your snaw was white for a bride,
Your winds were merriage wine.
Love is fine, fine,
But it doesna bide.
The saft, warm April rain
An’ the clear June day,
An’ floors o’ the May—
I’ll see them a’ my lane.
Under the cauld, green grass,
Wee waukenin’, wanderin’ burn,
Sing your ain sang.
The day’s at the turn,
But simmer’s lang, lang.
THE LILT.
Jean Gordon is weaving a’ her lane
Twinin’ the threid wi’ a thocht o’ her ain,
Rearin’ the tune o’ the bairns at play
That they’re singin’ amang them ilka day
And saftly, saftly, ower the hill
Comes the sma, sma rain.
Aye, she minds o’ a simmer’s nicht
Afore the waning o’ the licht—
Bairnies chantin' in Lover’s lane
The sang that comes ower an’ ower again,
And a young lass stealin’ awa’ to the hill,
In the sma, sma rain.
Oh ! lass, your lips were flamin’ reid,
An’ cauld, mist drops lay on yer’ heid,
Ye didna gaither yon rose yer’ lane
And yer’ hert was singin’ a sang o’ its ain,
As ye slippit hameward, ower the hill,
In the sma, sma rain.
Jean Gordon, she minds as she sits her lane
O’ a’ the years that’s bye and gane,
And naething gi’en and a’ thing ta’en
But yon nicht or nichts on the smoory hill
In the sma, sma rain—
And the bairns are singin’ at their play
The lilt that they’re liltin’ ilka day—
THE GRACELESS LOON.
As I gaed east by Tarland toun
I heard a singin’ neath the miine :
A lass sang in a milk-white goon
Aneath a ha’thorn tree.
The sma’ green trees bowed doon till her
The blooms they made a croon till her ;
I was a graceless loon till her,
She frooned and scorned at me.
As I gaed east thro’ Tarland toun
There came an auld wife, bent and dune,
Speirin’ at me to sit me doon
In her wee hoose up the Wynd
And wile awa’ the nicht wi’ her,
The weary candle licht wi’ her;
A bairn’s een was a sicht till her,
An’ auld folks herts is kind.
Fu’ mony a year o’ sun and rain,
An’ I’m for Tarland toun again,
Wi’ drift upon a cauld hearth stane
An’ a wind gaen thro’ the Wynd.
Oh, lass, tho’ a’ yer sangs be dune,
Ower leafless thorn aye hangs the miine ;
Turn ye until yer graceless loon
Gin ye’ve grown auld and kind.
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