by John Buchan
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 mom when a’ the lift was clear
And saft winds sighed,
Wi’ kilted coats I saw her wanderin’ near
The bimie’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
The 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 unused,
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 forebears, 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-fairin’ 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 fly tin’ 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 pule,
Was ever half as guid as Wattie’s yill.
Heaven send anither ‘ear that I gang back
To drink wi’honest folk at Haystounslack!
The Fishers
1916
‘Tis puirtith sooples heid and hand
And gars inventions fill the land;
And dreams come fast to folk that lie
Wi’ nocht at ween 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 curious 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 I 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 pule’s tail ay ont the smiddy,
Wi’ finest gut and sma’est flee,
For the air was clear and the water wee;
When sudden wi’ a roust and swish
I rase a maist enormous fish....
I struck and heuked the monster shure,
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 very 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 but 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 shure
Amang the threshes on the muir.
Then, Geordie lad, my een aye 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....
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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.”
Sweet Argos
1916
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 Zollem scaur,
Your lintwhite locks a’ fyled wi’ glaur,
And hungry — my word!
While Gairmans dae the best they daur
To send you 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, yestreen 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
At ween 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 mom 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’, baimies 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 stand o’joy
Gaed through my breist. A halflin’s ploy,
An auld wife’s tale, a baimies 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 mom 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 gaurs 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 Homie’s sel’.
It’s luve, my man, nae less and 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 bum’s pules,
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 haud 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 we’ll see the en’
That brings nae shame,
We’ll face’t, — for in that ‘oor we’ll ken
We’re hame, we’re hame.
On Leave
1916
&n
bsp; 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’ gas in my nose,
The colour o’ bluid in my ee,
And the bidden’ 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 werna hills,
But the same as 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,
