Lost Country
Angus, Marion
Published 1937
CHANCE ACQUAINTANCE
“ Wha’ever bides in this boose,
Noo nicht is drawin’ doon,
Rise up and tell a young man
The road to Forfar toon.”
She’s ta’en a new candle
To licht him sweetly ben,
He thinks on stars at gloamin’,
On summers in the glen.
The weary winds grow quaiet
To hear her bonnie words
That fill his he’rt wi’ music
And the chaunt o’ singin’ birds,
And, oh, it is a sorrow
For a likely lad and wise,
To turn his face to Forfar,
His back on Paradise.
TWO IS COMPANY
We gaed and we gaed to the ha’thorn tree
That hings by the weepin’ well,
Jean and Nelly o’ Upper Stanehive
And the third ane was mysel’.
Quoth Jean, “ That silken goon o’ mine
Had ye seen when it was new,
Ere the flitterin’ moth won into the kist
And riddled it thro’ and thro’! ”
Says Nellie, “ My locks was like the corn
On the bonnie hairst fields o’ hame;
The tides o’ sorrow gaed ower my heid
And turned them white as faem.”
And never a sough, as we sat and sat
By the weary, weary well,
O’ the braws I had lang syne, or hoo
I wasna’ ill-faured mysel’.
CORRICHIE
By oor burnside a queen rade licht
Thro’ moor and moss and saugh,
To see her gay lords win a feeht
In yon braid haugh.
The rowan tree its berry shed,
The leaf had tint its green,
When gallant wi’ her lads lang syne
She rade, the bonnie queen.
The years gang roond ; frae green to gowd
The moor and moss maun turn—
Oh, whaur dwalt I when she rade by
My ain Corrichie Burn ?
The Battle of Comchie between Mary, Queen of Scots,
and the Clan Gordon, October, 1562.
NAOMI
All the city waa moved about them, and they said,
Is this Naomi ? ’—The Book of Ruth.
Naomi, Naomi, what wait ye for?
The elders have steppit the causey ower,
Wi’ a sigh and a froon and a mournfu’ e’e,
Wailin’, “ Naomi! It canna be ! ”
The wives have lookit ye up and doon,
Yer tremblin’ mou’ and yer faded eroon,
Sorrowfu’ steppin’ the causey ower—
Naomi, Naomi, what wait ye for?
For some dear lass ye kent lang syne,
When days of youth were clear and fine.
To tak’ yer hand in the twa o’ her ain,
The tears upon her cheeks like rain,
Wi’ a word o’ comfort the he’rt to fill,
“ It’s yersel’, Naomi, and bonnie still.”
THE BURDEN
“ Set doon your pack,
Puir weary wife,”
Quoth I, “ and rest a wee.
Lang is the road,
Sair is the load,
And the wind
Sings in the tree.”
“ A puir auld wife,
A weary wife,
And something frail and sma,
But I maun on
And tak’ the hill
Wi’ a fair
‘ Quid nicht to ye a’.’
“ The same as the wing
Is to the bird,
The sail to the ship
On the sea,
Sae is the burden
THE BURDEN
To the back,
Gin ye cairry it
Cannily,” quo’ she,
“ Gin ye cairry it cannily.”
THE WIDOW
John Andrew Davidson
Lies buried here.
Tenant in Easter Drum
Forforty year.
The buss o’ aipple-ringie
At your feet
Is growin’ rare and sweet.
I’se hae anither at your heid the same.
I wad hae liked “ Respeckit” at your name,
“ Respeckit Tenant”.
Man, your een o’ grey
Glint into mine
Like rinnin’ fire in strae !
Here in the kirkyaird lane ;
“ I daur ye put sic ony daftlike word
On Easter Drum’s heidstane,”
I hear ye say.
DESIRES OF YOUTH
An auld wife cam’ to oor door
The day and nicht atween,
She looked at me and looked awa’
Wi’ her lang-sichted een.
Says she, “ I ken a young lass
Wha gangs her hamely ways,
Her thochts set on a fairer land
Ayont these hills and braes.
“ Wha dances gay upon the green
And licht at countra fairs,
And hears abune the fiddler’s tune
A bonnier lilt than theirs.
“ And, wanderin’ wi’ her sweethe’rt
Doon by the rocky shore,
Thinks to hersel’, ‘ He’s nae the luve
Sae long I’ve waited for.’”
An auld wife cam’ to oor hoose
When nicht was like to fa’.
I looked in her lang-sichted een
And syne I looked awa’.
GATHERING SHELLS
I aye likit my Grannie’s sister,
Likit her rael weel,
Her, that cam’ from a fisher toon
And carried the fisher creel.
Speer at her o’ ships and sailors,
Storms on the sauty brine—
“ It’s far eneuch awa’,” says she,
“ And ower lang syne.”
Aince, when wind in the tree was soughin'
Like watters flowin’ deep,
I h’ard her singin’ to hersel’,
Wauken or asleep.
“ There’s cowries and there’s siller buckies,
Spinks and fairies’ boats,
And a necklace for a leddy
O’ the peerrie-weerie groats.”
She sang a wee thing ranch and timmer
Nor kent nae lilt nor reel.
She cam’ from the the cauld east countra,
I likit her rael weel.
THE PLAID
I had a plaid o’ tartan
Frae ower the western sea,
As saft as silk, as warm as milk,
And happed me to the knee.
A ragged wife gaed by me
Ae eauld and wintry morn ;
I gaithered in aboot my plaid
And passed her by wi’ scorn.
Wae’s me, she’s cursed my plaidiel
For noo, come sun, come rain,
Mair rauch than sark o’ tinker wife
It cuts me to the bane.
A WOMAN SINGS
My licht feet farin’
Ben the the hoose and through,
Oh, will ye come at cock-craw,
Or wi’ the fa’ o’ dew ?
Will ye come a puir man,
A beggar, to my board,
Or wi’ a lauch and wi’ a toss
To tak’ me like a lord ?
There’s a still day dawnin’
When I’ll no’ care
Gin ye come like lord or loon
Or gin ye come nae mair;
Wi’ cauld hands weavin’
Oot the hoose and in
A bonnie white grave-goon
To fauld aneath my chin.
THE GREEN YAIRD
I had a green yaird
Wi’ a sweet pink may,
Whaur a yella-breisted bird
Sang a’ the simmer day.
And a wanderin’ wind,
Saft as smirr o’ rain,
In an’ oot the may-tree
Gaed and cam’ again.
Far hae I traiveiled,
Mickle hae I seen,
Oh, it’s “ Hame noo ” seekin’
For my gairden green.
The bird’s sang’s ended,
The pink may’s deid,
The wind blaws the soor leaf
O’ the nettle weed.
THE GREEN TAIRD
Sae the laigh wind soughed,
Sae the licht wind stirred,
Ere a tree was shapit
Or a singin’ bird
Or a he’rt to moorn
Ower a sma’ green yaird.
THE MUSICIAN
The fiddler from Kilbirnie
He plays but ae tune,
Be it early, be it late,
Sunlicht or mune.
Nine bonnie bairnies
Were dancing in a ring,
He fiddled wi’ the lilt
O’ a laverock in the spring.
Twa wives sat weavin’,
He garred them lauch and greet,
The birl o’ a blythe reel
Stirrin’ their auld feet.
Ower the dark muir, and
The deein’ heather-bell,
Wi’ a weary sough he
Fiddled to himsel’.
Lichtsome at mornin’,
Dowie in the mirk,
He plays the tune o’ Dauvid’s Psalm,
Learned in Kilbirnie Kirk.
IN A LITTLE OLD TOWN
The haar creeps landward from the sea,
The laigh sun’s settin’ reid.
Wha’s are the bairns that dance fu’ late
On the auld shore-heid ?
Wi’ linkit hands and soople feet,
Slae turnin’ in a ring,
Even on and even on
They sing and better sing.
“ In gangs she” and “ Oot gangs she”,
Their steps noo lood, noo saft,
Witless words to an eerie tune,
Sae solemn and sae daft.
And come they from the Windy Wynds
Or oot o’ the years lang deid,
I harken wi’ a stounin’ he’rt
On the auld shore-heid.
NEWS
“ Whaur hae ye been ?
The nicht draws in.”
“ At the back o’ yon hill
Whaur twa burns rin.”
“ What did ye hear,
What hae ye seen ? ”
“ Lasses and lads
On the dancin’-green;
A woman singin’
Her bairn a sang;
The hush o’ a hoose
Whaur mourners gang;
The piper that plays
To the naked air,
A bawdy tale,
And an auld wife’s prayer.
The warld and a’
That’s baud therein,
At the back o’ yon hill
Whaur twa burns rin.”
NIGHT O’ NIGHTS
Quiet by the fireside,
Warm the lowe o’ peat,
Ne’er a cry upon the hill,
Rain nor snaw nor sleet.
Twa clear candles,
Bonnily they shine,
The loaf is o’ the wheaten meal,
The cloth o’ linen fine.
Strangers from the hill-roads,
Ye sail mak’ the feast,
O puir man! o young lass
Wi’ the baby at your breist!
Bless and break the white loaf
Atvveen the twa lichts ;
Let me mysel’ gang hungry,
This nicht o’ a’ the nichts.
THE SPAE-WIFE
The spae-wife cries at oor door,
“ Come, rise and let me ben;
I hev’ the herb o’ healin’
Will ease fouks o’ their pain
And gar them thole nae langer
The hurt that they hev’ ta’en.”
But whaur, o skilly spae-wife,
Whaur is growin’ green
The sweet leaf o’ healin’
Will soothe my sleepless een
And gar me greet nae langer
The hurt that I hev’ gi’en ?
FAIRY TALES
Ye tell me o’ the Guid Folk Aneath the hills o’ whin, Wha ne’er hae grat for sorrow Nor yet hae tasted sin ;
Wi’ een like lichted candles, Ahint their laigh doors Weavin’ silken mantles
O’ the rose and lily floors.
Strange folk and sorrowless, Their een as clear as glass— But I hae seen a bonny licht In the face o’ a Gipsy lass,
As she slippit afl1 her shou’der The plaid sae thin and auld And hapt it roond her nameless bairn Agin the winter’s cauld.
THE FAITHFUL HEART
There cam’ a man from Brig o’ Feugh, Whaur I was wild and young ;
I kent him by his heather step And the turn upon his tongue.
He spak’ o’ crofters on the hill, The shepherd from the fauld, Simmers wi’ the flourish sweet, Winters dour and cauld ;
O’ this guid man and that guid wife, Aince lads and lasses brave, Hoo ane still whustles at the ploo’ And ane is in his grave;
O’ them that’s ower the faemy seas, And them that bides at hame, But I socht nae news o’ my auld love
Nor named her bonnie name.
LINKS O’ LUNAN
By the Links o’ Lunan On a clear simmer’s eve Young Annie Lizzie Wad play at ‘ Mak’ Believe.
Watch her on the white shore l Licht, licht as faem, She’s the glimmer o’ a wave, The deep sea its hame.
Wi’ lang saft fingers Cunnin’ noo it slinks, Seekin’ oot the wild rose Blawin’ in the links.
The sands o’ Time rin doon—doon, The years turn blin’ and spare ; Annie Lizzie’s gane and wi’ her A’ that’s young and fair.
But, gin ye gang by Lunan, When the green tide flows,
LINKS O’ LUNAN
And hear the whisper o’ a wave Tellin’ to a rose,
Hereawa’ or thereawa’
On midsimmer’s eve, Young Annie Lizzie’s At her game o’ ‘ Mak’ Beheve
AT PARTING
Her body, lissom as a tree,
Its leaf wi’ tempest tossed;
Her tearless een like water-springs Smitten in winter’s frost;
Her hand sae tender and sae young As oot o’ mine it slips; I weel maun bear—but boo to thole The tremblin’ o’ her lips!
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