The Project Gutenberg eBook of Poems, Scots and English

This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.

Title: Poems, Scots and English

Author: John Buchan

Release date: November 25, 2025 [eBook #77335]

Language: English

Original publication: London: T. C. & E. Jack, Limited, 1917

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/77335

Credits: Hendrik Kaiber, Susan Skinner and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive)

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POEMS, SCOTS AND ENGLISH ***

BY THE SAME AUTHOR

ROMANCES

- JOHN BURNET OF BARNS

- A LOST LADY OF OLD YEARS

- THE HALF-HEARTED

- PRESTER JOHN

- SALUTE TO ADVENTURERS

- THE THIRTY-NINE STEPS

- THE POWER-HOUSE

- GREENMANTLE

SHORT STORIES

- GREY WEATHER

- THE WATCHER BY THE THRESHOLD

- THE MOON ENDURETH

ESSAYS

- SCHOLAR-GIPSIES

- SOME EIGHTEENTH-CENTURY BYWAYS

POLITICS AND TRAVEL

- THE AFRICAN COLONY

- A LODGE IN THE WILDERNESS

- THE TAXATION OF FOREIGN INCOME

HISTORY AND BIOGRAPHY

- A HISTORY OF BRASENOSE COLLEGE

- SIR WALTER RALEIGH

- THE MARQUIS OF MONTROSE

- ANDREW JAMESON, LORD ARDWALL

- A HISTORY OF THE WAR (in course of publication).

POEMS

SCOTS AND ENGLISH

POEMS

SCOTS AND ENGLISH

BY

JOHN BUCHAN

Dulces ... reminiscitur Argos

—VIRGIL

T. C. & E. C. JACK, LIMITED

LONDON AND EDINBURGH

1917

Printed in Great Britain

by Turnbull & Spears, Edinburgh

TO MY BROTHER

ALASTAIR BUCHAN

LIEUTENANT, ROYAL SCOTS FUSILIERS

WHO FELL AT ARRAS

ON EASTER MONDAY 1917

UNDER HIS COUNTRY’S

TRIUMPHING FLAG

SINCE there are many variants of our northern speech, it seems fitting to say that the Scots pieces in this little collection are written in the vernacular which is spoken in the hill country of the Lowlands, from the Cheviots to Galloway. Scots has never been to me a book-tongue; I could always speak it more easily than I could write it; and I dare to hope that the faults of my verses, great as they are, are not those of an antiquarian exercise.

J. B.

CONTENTS

BOOK I.—SCOTS

PAGE

MIDIAN’S EVIL DAY—Dear Reverend Sir,—I tak my pen

13

THE HERD OF FARAWA—Losh, man! Did ever mortal see

21

THE ETERNAL FEMININE—When I was a freckled bit bairn

30

THE SOUTH COUNTRIE—I never likit the Kingdom o’ Fife—

32

THE SHORTER CATECHISM—When I was young and herdit sheep

34

THEOCRITUS IN SCOTS

THE KIRN—’Twas last back-end

36

THE FISHERS—’Tis puirtith sooples

44

INTER ARMA

SWEET ARGOS—When the Almichty took His hand

48

ON LEAVE—I had auchteen months o’ the war

55

THE KIRK BELL—When oor lads gaed ower the tap

59

HOME THOUGHTS FROM ABROAD—Aifter the war, says the papers

62

FRAGMENT OF AN ODE—Ye’ll a’ hae heard tell

65

THE GREAT ONES—Ae morn aside the road frae Bray

67

FISHER JAMIE—Puir Jamie’s killed

69

BOOK II.—ENGLISH

PAGE

FRATRI DILECTISSIMO—When we were little wandering boys

73

TO LIONEL PHILLIPS—Time, they say, must the best of us capture

76

TO SIR REGINALD TALBOT—I tell of old Virginian ways

77

FROM THE PENTLANDS, LOOKING NORTH AND SOUTH—Around my feet the clouds are drawn

79

THE STRONG MAN ARMED—Gift me guerdon and grant me grace

84

THE SOLDIER OF FORTUNE—I have seen thy face in the foray

86

THE SINGER—Cold blows the drift on the hill

88

PROCESSIONAL—In the ancient orderly places

91

AVIGNON, 1759—I walk abroad on winter days

93

THE GIPSY’S SONG TO THE LADY CASSILIS—The door is open to the wall

95

WOOD MAGIC—I will walk warily in the wise woods

97

THE SONG OF THE SEA CAPTAIN—I sail a lone sea captain

99

ANTIPHILUS OF BYZANTIUM—Give me a mat on the deck

105

AN ECHO OF MELEAGER—Scorn not my love, proud child

106

BOOK I

SCOTS

Midian’s Evil Day[1]

(From Alexander Cargill, Elder of the Kirk of the Remnant in the vale of Wae, to the Reverend Murdo Mucklethraw, Minister of the aforesaid Kirk, anent the Great Case recently argued in the House of Lords.)

DEAR Reverend Sir,—I tak my pen

To tell yon great occasion when

We garred our licht shine afore men,

Yea, far and wide,

And smote the oppressor but and ben

For a’ his pride.

Yoursel’, ye mind, was far frae weel—

A cauld ye catch’t at Kippenshiel,

Forbye rheumatics in your heel—

And thus it came,

Fou though ye were o’ holy zeal,

Ye stopped at hame.

For me, my lambin’-time was bye,

The muirland hay was nane sae high,

The men were thrang, the grund was dry,

Sae when ye spak,

And bade me gang and testify,

I heldna back.

Wi’ dowie hert I left that morn,

Reflectin’ on the waefu’ scorn

The Kirk maun thole, her courts forlorn,

Her pillars broke,

While Amalek exalts his horn,

And fills his poke.

I pondered the mischances sair

The Lord had garred puir Scotland bear

Frae English folk baith late and ear’

Sin’ Flodden year

To the twae beasts at Carlisle fair

I bocht ower dear.

If true religion got a fa’

Frae her auld courts and guid Scots law,

What hope o’ succour far awa’

’Mang godless chiels,

Whae at the Word sae crousely craw

And fling their heels.

As weel expect the Gospel sap ’ill

Rise in uncovenantit thrapple

As saw a ploom to raise an apple,

Or think a soo

Fleein’ aloft on the hoose-tap ’ill

Sit like a doo.

I like an owl in desert was,

When to the coorts I buid to pass,

Amang the crood to hear the Cause.

Nae freend I saw,—

Juist some auld lads set oot in raws

And belchin’ law.

But ane sat cockit in atween,

A wee man but as gleg’s a preen:

A walth o’ sense was in his een

And foreheid massy.

“The Chancellor,” I was tellt, when keen

I speired whae was he.

Wi’ prayerfu’ mind I watched the stert

While Maister Johnston[2] played his pairt,

And sune I fand my anxious hert

Gie a great loup.

“Yon Chancellor the ungodly’s cairt,”

I said, “will coup.”

O sir, that day I kent indeed

There’s men o’ worth across the Tweed,

Men whae are steadfast in the creed

As Moses sel’,

Men whae the Word o’ God can read

And cling to Hell.

I thocht they were a careless race,

Decked oot in cauld Erastian claes,

Whae traivelled a’ in slippery ways,

Whase thochts were vain:

But noo I ken they’ve gifts and grace

E’en like oor ain.

A Lowden chiel[3]—black be his tryst!—

A wise-like man, but ill advised,

Led on the hosts o’ Antichrist,

And threepit bauld,

That man could never back be wysed

To Calvin’s fauld.

He made the yett o’ Heaven sae wide

The veriest stirk could get inside:

Puffed up he was wi’ warldly pride

And fou o’ German,

Quotin’ auld pagans for his guide

And sic-like vermin.

He feucht wi’ Prophets, jouked wi’ Psalms,

He got his legs clean ower the trams,

He garred th’ Apostles skip like rams

To dae his biddin’s:

Oor auld Confessions were but shams,

Their loss guid riddance.

“God foreordained some men to Hell—

Granted, but man can please himsel’

Up to a point—and if I dwell

Mair on free-will

Than on election, I do well,

A Christian still.

“For these are mysteries,” quo’ he,

“Whereon nae twae men can agree,

And sae it’s richt for you and me—

The thing’s sae kittle—

Ane to consider half a lee,—

Whilk—maitters little.

“It’s a’,” he said, “confüsion wild;

In siccan things the best’s a child;

Some walk an ell and some a mile;

But never fear,

Thae doots will a’ be reconciled

In higher sphere.

“Therefore a kirk, whase lamps are bright,

Bequeathed by auld divines o’ might,

Can fling them tapsalteerie quite,

And think nae shame;

For white is black and black is white,

It’s a’ the same.”

But what availed his carnal lear

Against a man o’ faith and prayer?

As through the thristles gangs the share

And dings them doun,

E’en sae the Chancellor cleft him fair

Frae heel to croun.

He pinned him wi’ the Bible words,

He clove at him wi’ Calvin’s swirds,

He garred him loup aboot the boards

Wi’ muckle mense,

And bund him wi’ the hempen cords

O’ plain guid sense.

“Threep as ye please, it’s clear to me,

Whether or no’ the twae agree,

Baith doctrines were appoint to be

The Kirk’s chief pillar.

If ane ye like to leave,” says he,

“Ye leave the siller.”

Oh, wi’ what unction he restored

The auld commandments o’ the Lord,

Confoonded Bashan’s nowt that roared,

And ’stablished Hell!

Knox was nae soonder in the Word

Nor Calvin’s sel’.

I’ll no’ deny yon Lowden chiel

Was gleg as ony slippery eel,

For twae-three men frae Kippenshiel

Begood to waver;

I half inclined to doot the Deil

A’ through his claver.

But when a man o’ faith and power

Uprose, he couldna bide an hour:

The weakest’s doots were tided ower

Anither towmont.

The Kirk stood firm as auld stane tower

Wi’ safe endowment.

······

I hae a bull, a noble breed,

A shorthorn wi’ a massy heid,

Wi’ quarters fine and coat o’ reid:

On ilka lea

Frae Thurso to the banks o’ Tweed

He bears the gree.

I ca’ed him Begg,[4] the same’s his sire;

But noo for sign to a’ the shire

O’ yon great day when frae the mire

Our feet we bore,

His name shall be in field and byre

“The Chancellor.”

1904

The Herd of Farawa

Who in an April hailstorm discoursed to the traveller on the present discontents.

Pastorum et solis exegit montibus aevum.—VIRGIL.

LOSH, man! Did ever mortal see

Sic blasts o’ snaw? Ye’ll bide a wee,

Afore ye think to cross the lea,

And mount the slack!

Kin’le your pipe, and straucht your knee,

And gie’s your crack!

Hoo lang, ye speir! An unco while!

It’s seeventy-sax ’ear came Aprile

That I cam here frae Auchentyle—

A bairn o’ nine;

And mony’s the dreich and dreary mile

I’ve gaed sin’ syne.

My folk were herds, sae roond the fauld

Afore I was twae towmonts auld

They fand me snowkin’, crouse and bauld

In snaw and seep—

As Dauvid was to kingdoms called,

Sae I to sheep.

I herdit first on Etterick side.

Dod, man, I mind the stound o’ pride

Gaed through my hert, when near and wide

My dowgs I ran.

Though no seeventeen till Lammastide

I walked a man.

I got a wife frae Eskdalemuir,

O’ dacent herdin’ folk, and sair

We wrocht for lang, baith late and ’ear,

For weans cam fast,

And we were never aucht but puir

Frae first to last.

Tales I could tell wad gar ye grue

O’ snawy lambin’s warstled through,

O’ drifty days, and win’s that blew

Frae norlan’ sky,

And spates that filled the haughlands fou

And drooned the kye.

But, still and on, the life was fine,

For yon were happier days langsyne;

For gear to hain, and gear to tine

I had nae care—

Content I was wi’ what was mine,

And blithe to share.

Sic flocks ye’ll never see the day,

Nae fauncy ills to mak ye wae,

Nae fauncy dips wi’ stawsome broo,

Wad fricht the French;

We wrocht alang the auld guid way,

And fand it stench.

Nae mawkit kets, nae scabbit een,

But ilka yowe as trig’s a preen;

Sic massy tups as ne’er were seen

Sin’ Job’s allowance,

And lambs as thick on ilka green

As simmer gowans.

Whaur noo ae hirsel jimp can bide

Three hirsels were the countra’s pride,

And mony a yaird was wavin’ wide,

And floo’ers were hingin’,

Whaur noo is but the bare hillside,

And linties singin’.

······

And God! the men! Whaur could ye find

Sic hertsome lads, sae crouse and kind;

Sic skeel o’ sheep, sic sarious mind

At kirk and prayer—

Yet aiblins no to haud or bind

At Boswells fair?

Frae Galloway to Aiberdeen

(I mind the days as ’twere yestreen)

I’ve had my cantrips—Lord a wheen!

But through them a’,

The fear o’ God afore my een,

I keep’t the Law.

My nieves weel hoddit in my breeks,

The Law I keep’t, and turned baith cheeks

Until the smiter, saft and meek’s

A bairn at schule;

Syne struck, and laid him bye for weeks

To learn the fule.

Frae Melrose Cauld to Linkumdoddie,

I’d fecht and drink wi’ ony body;

Was there a couthy lad? Then, dod, he

Sune fand his fellow,

What time the tippenny or the toddy

Had garred us mellow.

Nae wark or ploy e’er saw me shirk;

I had an airm wad fell a stirk;

I traivelled ten lang mile to kirk

In wind and snaw;

I tell ’e, sir, frae morn to mirk,

I keep’t the Law.

······

Weekly we gat, and never fail,

Screeds marrowy as a pat o’ kail,

And awfu’ as the Grey Meer’s Tail

In Lammas rain,

And stey and lang as Moffatdale,

And stieve’s a stane.

Nae Gospel sowens fit for weans,

But doctrines teuch as channel-stanes;

We heard the Word wi’ anxious pains,

Sarious and happy.

And half the week we piked the banes,

And fand them sappy.

Lang years aneath a man o’ God

I sat, my Bible on the brod;

He wasna feared to lift the rod

And scaud the errin’;

He walked whaur our great forbears trod,

And blest his farin’.

But noo we’ve got a bairnly breed,

Whase wee-bit shilpit greetin’ screed

Soughs like a wast wind ower the heid,

Lichter than ’oo’;

Lassies and weans, it suits their need,

No me and you!

My dochter’s servin’ in the toun,

She gangs to hear a glaikit loon,

Whae rows his een, and twirls him roun’

Like ane dementit.

Nae word o’ Hell, nae sicht or soun’

O’ sin repentit.

But juist a weary, yammerin’ phrase

O’ “Saunts” and “Heaven” and “love” and “praise,”

Words that a grown man sudna üse,

God! sic a scunner!

I had to rise and gang my ways

To haud my denner.

At halesome fauts they lift their han’,

Henceforth, they cry, this new comman’,

Bide quate and doucely in the lan’

And love your brither—

This is the total end o’ man,

This and nae ither.

And that’s their creed! An owercome braw

For folks that kenna fear or fa’,

Crouse birds that on their midden craw

Nor think o’ scaith,

That keep the trimmin’ o’ the Law

And scorn the pith.

It’s no for men that nicht and day

See the Almichty’s awesome way,

And ken themselves but ripps o’ strae

Afore His wind,

And, dark or licht, maun watch and pray

His grace to find.

My forbear, hunkerin’ in a hag,

Was martyred by the laird o’ Lagg;

He dee’d afore his heid wad wag

In God’s denial.

D’ye think the folk that rant and brag

Wad thole yon trial?

Man, whiles I’d like to gang mysel

And wile auld Claverse back frae Hell;

Claverse, or maybe Tam Dalziel,

Wad stop their fleechin’;

I wager yon’s the lads to mell

And mend sic preachin’.

······

Whaure’er I look I find the same,

The warld’s nae gumption in its wame;

E’en sin’ I mind the human frame

Grows scrimp and shauchled,

O’ a’ man’s warks ye canna name

Ane that’s no bauchled.

There’s mawkit sheep and feckless herds,

And poopits fou o’ senseless words;

Instead o’ kail we sup on curds,

And wersh the taste o’t;

To parritch-sticks we’ve turned our swirds,

Sae mak’ the maist o’t.

And poalitics! I’ve seen the day

I’d walk ten mile ower burn and brae

To hear some billie hae his say

About the nation.

Tories and a’ their daft-like play

Fand quick damnation.

I thocht—for I was young—that folk

Were a’ the same; I scorned the yoke

O’ cless or gear; wi’ pigs in poke

I took nae han’.

I daured the hale wide warld to choke

The richts o’ man.

It’s still my creed, but hech! sin’ then

We’ve got the richts and lost the men;

We’ve got a walth o’ gear to spen’

And nane to spend it;

The warld is waitin’ ripe to men’,

And nane to mend it.

Our maisters are a flock o’ daws,

Led on by twae-three hoodie-craws;

They weir our siller, mak’ our laws,

And God! sic makin’!

And we sit roun’ wi’ lood applause,

And cheer their crakin’.

We’re great; but daur we lift a nieve

Wi’oot our neebors grant their leave?

We’re free, folk say, to speak, believe,

Dae what we wull—

And what’s oor gain? A din to deave

A yearlin’ bull!

······

A dwaibly warld! I’ll no deny

There’s orra blessin’s. I can buy

My baccy cheap, and feed as high

For half the siller;

For saxpence ony man can lie

As fou’s the miller.

A bawbee buys a walth o’ prent,

And every gowk’s in Paurliament;

The warld’s reformed—but sir, tak tent,

For a’ their threep,

There’s twae things noo that arena kent—

That’s MEN and SHEEP.

1907

The Eternal Feminine

WHEN I was a freckled bit bairn

And cam in frae my ploys to the fire,

Wi’ my buits a’ clamjamphried wi’ shairn

And my jaicket a’ speldered wi’ mire,

I got gloomin’ and glunchin’ and paiks,

And nae bite frae the press or the pan,

And my auld grannie said as she skelped me to bed,

“Hech, sirs, what a burden is man!”

When I was a lang-leggit lad,

At waddin’s and kirns a gey cheild,

I hae happit a lass in my maud

And gone cauldrife that she micht hae beild,

And convoyed her bye bogles and stirks,

A kiss at the hindmost my plan;

But a’ that I fand was the wecht o’ her hand,

And “Hech, sirs, what a burden is man!”

When Ailie and me were made yin

We set up in a canty bit cot;

Sair wrocht we day oot and day in,

We were unco content wi’ oor lot.

But whiles wi’ a neebor I’d tak

A gless that my heid couldna stan’;

Syne she’d greet for a week, and nae word wad she speak

But “Hech, sirs, what a burden is man!”

She dee’d, and my dochter and me

For the lave wi’ ilk ither maun shift.

Nae tentier lass could ye see;

The wooers cam doun like a drift;

But sune wi’ an unco blae glower

Frae the doorstep they rade and they ran,

And she’d sigh to hersel’, as she gae’d to the well,

“Hech, sirs, what a burden is man!”

She’s mairrit by noo and she’s got

A white-heided lass o’ her ain.

White-heided mysel, as I stot

Roond the doors o’ her shouther I’m fain.

What think ye that wean said yestreen?

I’ll tell ye, believe’t if ye can;

She primmed up her mou’ and said saft as a doo,

“Hech, sirs, what a burden is man!”

1912

The South Countrie

I NEVER likit the Kingdom o’ Fife—

Its kail’s as cauld as its wind and rain,

And the folk that bide benorth o’ the Clyde

They speak a langwidge that’s no my ain.

Doun in the west is a clarty nest,

And the big stane cities are no for me;

Sae I’ll buckle my pack on my auld bent back

And tak the road for the South Countrie.

Whaur sall I enter the Promised Land,

Ower the Sutra or doun the Lyne,

Up the side o’ the water o’ Clyde

Or cross the muirs at the heid o’ Tyne,

Or staucherin’ on by Crawfordjohn

Yont to the glens whaur Tweed rins wee?—

It’s maitter sma’ whaur your road may fa’

Gin it land ye safe in the South Countrie.

Yon are the hills that my hert kens weel,

Hame for the weary, rest for the auld,

Braid and high as the Aprile sky,

Blue on the taps and green i’ the fauld:

At ilka turn a bit wanderin’ burn,

And a canty biggin’ on ilka lea—

There’s nocht sae braw in the wide world’s schaw

As the heughs and holms o’ the South Countrie.

Yon are the lads that my hert loes weel,

Frank and couthy and kind to a’,

Wi’ the open broo and the mirthfu’ mou

And the open door at the e’enin’s fa’;

A trig hamesteid and a lauchin’ breed

O’ weans that hearten the auld to see—

Sma’ or great, can ye find the mate

O’ the folk that bide in the South Countrie?

The lichtest fit that traivels the roads

Maun lag and drag as the end grows near;

Threescore and ten are the years o’ men,

And I’m bye the bit by a lang lang year.

Sae I’ll seek my rest in the land loe’d best,

And ask nae mair than that God sall gie

To my failin’ een for the hinmost scene

The gentle hills o’ the South Countrie.

1916

The Shorter Catechism

(With Proofs)

WHEN I was young and herdit sheep,

I read auld tales o’ Wallace wight;

My heid was fou o’ sangs and threep

O’ folk that feared nae mortal might.

But noo I’m auld and weel I ken

We’re made alike o’ gowd and mire;

There’s saft bits in the stievest men,

The bairnliest’s got a spunk o’ fire.

Sae hearken to me, lads,

It’s truith that I tell;—

There’s nae man a’ courage—

I ken by mysel’.

I’ve been an elder forty year,

I’ve tried to keep the narrow way,

I’ve walked afore the Lord in fear,

I’ve never missed the kirk a day,

I’ve read the Bible in and oot,

I ken the feck o’t clean by hert;—

But still and on I sair misdoot

I’m better noo than at the stert.

Sae hearken to me, lads,

It’s truith I maintain!—

Man’s works are but rags, for

I ken by my ain.

I hae a name for dacent trade;

I’ll wager a’ the countryside

Wad swear nae trustier man was made

The ford to soom, the bent to bide.

But when it comes to coupin’ horse

I’m juist like a’ that e’er were born,

I fling my heels and tak my course—

I’d sell the minister the morn.

Sae hearken to me, lads,

It’s truith that I tell:—

There’s nae man deid honest—

I ken by mysel’.

1911

THEOCRITUS IN SCOTS

The Kirn[5]

(Idyll vii)

’TWAS last back-end that me and Dauvit Sma’

And Robert Todd, the herd at Meldonha’,

The hairst weel ower and under rape and thack,

Set oot to keep the kirn at Haystounslack,

Wat Laidlaw’s fairm—for Wat’s the rale stench breed

The Borders kenned afore the auld lairds dee’d,

And a’ the soor-milk Wast ran doun the Tweed.

We werena half the road, nor bye the grain

Whaur auncient Druids left the standin’ stane,

When Gidden Scott cam heinchin’ ower the muir,

Gidden the wale o’ men; ilk kirn and fair,

Clippin’ and spainin’, was a cheerier place

For ae sicht o’ his honest bawsened face.

He was a drover, famed frae Clyde to Spey,

The graundest juidge o’ beasts—a dealer tae.

His furthy coat o’ tup’s ’oo spun at hame,

His weel-worn maud that buckled roond his wame,

His snootit kep that hid the broos aneath,

His buits wi’ tackets like a harrow’s teeth,

His shairny leggin’s and his michty staff

Proclaimed him for a drover three mile aff.

“Losh! lads,” he cried, “whaur are ye traivellin’ noo,

Trig as the lassies decked for them they loe?

Is’t to a countra splore, or to the toun

Whaur creeshy baillies to their feasts sit doun?

Or is’t some waddin’ wi’ its pipes and reels

That gars the chuckies loup ahint your heels?”

“Weel met,” says I. “The day our jaunt we mak

To join Wat Laidlaw’s kirn at Haystounslack.

Lang is the gait, and, sin’ it’s pairtly yours,

What say ye to a sang to wile the ’oors?

In a’ the land frae Wigtoun to the Mearns

There’s nane that ploos sae straucht the rig o’ Burns

As your guid sel’ (so rins the countra sough);

And I, though frae sic genius far eneuch,

I, tae, hae clinkit rhymes at orra whiles.

We’ll niffer sangs to pass the muirland miles.”

“Na, Jock,” says he, and wagged a sarious pow,

“Sma’ share hae I in that divinest lowe.

A roopy craw as weel a pairt micht claim

I’ the laverock’s sang as me in Robin’s fame.

But sin’ we’re a’ guid freends, I’ll sing a sang

I made last Monday drovin’ ower the Whang.”[6]

Gidden’s Song

SIN’ Andra took the jee and gaed aff across the sea

I’m as dowff as ony fisher-wife that watches on the sand,

I’m as restless as a staig, me that aince was like a craig,

When I think upon yon far frem’t land.

We had aften cuisten oot, I mindna what aboot;

We had feucht a bit and flytit and gien and taen the blow;

But oor dander was nae mair than the rouk in simmer air,

For I loe’d him as a lassie loes her joe.

He had sic a couthy way, aye sae canty and sae gay;

He garred a body’s hert loup up and kept the warld gaun roun’;

The dreichest saul could see he had sunlicht in his ee,

And there’s no his marrow left in the toun.

We were ’greed like twae stirks that feed amang the birks,

My every thocht I shared wi’ him, his hinmost plack was mine;

We had nocht to hide frae ither, he was mair to me than brither;

But that’s a’ bye wi’t langsyne.

As I gang oot and in, in my heid there rins a tüne,

Some tüne o’ Andra’s playin’ in the happy days that’s gane.

When I sit at festive scene there’s a mist comes ower my een

For the kind lad that’s left me my lane.

So Gidden spak, and ower the lave o’ us cam

A sadness waur than penitential psalm.

The tüne was cried; nae jovial rantin’ stave

Wad set a mood sae pensive and sae grave.

Sae, followin’ on, I cleared my hass and sung

A sang I made langsyne when I was young.

Jock’s Song

SING, lads, and bend the bicker; gloamin’ draps

On Wiston side.

A’ ye that dwal in sicht o’ Tintock’s taps

Frae Tweed to Clyde

Gae stert your reels and ding the warlock Care

At young bluid’s call.

The wind that blaws frae yont the mountain muir

Will steal my saul.

Mind ye the lass that üsed to bide langsyne

At Coulter-fit?

(Gae pipe your sprigs, for youth is ill to bin’

And pleesures flit.)

Her mither keep’t the inn, and doun the stair

A’ day wad bawl.

The wind that blaws frae yont the mountain muir

Will steal my saul.

My heid rins round—I think they ca’d her Jean.

She looked sae high,

She walked sae prood, it micht hae been the Queen

As she gaed bye,

Buskit sae trig, and ower her yellow hair

A denty shawl.

The wind that blaws frae yont the mountain muir

Will steal my saul.

Ae day the King himsel’ was ridin’ through

And saw her face.

He telled his son, “For ae kiss o’ her mou

I’d change my place

Wi’ ony gangrel, roup my royal share,

My kingly hall.”

The wind that blaws frae yont the mountain muir

Will steal my saul.

I kenna if I loe’d the lassie true,

But this I ken;

To get a welcome frae her een o’ blue,

To see again

Her dimpled cheek, ten ’ears o’ life I’d spare

In prison wall.

The wind that blaws frae yont the mountain muir

Will steal my saul.

Ae simmer morn when a’ the lift was clear

And saft winds sighed,

Wi’ kilted coats I saw her wanderin’ near

The burnie’s tide.

Thinks I, Queen Mary was na half as fair

In days o’ aul’.

The wind that blaws frae yont the mountain muir

Will steal my saul.

Sing, lads, and bend the bicker; e’enin’ fa’s—

My denty doo

Has sell’t hersel’ for gowd and silken braws

That weemen loe.

A feckless laird has bocht her beauty rare,

Her love, her all.

The wind that blaws frae yont the mountain muir

Will steal my saul.

I watched them as their coach gaed ower the pass

Wi’ blindit een;

A shilpit carle aside the brawest lass

That Scotland’s seen.

Far, far she’s gane, and toom the warld and puir

Whaur I maun dwal.

The wind that blaws frae yont the mountain muir

Will steal my saul.

A’ day I wander like a restless ghaist

Ower hill and lea;

The gun hangs in the spence, the rod’s unüsed,

The dowg gangs free.

At nicht I dream, and O! my dreams are sair,

My hert’s in thrall.

The wind that blaws frae yont the mountain muir

Has stown my saul.

Loud Gidden spak; “Weel dune!—The convoy’s ower.

Here we maun pairt, for I’m for Auchenlour.

Oor forbears, when they set a makkers’ test

Gied cups and wreaths to him that sang the best.

Nae drink hae I, thae muirland floo’ers are wauf,

Sae tak for awms my trustit hazel staff.”

We cried guid-farin’ to his massy back,

And turned intil the road for Haystounslack.

Aroond the hills and heughs the gloamin’ crap,

And a braw mune cam ridin’ ower the slap.

The stirlin’s crooded thick as flees in air,

An auld blackcock was flytin’ on the muir.

Afore the steadin’ cairts were settin’ doun

Ilk snoddit lassie in her kirk-gaun gown,

And bauld young lads were swingin’ up the braes,

Ilk ane wi’ glancin’ een and dancin’ taes.

The fiddles scrapit and atower the din

The “Floo’ers o’ Embro’” soughed oot on the win’.

Furth frae the ben cam sic a noble reek

That hungry folk maun snowk but daurna speak;—

Haggis and tripe, and puddin’s black, and yill,

And guid saut beef and braxy frae the hill,

Crisp aiten farles, bannocks and seein’ kail;

And at the door stood Wat to cry us hail.

His walie nieves upheld a muckle bowl

Whase spicy scent was unction to the saul.

His ladle plowtered in the reamin’ brew,

And for us three he filled the rummers fou.

Nae nectar that the auld gods quaffed on hie,

Nae heather wine wanchancy warlocks prie,

Nae Well o’ Bethlehem or Siloam’s püle,

Was ever half as guid as Wattie’s yill.

Heaven send anither ’ear that I gang back

To drink wi’ honest folk at Haystounslack!

1916

THEOCRITUS IN SCOTS

The Fishers

(Idyll xxi)

’TIS puirtith sooples heid and hand

And gars inventions fill the land;

And dreams come fast to folk that lie

Wi’ nocht atween them and the sky.

Twae collier lads frae near Lasswade,

Auld skeely fishers, fand their bed

Ae simmer’s nicht aside the shaw

Whaur Manor rins by Cademuir Law.

Dry flowe-moss made them pillows fine,

And, for a bield to kep the win’,

A muckle craig owerhung the burn,

A’ thacked wi’ blaeberry and fern.

Aside them lay their rods and reels,

Their flee-books and their auncient creels.

The pooches o’ their moleskin breeks

Contained unlawfu’ things like cleeks,

For folk that fish to fill their wame

Are no fasteedious at the game.

The twae aye took their jaunts thegither;

Geordie was ane and Tam the ither.

Their chaumer was the mune-bricht sky,

The siller stream their lullaby.

When knocks in touns were chappin’ three,

Tam woke and rubbed a blinkin’ ee.

It was the ’oor when troots are boun’

To gulp the May-flee floatin’ doun,

Afore the sun is in the glens

And dim are a’ the heughs and dens.

TAM

“Short is the simmer’s daurk, they say,

But this ane seemed as lang’s the day;

For siccan dreams as passed my sicht

I never saw in Januar’ nicht.

If some auld prophet chiel were here

I wad hae cürious things to speir.”

GEORDIE

“It’s conscience gars the nichtmares rin,

Sae, Tam my lad, what hae ye dune?”

TAM

“Nae ill; my saul is free frae blame,

Nor hae I wrocht ower hard my wame,

For last we fed, as ye maun awn,

On a sma’ troot and pease-meal scone.

But hear my dream, for aiblins you

May find a way to riddle’t true....

I thocht that I was castin’ steady

At the püle’s tail ayont the smiddy,

Wi’ finest gut and sma’est flee,

For the air was clear and the water wee;

When sudden wi’ a rowst and swish

I rase a maist enormous fish....

I struck and heuked the monster shüre,

Guidsakes! to see him loup in air!

It was nae saumon, na, nor troot;

To the last yaird my line gaed oot,

As up the stream the warlock ran

As wild as Job’s Leviathan.

I got him stopped below the linn,

Whaur verra near I tummled in,

Aye prayin’ hard my heuk wad haud;

And syne he turned a dorty jaud,

Sulkin’ far doun amang the stanes.

I tapped the butt to stir his banes.

He warsled here and plowtered there,

But still I held him ticht and fair,

The water rinnin’ oxter-hie,

The sweat aye drippin’ in my ee.

Sae bit by bit I wysed him richt

And broke his stieve and fashious micht,

Till sair fordone he cam to book

And walloped in a shallow crook.

I had nae gad, sae doun my wand

I flang and pinned him on the sand.

I claucht him in baith airms and peched

Ashore—he was a michty wecht;

Nor stopped till I had got him shüre

Amang the threshes on the muir.

Then, Geordie lad, my een I rowed

The beast was made o’ solid gowd!—

Sic ferlie as was never kenned,

A’ glitterin’ gowd frae end to end!

I lauched, I grat, my kep I flang,

I danced a sprig, I sang a sang.

And syne I wished that I micht dee

If wark again was touched by me....

Wi’ that I woke; nae fish was there—

Juist the burnside and empty muir.

Noo tell me honest, Geordie lad,

Think ye yon daftlike aith will haud?”

GEORDIE

“Tuts, Tam ye fule, the aith ye sware

Was like your fish, nae less, nae mair.

For dreams are nocht but simmer rouk,

And him that trusts them hunts the gowk....

It’s time we catched some fish o’ flesh

Or we will baith gang brekfastless.”

1916

INTER ARMA

Sweet Argos

An Epistle from Jock in billets to Sandy in the trenches.

WHEN the Almichty took His hand

Frae shapin’ skies and seas and land,

Some orra bits left ower He fand,

Riddled them roun’—

A clart o’ stane and wud and sand—

And made this toun.

A glaury loan, a tumblin’ kirk,

Twae glandered mears, a dwaibly stirk,

Hens, ae auld wife, a wauflike birk—

That’s whaur I dwal,

While you are fechtin’ like a Turk

Ayont Thiepval.

The weet drips through the bauks abune,

Ootbye the cundies roar and rin,

There’s comfort naether oot nor in,

The wind gangs blather;—

We maun be michty sunk in sin

To earn sic wather.

But, Sandy lad, for you it’s waur,

You on that muckle Zollern scaur,

Your lintwhite locks a’ fyled wi’ glaur,

And hungry—my word!

While Gairmans dae the best they daur

To send ye skyward....

······

’Twas late yestreen that we cam doun

The road that leads frae Morval toun;

We cam like mice, nae sang nor soun’,

Nae daff nor jest;

Like ghaists that trail the midnicht roun’

We crap to rest.

For sax weeks hunkerin’ in a hole

We’d kenned the warst a man can thole—

Nae skirlin’ dash frae goal to goal

Yellin’ like wud,

But the lang stell that wechts the soul

And tooms the bluid.

Weel, yestereen we limped alang,

Me and auld Dave frae Cambuslang,

And Andra, him that had the gang

In Tamson’s mills,

And Linton Bob that wrocht amang

The Pentland Hills.

And as we socht oor shauchlin’ way

Atween the runts o’ Bernafay,

The mune ayont the darkenin’ brae

Lichted a gap.

Bob peched. “Ma God,” I heard him say,

“The Cauldstaneslap!”

Syne we won ower the hinmost rig

Amang the dumps, whaur warm and trig

The braziers lowe and wee trucks jig

Frae bing to ree.

Dave gripped my airm. “It’s fair Coatbrig!”

He stepped oot free....

······

This morn I’m sittin’ on a box,

Reddin’ an unco pair o’ socks,

Watchin’ the yaird whaur muckle docks

And nettles blaw,

And turks’ caps, marygolds and phlox

Stand in a raw.

The berry busses hing wi’ weet,

The smiddy clang comes doun the street,

A coo is routin’, bairnies greet,

A young cock craws.—

I shut my een; my traivelled feet

Were back i’ the Shaws.

Back twenty year. A tautit wean,

I heard my granny’s voice complain

O’ bursted buits: I saw the rain

Rin aff the byre;

The burn wi’ foamin’ yellow mane

Roared doun the swire.

A can o’ worms ae pooch concealed,

The tither scones weel brooned and jeeled;

Let eld sit cowerin’ in the beild,

Youth maun be oot;

The rain may pour, he’s for the field

To catch a troot....

······

And, Sandy lad, a stound o’ joy

Gaed through my breist. A halflin’s ploy,

An auld wife’s tale, a bairnie’s toy,

A lassie’s favour,

Are things nae war can clean destroy

Nor kill the savour.

It’s in sma’ things that greatness lies,

The simple aye confoonds the wise,

The towers that ettle at the skies

Crack, coup and tummle,

The blather, swalled to unco size,

Bursts wi’ a rummle....

Straucht to the Deil oor hainin’s fly;

A spate can droon the best o’ kye:

The day oor heids we cairry high

And wanton rarely:—

The morn in some black sheugh dounbye

We floonder sairly.

The breist o’ man is fortune-pruif,

He heeds nor jade nor deil nor cuif,

If twae-three things the Guid Folk give

His lot to cheer,

The sma’ things that oor mortal luve

Maun aye haud dear.

What gars us fecht? It’s no the law,

Nor poaliticians in a raw,

Nor hate o’ folk we never saw;—

Oot in yon hell

I’ve killed a wheen—the job wad staw

Auld Hornie’s sel’.

It’s luve, my man, nae less nae mair,—

Luve o’ auld freends at kirk and fair,

Auld-farrant sangs that memories bear

O’ but and ben,

Some wee cot-hoose far up the muir

Or doun the glen.

And Gairmans are nae doot the same:

The lad ye’ve stickin’ in the wame

Fechts no for deevilment or fame,

But juist for pride

In his bit dacent canty hame

By some burnside.

It’s queer that the Almichty’s plan

Sud set oot man to fecht wi’ man

For the same luve—their native lan’,

And wife and weans.

It’s queer, but threep the best ye can,

The truith remains.

The warld’s a fecht. Frae star to stane

The hale Creation strives in pain.

Paiks maun be tholed by ilk alane,

The cup be drainit,

If man’s to get the bunemost gain

That God’s ordainit.

But luve’s the fire that keeps him gaun,

Ilk puir forjaskit weariet man.

Hate sparks like pouther in the pan,

And pride will flicker,

But luve will burn till skies are faun,

Mair clear and siccar.

And a’ we socht o’ honest worth

We’ll find again in nobler birth,

For Heaven itsel’ begins on earth,

And caps the riggin’

O’ what in pain and toil and dearth

We’ve aye been biggin’.

Nae walth o’ gowden streets for me;

I ask but that my een sud see

The auld green hopes, the broomy lea,

The clear burn’s püles,

And wander whaur the wind blaws free

Frae heather hills.

······

Sae, Sandy, if it’s written true

That you and me sud warstle through,

Wi’ whatna joy we’ll hand the ploo

And delve the yaird!

Ten thoosandfauld the mair we’ll loe

Oor Border swaird!

But if like ither dacent men

We’ve looked oor last on Etterick glen,

And some day sune will see the en’

That brings nae shame,

We’ll face’t,—for in that ’oor we’ll ken

We’re hame, we’re hame.

1916

On Leave

I HAD auchteen months o’ the war,

Steel and pouther and reek,

Fitsore, weary and wauf,—

Syne I got hame for a week.

Daft-like I entered the toun,

I scarcely kenned for my ain.

I sleepit twae days in my bed,

The third I buried my wean.

The wife sat greetin’ at hame,

While I wandered oot to the hill,

My hert as cauld as a stane,

But my heid gaun roond like a mill.

I wasna the man I had been,—

Juist a gangrel dozin’ in fits;—

The pin had faun oot o’ the warld,

And I doddered amang the bits.

I clamb to the Lammerlaw

And sat me doun on the cairn;—

The best o’ my freends were deid,

And noo I had buried my bairn;—

The stink o’ the gas in my nose,

The colour o’ bluid in my ee,

And the biddin’ o’ Hell in my lug

To curse my Maker and dee.

But up in that gloamin’ hour,

On the heather and thymy sod,

Wi’ the sun gaun doun in the Wast

I made my peace wi’ God....

······

I saw a thoosand hills,

Green and gowd i’ the licht,

Roond and backit like sheep,

Huddle into the nicht.

But I kenned they werena hills,

But the same as the mounds ye see

Doun by the back o’ the line

Whaur they bury oor lads that dee.

They were juist the same as at Loos

Whaur we happit Andra and Dave.—

There was naething in life but death,

And a’ the warld was a grave.

A’ the hills were graves,

The graves o’ the deid langsyne,

And somewhere oot in the Wast

Was the grummlin’ battle-line.

······

But up frae the howe o’ the glen

Came the waft o’ the simmer een.

The stink gaed oot o’ my nose,

And I sniffed it, caller and clean.

The smell o’ the simmer hills,

Thyme and hinny and heather,

Jeniper, birk and fern,

Rose in the lown June weather.

It minded me o’ auld days,

When I wandered barefit there,

Guddlin’ troot in the burns,

Howkin’ the tod frae his lair.

If a’ the hills were graves

There was peace for the folk aneath

And peace for the folk abune,

And life in the hert o’ death....

······

Up frae the howe o’ the glen

Cam the murmur o’ wells that creep

To swell the heids o’ the burns,

And the kindly voices o’ sheep.

And the cry o’ a whaup on the wing,

And a plover seekin’ its bield.—

And oot o’ my crazy lugs

Went the din o’ the battlefield.

······

I flang me doun on my knees

And I prayed as my hert wad break,

And I got my answer sune,

For oot o’ the nicht God spake.

As a man that wauks frae a stound

And kens but a single thocht,

Oot o’ the wind and the nicht

I got the peace that I socht.

Loos and the Lammerlaw,

The battle was feucht in baith,

Death was roond and abune,

But life in the hert o’ death.

A’ the warld was a grave,

But the grass on the graves was green,

And the stanes were bields for hames,

And the laddies played atween.

Kneelin’ aside the cairn

On the heather and thymy sod,

The place I had kenned as a bairn,

I made my peace wi’ God.

1916

The Kirk Bell

WHEN oor lads gaed ower the tap

It was nine o’ a Sabbath morn.

I felt as my hert wad stap,

And I wished I had ne’er been born;

I wished I had ne’er been born

For I feared baith the foe and mysel’,

Till there fell on my ear forlorn

The jow o’ an auld kirk bell.

For a moment the guns were deid,

Sae I heard it faint and far;

And that bell was ringin’ inside my heid

As I stauchered into the war.

I heard nae ither soun’,

Though the air was a wild stramash,

And oor barrage beat the grun’

Like the crack o’ a cairter’s lash,

Like the sting o’ a lang whup lash;

And ilk breath war a prayer or an aith,

And whistle and drone and crash

Made the pitiless sang o’ death.

But in a’ that deavin’ din

Like the cry o’ the lost in Hell,

I was hearkenin’ to a peacefu’ tüne

In the jow o’ a far-off bell.

I had on my Sabbath claes,

And was steppin’ doucely the gait

To the kirk on the broomy braes;

I was standin’ aside the yett,

Crackin’ aside the yett;

And syne I was singin’ lood

’Mang the lasses snod and blate

Wi’ their roses and southernwood.

I hae nae mind o’ the tex’

For the psalm was the thing for me,

And I gied a gey wheen Huns their paiks

To the tüne o’ auld “Dundee.”

They tell me I feucht like wud,

And I’ve got a medal to shaw,

But in a’ that habble o’ smoke and bluid

My mind was far awa’;

My mind was far awa’

In the peace o’ a simmer glen,

Daunderin’ hame ower the heathery law,

Wi’ twae-three ither men....

But sudden the lift grew red

Ere we wan to the pairtin’ place;

And the next I kenned I was lyin’ in bed

And a Sister washin’ my face.

My faither was stench U.P.;

Nae guid in Rome could he fin’;

But, this war weel ower, I’m gaun back to see

That kirk ahint the line—

That kirk ahint oor line,

And siller the priest I’ll gie

To pray for the sauls o’ the deid langsyne

Whae bigged the steeple for me.

It’s no that I’m chief wi’ the Pape,

But I owe the warld to yon bell;

And the beadle that swung the rape

Will get half a croon for himsel’.

1917

Home Thoughts from Abroad

AIFTER the war, says the papers, they’ll no be content at hame,

The lads that hae feucht wi’ death twae ’ear i’ the mud and the rain and the snaw;

For aifter a sodger’s life the shop will be unco tame;

They’ll ettle at fortune and freedom in the new lands far awa.’

No me!

By God! No me!

Aince we hae lickit oor faes

And aince I get oot o’ this hell,

For the rest o’ my leevin’ days

I’ll mak a pet o’ mysel’.

I’ll haste me back wi’ an eident fit

And settle again in the same auld bit.

And oh! the comfort to snowk again

The reek o’ my mither’s but-and-ben,

The wee box-bed and the ingle neuk

And the kail-pat hung frae the chimley-heuk!

I’ll gang back to the shop like a laddie to play,

Tak doun the shutters at skreigh o’ day,

And weigh oot floor wi’ a carefu’ pride,

And hear the clash o’ the countraside.

I’ll wear for ordinar’ a roond hard hat,

A collar and dicky and black cravat.

If the weather’s wat I’ll no stir ootbye

Wi’oot an umbrella to keep me dry.

I think I’d better no tak a wife—

I’ve had a’ the adventure I want in life.—

But at nicht, when the doors are steeked, I’ll sit,

While the bleeze loups high frae the aiken ruit,

And smoke my pipe aside the crook.

And read in some douce auld-farrant book;

Or crack wi’ Davie and mix a rummer,

While the auld wife’s pow nid-nods in slum’er;

And hark to the winds gaun tearin’ bye

And thank the Lord I’m sae warm and dry.

When simmer brings the lang bricht e’en,

I’ll daunder doun to the bowling-green,

Or delve my yaird and my roses tend

For the big floo’er-show in the next back-end.

Whiles, when the sun blinks aifter rain,

I’ll tak my rod and gang up the glen;

Me and Davie, we ken the püles

Whaur the troot grow great in the howes o’ the hills;

And, wanderin’ back when the gloamin’ fa’s

And the midges dance in the hazel shaws,

We’ll stop at the yett ayont the hicht

And drink great wauchts o’ the scented nicht,

While the hoose lamps kin’le raw by raw

And a yellow star hings ower the law.

Davie will lauch like a wean at a fair

And nip my airm to mak certain shüre

That we’re back frae yon place o’ dule and dreid,

To oor ain kind warld—

But Davie’s deid!

Nae mair gude nor ill can betide him.

We happit him doun by Beaumont toun,

And the half o’ my hert’s in the mools aside him.

1917

Fragment of an Ode in Praise of the Royal Scots Fusiliers

YE’LL a’ hae heard tell o’ the Fusilier Jocks,

The famous auld Fusilier Jocks!

They’re as stieve as a stane,

And as teuch as a bane,

And as gleg as a pack o’ muircocks.

They’re maistly as braid as they’re lang,

And the Gairman’s a pump off the fang

When he faces the fire in their ee.

They’re no verra bonny,

I question if ony

Mair terrible sicht ye could see

Than a chairge o’ the Fusilier Jocks.

It gars Hindenburg swear

“Gott in Himmel, nae mair

O’ thae sudden and scan’alous shocks!”

And the cannon o’ Krupp

Ane and a’ they shut up

Like a pentit bit jaick-in-the-box,

At the rush o’ the Fusilier Jocks.

The Kaiser he says to his son

(The auld ane that looks like a fox)—

“I went ower far

When I stertit this war,

Forgettin’ the Fusilier Jocks.

I could manage the French and Italians and Poles,

The Russians and Tartars and yellow Mongols,

The Serbs and the Belgians, the English and Greeks,

And even the lads that gang wantin’ the breeks;

But what o’ thae Fusilier Jocks,

That stopna for duntin’ and knocks?

They’d rin wi’ a yell

Ower the plainstanes o’ Hell;

They’re no men ava—they are rocks!

They’d gang barefit

Through the Bottomless Pit,

And they’ll tak Berlin in their socks,—

Will thae terrible Fusilier Jocks!”...

1917

The Great Ones

AE morn aside the road frae Bray

I wrocht my squad to mend the track;

A feck o’ sodgers passed that way

And garred me often straucht my back.

By cam a General on a horse,

A jinglin’ lad on either side.

I gie’d my best salute of course,

Well pleased to see sic honest pride.

And syne twae Frenchmen in a cawr—

Yon are the lads to speel the braes;

They speldered me inch-deep wi’ glaur

And verra near ran ower my taes.

And last the pipes, and at their tail

Oor gaucy lads in martial line.

I stopped my wark and cried them hail,

And wished them weel for auld lang syne.

······

An auld chap plooin’ on the muir

Ne’er jee’d his heid nor held his han’,

But drave his furrow straucht and fair,—

Thinks I, “But ye’re the biggest man.”

1916

Fisher Jamie

PUIR Jamie’s killed. A better lad

Ye wadna find to busk a flee

Or burn a püle or wield a gad

Frae Berwick to the Clints o’ Dee.

And noo he’s in a happier land.—

It’s Gospel truith and Gospel law

That Heaven’s yett maun open stand

To folk that for their country fa’.

But Jamie will be ill to mate;

He lo’ed nae müsic, kenned nae tünes

Except the sang o’ Tweed in spate,

Or Talla loupin’ ower its linns.

I sair misdoot that Jamie’s heid

A croun o’ gowd will never please;

He liked a kep o’ dacent tweed

Whaur he could stick his casts o’ flees.

If Heaven is a’ that man can dream

And a’ that honest herts can wish,

It maun provide some muirland stream,

For Jamie dreamed o’ nocht but fish.

And weel I wot he’ll up and speir

In his bit blate and canty way,

Wi’ kind Apostles standin’ near

Whae in their time were fishers tae.

He’ll offer back his gowden croun

And in its place a rod he’ll seek,

And bashfu’-like his herp lay doun

And speir a leister and a cleek.

For Jims had aye a poachin’ whim;

He’ll sune grow tired, wi’ lawfu’ flee

Made frae the wings o’ cherubim,

O’ castin’ ower the Crystal Sea....

I picter him at gloamin’ tide

Steekin’ the backdoor o’ his hame

And hastin’ to the waterside

To play again the auld auld game;

And syne wi’ saumon on his back,

Catch’t clean against the Heavenly law,

And Heavenly byliffs on his track,

Gaun linkin’ doun some Heavenly shaw.

1916

BOOK II

ENGLISH

Fratri Dilectissimo[7]

W. H. B.

WHEN we were little wandering boys,

And every hill was blue and high,

On ballad ways and martial joys

We fed our fancies, you and I.

With Bruce we crouched in bracken shade,

With Douglas charged the Paynim foes;

And oft in moorland noons I played

Colkitto to your grave Montrose.

The obliterating seasons flow—

They cannot kill our boyish game.

Though creeds may change and kings may go,

Yet burns undimmed the ancient flame.

While young men in their pride make haste

The wrong to right, the bond to free,

And plant a garden in the waste,

Still rides our Scottish chivalry.

Another end had held your dream—

To die fulfilled of hope and might,

To pass in one swift rapturous gleam

From mortal to immortal light—

But through long hours of labouring breath

You watched the world grow small and far,

And met the constant eyes of Death,

And haply knew how kind they are.

One boon the Fates relenting gave—

Not where the scented hill-wind blows

From cedar thickets lies your grave,

Nor ’mid the steep Himálayan snows.

Night calls the stragglers to the nest,

And at long last ’tis home indeed

For your far-wandering feet to rest

Forever by the crooks of Tweed.

In perfect honour, perfect truth,

And gentleness to all mankind,

You trod the golden paths of youth,

Then left the world and youth behind.

Ah no! ’Tis we who fade and fail—

And you from Time’s slow torments free

Shall pass from strength to strength and scale

The steeps of immortality.

Dear heart, in that serener air,

If blessed souls may backward gaze,

Some slender nook of memory spare

For our old happy moorland days.

I sit alone, and musing fills

My breast with pain that shall not die,

Till once again o’er greener hills

We ride together, you and I.

1912

To Lionel Phillips[8]

TIME, they say, must the best of us capture,

And travel and battle and gems and gold

No more can kindle the ancient rapture,

For even the youngest of hearts grows old.

But in you, I think, the boy is not over;

So take this medley of ways and wars

As the gift of a friend and a fellow-lover

Of the fairest country under the stars.

1909

To Major-General

The Hon. Sir Reginald Talbot, K.C.B.[9]

I TELL of old Virginian ways;

And who more fit my tale to scan

Than you, who knew in far-off days

The eager horse of Sheridan;

Who saw the sullen meads of fate,

The tattered scrub, the blood-drenched sod,

Where Lee, the greatest of the great,

Bent to the storm of God?

I tell lost tales of savage wars;

And you have known the desert sands,

The camp beneath the silver stars,

The rush at dawn of Arab bands,

The fruitless toil, the hopeless dream,

The fainting feet, the faltering breath,

While Gordon by the ancient stream

Waited at ease on death.

And now, aloof from camp and field,

You spend your sunny autumn hours

Where the green folds of Chiltern shield

The nooks of Thames amid the flowers:

You who have borne that name of pride,

In honour clean from fear or stain,

Which Talbot won by Henry’s side

In vanquished Aquitaine.

1914

From the Pentlands, Looking North and South

AROUND my feet the clouds are drawn

In the cold mystery of the dawn;

No breezes cheer, no guests intrude

My mossy, mist-clad solitude;

When sudden down the steeps of sky

Flames a long, lightening wind. On high

The steel-blue arch shines clear, and far,

In the low lands where cattle are,

Towns smoke. And swift, a haze, a gleam,—

The Firth lies like a frozen stream,

Reddening with morn. Tall spires of ships,

Like thorns about the harbour’s lips,

Now shake faint canvas, now, asleep,

Their salt, uneasy slumbers keep;

While golden-grey o’er kirk and wall

Day wakes in the ancient capital.

Before me lie the lists of strife,

The caravanserai of life,

Whence from the gates the merchants go

On the world’s highways; to and fro

Sail laden ships; and in the street

The lone foot-traveller shakes his feet,

And in some corner by the fire

Tells the old tale of heart’s desire.

Thither from alien seas and skies

Comes the far-quested merchandise:—

Wrought silks of Broussa, Mocha’s ware

Brown-tinted, fragrant, and the rare

Thin perfumes that the rose’s breath

Has sought, immortal in her death:

Gold, gems, and spice, and haply still

The red rough largess of the hill

Which takes the sun and bears the vines

Among the haunted Apennines.

And he who treads the cobbled street

To-day in the cold North may meet,

Come month, come year, the dusky East,

And share the Caliph’s secret feast;

Or in the toil of wind and sun

Bear pilgrim-staff, forlorn, fordone,

Till o’er the steppe, athwart the sand,

Gleam the far gates of Samarkand.

The ringing quay, the weathered face,

Fair skies, dusk hands, the ocean race,

The palm-girt isle, the frosty shore,

Gales and hot suns the wide world o’er,

Grey North, red South, and burnished West,

The goals of the old tireless quest,

Leap in the smoke, immortal, free,

Where shines yon morning fringe of sea.

I turn;—how still the moorlands lie,

Sleep-locked beneath the awakening sky!

The film of morn is silver-grey

On the young heather, and away,

Dim, distant, set in ribs of hill,

Green glens are shining, stream and mill,

Clachan and kirk and garden-ground,

All silent in the hush profound

Which haunts alone the hills’ recess,

The antique home of quietness.

Nor to the folk can piper play

The tune of “Hills and Far Away,”

For they are with them. Morn can fire

No peaks of weary heart’s desire,

Nor the red sunset flame behind

Some ancient ridge of longing mind.

For Arcady is here, around,

In lilt of stream, in the clear sound

Of lark and moorbird, in the bold

Gay glamour of the evening gold.

And so the wheel of seasons moves

To kirk and market, to mild loves

And modest hates, and still the sight

Of brown kind faces, and when night

Draws dark around with age and fear

Theirs is the simple hope to cheer.—

A land of peace where lost romance

And ghostly shine of helm and lance

Still dwell by castled scarp and lea

And the lost homes of chivalry,

And the good fairy folk, my dear,

Who speak for cunning souls to hear,

In crook of glen and bower of hill

Sing of the Happy Ages still.

O Thou to whom man’s heart is known,

Grant me my morning orison.

Grant me the rover’s path—to see

The dawn arise, the daylight flee,

In the far wastes of sand and sun!

Grant me with venturous heart to run

On the old highway, where in pain

And ecstasy man strives amain,

Outstrips his fellows, or, too weak,

Finds the great rest that wanderers seek!

Grant me the joy of wind and brine,

The zest of food, the taste of wine,

The fighter’s strength, the echoing strife,

The high tumultuous lists of life—

May I ne’er lag, nor hapless fall,

Nor weary at the battle-call!...

But when the even brings surcease,

Grant me the happy moorland peace;

That in my heart’s depth ever lie

That ancient land of heath and sky,

Where the old rhymes and stories fall

In kindly, soothing pastoral.

There in the hills grave silence lies,

And Death himself wears friendly guise;

There be my lot, my twilight stage,

Dear city of my pilgrimage.

1898

The Strong Man Armed

“GIFT me guerdon and grant me grace,”

Said the Lord of the North.

“Nothing I ask thee of gear or place

Ere I get me forth.

Gift one guerdon to mine and me

For the shade and the sheen.”

······

“Ask and it shall be given unto thee,”

Said Mary the Queen.

“May I never falter the wide world through,

But stand in the gate:

May my sword bite sharp and my steel ring true

At the ford and the strait:

Bide not on bed nor dally with song

When the strife goeth keen:

This be my boon from the Gods of the Strong!”

······

“Be it so,” said the Queen.

“May I stand in the mist and the clear and the chill,

In the cycle of wars,

In the brown of the moss and the grey of the hill

With my eyes to the stars!

Gift this guerdon and grant this grace

That I bid good e’en,

The sword in the hand and the foot to the race,

The wind in my teeth and the rain in my face!”

······

“Be it so,” said the Queen.

1895

The Soldier of Fortune

I HAVE seen thy face in the foray, I have heard thy voice in the fray,

When the stars shrunk in the silence, and the wild midnights blew.

Men have worn their steel blades, seeking by night and day;

Selling their souls for the vain dreams—I have followed the true.

Frosts have dulled the scabbard, suns have furrowed the thong,

And the great winds of the north-east have steeled the vagrant eye.

So through the world I wander, haggard and fierce and strong,

Seeking the goal I see not, toiling I tell not why.

I have loved all good things, song and woman and wine,

The hearth’s red glow in the even, the gladsome face of a friend,

The suns and snows of the hill land, the sting of the winter’s brine,

Dawn and noon and the twilight, day and the daylight’s end.

I have ridden the old path, ridden it fierce and strong,

By camp and city and moorland and the grey face of the sea.

Wrath abides on my forehead but at my heart a song,

The ancient wayfaring ballad, the royal chant of the free.

For ever in cloud or in maytide Thy voice has been in my ear,

In the quivering mists of battle Thy face has shone like a star.

Never the steel ranks broke when the Lord sent forth His fear

But Thy hand has held my bridle and girt my soul for war.

I am broken and houseless, lost my clan and my name;

A stranger treads on my homelands, no heart remembereth me.—

But be Thou my portion, Lady of dew and flame!

Little I ask of the red gold, having the winds and thee.

1899

The Singer

COLD blows the drift on the hill,

Sere is the heather,

High goes the wind and shrill,

Mirk is the weather.

Stout be the front I show,

Come what the gods send!

Plaided and girt I go

Forth to the world’s end.

My brain is the stithy of years,

My heart the red gold

Which the gods with sharp anguish and tears

Have wrought from of old.

In the shining first dawn o’ the world,

I was old as the sky—

The morning dew on the field

Is no younger than I.

I am the magician of life,

The hero of runes;

The sorrows of eld and old strife

Ring clear in my tunes.

The sea lends her minstrel voice,

The storm-cloud its grey;

And ladies have wept at my notes,

Fair ladies and gay.

My home is the rim of the mist,

The ring of the spray.

The hart has his corrie, the hawk has her nest,

But I—the Lost Way.

Come dawning or noontide, come winter or spring,

Come leisure, come war,

I tarry not, I, but my burden I sing

Beyond and afar.

I sing of lost hopes and old kings

And the maids of the past;

Ye shiver adread at my strings

But ye heed them at last.

I sing of cold death and the grave—

Fools tremble afraid:

I sing of hot life, and the brave

Go forth undismayed.

I sleep by the well-head of joy

And the fountain of pain.

Man lives, loves, and fights, and then is not—

I only remain.

Ye mock me and hold me to scorn—

I seek not your grace;

Ye gird me with terror—forlorn,

I laugh in your face.

1898

Processional[10]

IN the ancient orderly places, with a blank and orderly mind,

We sit in our green walled gardens and our corn and oil increase;

Sunset nor dawn can wake us, for the face of the heavens is kind;

We light our taper at even and call our comfort peace.

Peaceful our clear horizon; calm as our sheltered days

Are the lilied meadows we dwell in, the decent highways we tread.

Duly we make our offerings, but we know not the God we praise,

For He is the God of the living, and we, His children, are dead.

I will arise and get me beyond this country of dreams,

Where all is ancient and ordered and hoar with the frost of years,

To the land where loftier mountains cradle their wilder streams,

And the fruitful earth is blessed with more bountiful smiles and tears:—

There in the home of the lightnings, where the fear of the Lord is set free,

Where the thunderous midnights fade to the turquoise magic of morn,

The days of man are a vapour, blown from a shoreless sea,

A little cloud before sunrise, a cry in the void forlorn.

I am weary of men and cities and the service of little things,

Where the flame-like glories of life are shrunk to a candle’s ray.

Smite me, my God, with Thy presence, blind my eyes with Thy wings,

In the heart of Thy virgin earth show me Thy secret way!

1906

Avignon

1759

Hearts to break but nane to sell,

Gear to tine but nane to hain;—

We maun dree a weary spell

Ere our lad comes back again.

I WALK abroad on winter days,

When storms have stripped the wide champaign,

For northern winds have norland ways,

And scents of Badenoch haunt the rain.

And by the lipping river path,

When in the fog the Rhone runs grey,

I see the heather of the strath,

And watch the salmon leap in Spey.

The hills are feathered with young trees,—

I set them for my children’s boys.

I made a garden deep in ease,

A pleasance for my lady’s joys.

Strangers have heired them. Long ago

She died,—kind fortune thus to die;

And my one son by Beauly flow

Gave up the soul that could not lie.

Old, elbow-worn, and pinched I bide

The final toll the gods may take.

The laggard years have quenched my pride;

They cannot kill the ache, the ache.

Weep not the dead, for they have sleep

Who lie at home; but ah, for me

In the deep grave my heart will weep

With longing for my lost countrie.

Hearts to break but nane to sell,

Gear to tine but nane to hain;—

We maun dree a weary spell

Ere our lad comes back again.

1911

The Gipsy’s Song to the Lady Cassilis

“Whereupon the Faas, coming down from the Gates of Galloway, did so bewitch my lady that she forgat husband and kin, and followed the tinkler’s piping.”—Chap-book of the Raid of Cassilis.

THE door is open to the wall,

The air is bright and free;

Adown the stair, across the hall,

And then—the world and me;

The bare grey bent, the running stream,

The fire beside the shore;

And we will bid the hearth farewell,

And never seek it more,

My love,

And never seek it more.

And you shall wear no silken gown,

No maid shall bind your hair;

The yellow broom shall be your gem,

Your braid the heather rare.

Athwart the moor, adown the hill,

Across the world away;

The path is long for happy hearts

That sing to greet the day,

My love,

That sing to greet the day.

When morning cleaves the eastern grey,

And the lone hills are red;

When sunsets light the evening way

And birds are quieted;

In autumn noon and springtide dawn,

By hill and dale and sea,

The world shall sing its ancient song

Of hope and joy for thee,

My love,

Of hope and joy for thee.

And at the last no solemn stole

Shall on thy breast be laid;

No mumbling priest shall speed thy soul,

No charnel vault thee shade.

But by the shadowed hazel copse,

Aneath the greenwood tree,

Where airs are soft and waters sing,

Thou’lt ever sleep by me,

My love,

Thou’lt ever sleep by me.

1898

Wood Magic

(9th Century)

I WILL walk warily in the wise woods on the fringes of eventide,

For the covert is full of noises and the stir of nameless things.

I have seen in the dusk of the beeches the shapes of the lords that ride,

And down in the marish hollow I have heard the lady who sings.

And once in an April gloaming I met a maid on the sward,

All marble-white and gleaming and tender and wild of eye;—

I, Jehan the hunter, who speak am a grown man, middling hard,

But I dreamt a month of the maid, and wept I knew not why.

Down by the edge of the firs, in a coppice of heath and vine,

Is an old moss-grown altar, shaded by briar and bloom,

Denys, the priest, hath told me ’twas the lord Apollo’s shrine

In the days ere Christ came down from God to the Virgin’s womb.

I never go past but I doff my cap and avert my eyes—

(Were Denys to catch me I trow I’d do penance for half a year.)—

For once I saw a flame there and the smoke of a sacrifice,

And a voice spake out of the thicket that froze my soul with fear.

Wherefore to God the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost,

Mary the Blessed Mother, and the kindly Saints as well,

I will give glory and praise, and them I cherish the most,

For they have the keys of Heaven, and save the soul from Hell.

But likewise I will spare for the lord Apollo a grace,

And a bow for the lady Venus—as a friend but not as a thrall.

’Tis true they are out of Heaven, but some day they may win the place;

For gods are kittle cattle, and a wise man honours them all.

1911

The Song of the Sea Captain

Diego d’Alboquerque, brother of the great Affonso, a knight of the Portuguese Order of Jesus Christ, having landed on the coast north of Zanzibar, wandered to the Abyssinian highlands, where he saw and loved Prester John’s daughter, Melissa, a cousin of the Lady of Tripoli (la princesse lointaine). He was slain off Goa in the great fight with the Sultan of Muscat.

I SAIL a lone sea captain

Around the southern seas;

Worn as my cheek, the flag of Christ

Floats o’er me on the breeze.

By green isle and by desert,

By little white-walled town,

To west wind and to east wind

I lead my galleons down.

I know the black south-easter,

I know the drowsy calms

When the slow tide creeps shoreward

To lave the idle palms.

Of many a stark sea battle

The Muslim foe can tell,

When their dark dhows I sent to crabs

And their dark souls to hell.

Small reck have I of Muslim,

Small reck of winds and seas,

The waters are my pathway

To bring me to my ease.

The dawns that burn above me

Are torches set to light

My footsteps to a garden

Of roses red and white.

······

Five months we stood from Lagos,

While, scant of food and sleep,

We tracked da Gama’s highroad

Across the Guinea deep.

All spent we were with watching

When, ghostly as a dream,

The Bona Esperanza cape

Rose dark upon the beam.

Then by the low green inlets

We groped our passage forth,

Outside the shallow surf-bars

We headed for the north.

Sofala gave us victual,

Inyaka ease and rest,

But of the wayside harbours

I loved Melinda best.

’Twas on a day in April,

The Feast of Rosaly,

We beached our weary vessels,

Cried farewell to the sea,

And with ten stout companions

And hearts with youth made bold

We sought the inland mountains

Of which our fathers told.

No chart had we or counsel

To guide our weary feet,

To north and west we wandered

In drought and dust and heat,

Till o’er the steaming tree-tops

We saw the far-off dome

Of mystic icy mountains,

And knew the Prester’s home.

Nine days we clomb the foothills,

Nine days the mountain wall,

Sheer cliff and ancient forest

And fretted waterfall;

And on the tenth we entered

A meadow cool and deep,

And in the Prester’s garden

We laid us down to sleep.

Long time we fared like princes

In palaces of stone,

For never guest goes cheerless

Who meets with Prester John;

Where woodlands mount to gardens

And gardens climb to snows

And wells of living water

Sing rondels to the rose.

And there among the roses,

More white and red than they,

There walked the gleaming lady,

The princess far away.

Dearer her golden tresses

Than the high pomp of wars,

And deep and still her eyes as lakes

That brood beneath the stars.

There walked we and there spoke we

Of things that may not cease,

Of life and death and God’s dear love

And the eternal peace.

For in that shadowed garden

The world had grown so small

That one white girl in one white hand

Could clasp and hold it all.

I craved the Prester’s blessing,

I kissed his kingly hand:

“Too soon has come the parting

From this fair mountain land.

But shame it were for Christian knight

To take his leisure here

When o’er the broad and goodly earth

The Muslim sends his fear.

“I go to gird my sword on,

To drive my fleets afar,

To court the wrath of tempests,

The dusty toils of war.

But when my vows are ended,

Then, joyous from the fray,

I come to claim my lady,

The princess far away.”

······

I sail a lone sea captain

Across the southern seas;

Worn as my cheek, the flag of Christ

Still flaunts upon the breeze.

By green isle and by desert,

By little white-walled town,

To west wind and to east wind

I lead my galleons down.

But in the starkest tempest,

And in the drowsy heats,

Where on the shattered coral

The far-drawn breaker beats:

In seas of dreaming water,

And in the wind-swept spray,

I see my snow-white lady,

The princess far away.

Sometimes in inland places

We march for weary days,

Where thorns parch in the noontide

Or fens are dark with haze;—

For me ’tis but a march of dreams,

For ever, clear and low,

I hear cool waters falling

In the garden of the snow.

Small reck have I of Muslim,

Small reck of sands or seas;

The wide world is my pathway

To lead me to my ease.

The dawns that burn above me

Are torches set to light

My footsteps to a garden

Of rose red and white.

1905

Antiphilus of Byzantium

Anth. Pal. ix. 546.

GIVE me a mat on the deck,

When the awnings sound to the blows of the spray,

And the hearthstones crack with the flames a-back

And the pot goes bubbling away.

Give me a boy to cook my broth;

For table a ship’s plank lacking a cloth,

And never a fork or knife;

And, after a game with a rusty pack,

The bo’sun’s whistle to pipe us back—

That’s the fortune fit for a king,

For Oh! I love common life!

1895

An Echo of Meleager

SCORN not my love, proud child. The summers wane.

Long ere the topmost mountain snows have gone

The Spring is fleeting; ’neath the April rain

For one brief day flowers laugh on Helicon.

The breeze that fans thy honeyed cheek this noon

To-morrow will be blasts that scourge the main,

And youth and joy and laughter fleet too soon.—

Scorn not my love, proud child. The summers wane.

To-day the rose blooms by the garden plot,

The swallows twitter ’neath the Parian dome;

But soon the roses fall and lie forgot,

And soon the swallows will be turning home.

Tempt not the arrows of the Cyprian’s eye,

Vex not the god that will not brook disdain;—

Love is the port to which the wise barks fly.

Scorn not my love, proud child. The summers wane.

1910

FOOTNOTES:

[1] The occasion of these verses requires a note. The union in 1900 of the Free Church of Scotland and the United Presbyterian Church led to the secession of certain congregations of the former, who called themselves the Free Church, and maintained that the union involved a departure from the principles of that church and a breach of the conditions under which certain properties were held. They brought an action to establish their right to these properties, as the sole remaining repository of Free Church principles. This action was decided against the claimants in the Scottish courts, but, on appeal, the House of Lords, under the guidance of Lord Halsbury (then Lord Chancellor), reversed the decision.

[2] Mr Henry Johnston, K.C., of the Scots Bar (afterwards Lord Johnston), led for the appellants.

[3] The leading counsel for the respondents was Mr R. B. Haldane (M.P. for East Lothian), afterwards Lord Chancellor of England.

[4] A famous Free Church divine of the old school.

[5] The Greek text has not been followed in the songs, as it would be hard to find equivalents for Lycidas and Simichidas in Lowland Scots. Jock’s song is a free paraphrase of Victor Hugo’s Guitare. How close that famous lyric is to the Theocritean manner will be admitted by those who remember Walter Headlam’s Greek version of it.

[6] The Lang Whang is the old Edinburgh-Lanark road.

[7] From “The Marquis of Montrose.”

[8] From “Prester John.”

[9] From “Salute to Adventurers.”

[10] From “A Lodge in the Wilderness.”

*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POEMS, SCOTS AND ENGLISH ***

Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will be renamed.

Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without permission and without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project Gutenberg™ electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG™ concept and trademark. Project Gutenberg is a registered trademark, and may not be used if you charge for an eBook, except by following the terms of the trademark license, including paying royalties for use of the Project Gutenberg trademark. If you do not charge anything for copies of this eBook, complying with the trademark license is very easy. You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose such as creation of derivative works, reports, performances and research. Project Gutenberg eBooks may be modified and printed and given away—you may do practically ANYTHING in the United States with eBooks not protected by U.S. copyright law. Redistribution is subject to the trademark license, especially commercial redistribution.

START: FULL LICENSE

THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG™ LICENSE

PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK

To protect the Project Gutenberg™ mission of promoting the free distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work (or any other work associated in any way with the phrase “Project Gutenberg”), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full Project Gutenberg License available with this file or online at www.gutenberg.org/license.

Section 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project Gutenberg electronic works

1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property (trademark/copyright) agreement. If you do not agree to abide by all the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or destroy all copies of Project Gutenberg electronic works in your possession. If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a Project Gutenberg electronic work and you do not agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the person or entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph 1.E.8.

1.B. “Project Gutenberg” is a registered trademark. It may only be used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement. There are a few things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg electronic works even without complying with the full terms of this agreement. See paragraph 1.C below. There are a lot of things you can do with Project Gutenberg electronic works if you follow the terms of this agreement and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg electronic works. See paragraph 1.E below.

1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation (“the Foundation” or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection of Project Gutenberg electronic works. Nearly all the individual works in the collection are in the public domain in the United States. If an individual work is unprotected by copyright law in the United States and you are located in the United States, we do not claim a right to prevent you from copying, distributing, performing, displaying or creating derivative works based on the work as long as all references to Project Gutenberg are removed. Of course, we hope that you will support the Project Gutenberg mission of promoting free access to electronic works by freely sharing Project Gutenberg works in compliance with the terms of this agreement for keeping the Project Gutenberg name associated with the work. You can easily comply with the terms of this agreement by keeping this work in the same format with its attached full Project Gutenberg License when you share it without charge with others.

1.D. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern what you can do with this work. Copyright laws in most countries are in a constant state of change. If you are outside the United States, check the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this agreement before downloading, copying, displaying, performing, distributing or creating derivative works based on this work or any other Project Gutenberg work. The Foundation makes no representations concerning the copyright status of any work in any country other than the United States.

1.E. Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg:

1.E.1. The following sentence, with active links to, or other immediate access to, the full Project Gutenberg License must appear prominently whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg work (any work on which the phrase “Project Gutenberg” appears, or with which the phrase “Project Gutenberg” is associated) is accessed, displayed, performed, viewed, copied or distributed:

This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg™ License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.

1.E.2. If an individual Project Gutenberg electronic work is derived from texts not protected by U.S. copyright law (does not contain a notice indicating that it is posted with permission of the copyright holder), the work can be copied and distributed to anyone in the United States without paying any fees or charges. If you are redistributing or providing access to a work with the phrase “Project Gutenberg” associated with or appearing on the work, you must comply either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 or obtain permission for the use of the work and the Project Gutenberg trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or 1.E.9.

1.E.3. If an individual Project Gutenberg electronic work is posted with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any additional terms imposed by the copyright holder. Additional terms will be linked to the Project Gutenberg License for all works posted with the permission of the copyright holder found at the beginning of this work.

1.E.4. Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg.

1.E.5. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project Gutenberg License.

1.E.6. You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary, compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including any word processing or hypertext form. However, if you provide access to or distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg work in a format other than “Plain Vanilla ASCII” or other format used in the official version posted on the official Project Gutenberg website (www.gutenberg.org), you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense to the user, provide a copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means of obtaining a copy upon request, of the work in its original “Plain Vanilla ASCII” or other form. Any alternate format must include the full Project Gutenberg License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1.

1.E.7. Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying, performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg works unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9.

1.E.8. You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing access to or distributing Project Gutenberg electronic works provided that:

- • You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from the use of Project Gutenberg works calculated using the method you already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is owed to the owner of the Project Gutenberg trademark, but he has agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation. Royalty payments must be paid within 60 days following each date on which you prepare (or are legally required to prepare) your periodic tax returns. Royalty payments should be clearly marked as such and sent to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the address specified in Section 4, “Information about donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation.”

- • You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg™ License. You must require such a user to return or destroy all copies of the works possessed in a physical medium and discontinue all use of and all access to other copies of Project Gutenberg™ works.

- • You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of any money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days of receipt of the work.

- • You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free distribution of Project Gutenberg™ works.

1.E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project Gutenberg™ electronic work or group of works on different terms than are set forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing from the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the manager of the Project Gutenberg™ trademark. Contact the Foundation as set forth in Section 3 below.

1.F.

1.F.1. Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread works not protected by U.S. copyright law in creating the Project Gutenberg™ collection. Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg™ electronic works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may contain “Defects,” such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate or corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other intellectual property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or other medium, a computer virus, or computer codes that damage or cannot be read by your equipment.

1.F.2. LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the “Right of Replacement or Refund” described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project Gutenberg™ trademark, and any other party distributing a Project Gutenberg™ electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal fees. YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH 1.F.3. YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH DAMAGE.

1.F.3. LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a written explanation to the person you received the work from. If you received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium with your written explanation. The person or entity that provided you with the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in lieu of a refund. If you received the work electronically, the person or entity providing it to you may choose to give you a second opportunity to receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund. If the second copy is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing without further opportunities to fix the problem.

1.F.4. Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you ‘AS-IS’, WITH NO OTHER WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TO WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTABILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE.

1.F.5. Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of damages. If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement violates the law of the state applicable to this agreement, the agreement shall be interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or limitation permitted by the applicable state law. The invalidity or unenforceability of any provision of this agreement shall not void the remaining provisions.

1.F.6. INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone providing copies of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works in accordance with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the production, promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works, harmless from all liability, costs and expenses, including legal fees, that arise directly or indirectly from any of the following which you do or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this or any Project Gutenberg work, (b) alteration, modification, or additions or deletions to any Project Gutenberg work, and (c) any Defect you cause.

Section 2. Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg

Project Gutenberg is synonymous with the free distribution of electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of computers including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers. It exists because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations from people in all walks of life.

Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the assistance they need are critical to reaching Project Gutenberg’s goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg collection will remain freely available for generations to come. In 2001, the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure and permanent future for Project Gutenberg and future generations. To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation and how your efforts and donations can help, see Sections 3 and 4 and the Foundation information page at www.gutenberg.org.

Section 3. Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation

The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non-profit 501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal Revenue Service. The Foundation’s EIN or federal tax identification number is 64-6221541. Contributions to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent permitted by U.S. federal laws and your state’s laws.

The Foundation’s business office is located at 41 Watchung Plaza #516, Montclair NJ 07042, USA, +1 (862) 621-9288. Email contact links and up to date contact information can be found at the Foundation’s website and official page at www.gutenberg.org/contact

Section 4. Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation

Project Gutenberg™ depends upon and cannot survive without widespread public support and donations to carry out its mission of increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be freely distributed in machine-readable form accessible by the widest array of equipment including outdated equipment. Many small donations ($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt status with the IRS.

The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United States. Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up with these requirements. We do not solicit donations in locations where we have not received written confirmation of compliance. To SEND DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any particular state visit www.gutenberg.org/donate.

While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who approach us with offers to donate.

International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from outside the United States. U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff.

Please check the Project Gutenberg web pages for current donation methods and addresses. Donations are accepted in a number of other ways including checks, online payments and credit card donations. To donate, please visit: www.gutenberg.org/donate.

Section 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg electronic works

Professor Michael S. Hart was the originator of the Project Gutenberg concept of a library of electronic works that could be freely shared with anyone. For forty years, he produced and distributed Project Gutenberg eBooks with only a loose network of volunteer support.

Project Gutenberg eBooks are often created from several printed editions, all of which are confirmed as not protected by copyright in the U.S. unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not necessarily keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition.

Most people start at our website which has the main PG search facility: www.gutenberg.org.

This website includes information about Project Gutenberg, including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks.

Table of Contents

POEMS SCOTS AND ENGLISH

CONTENTS

BOOK I SCOTS

Midian’s Evil Day

The Herd of Farawa

The Eternal Feminine

The South Countrie

The Shorter Catechism

THEOCRITUS IN SCOTS

The Kirn

The Fishers

INTER ARMA

Sweet Argos

On Leave

The Kirk Bell

Home Thoughts from Abroad

Fragment of an Ode

The Great Ones

Fisher Jamie

BOOK II ENGLISH

Fratri Dilectissimo

To Lionel Phillips

To Sir Reginald Talbot

From the Pentlands, Looking North and South

The Strong Man Armed

The Soldier of Fortune

The Singer

Processional

Avignon

The Gipsy’s Song to the Lady Cassilis

Wood Magic

The Song of the Sea Captain

Antiphilus of Byzantium

An Echo of Meleager

THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG™ LICENSE