George Abel

I HIV snared my hinmost mawkin, I hae bagg'd my hinmost bird;

I will tramp nae mair the snaw, nor yet the green;

Shuir, afore the pheasants fatten, I'll be sleepin i' the yird,

For I saw the doctor shakin's heid the streen.

Ay, the keeper will be lauchin'-curse his knicker-bocker'd legs!-

An the laird 'll hae less sweerin' on his sowel;

The 'llbe peace amo' the heather, an the plantins, an the segs,

For the poacher's leavin man, an beast, an fowl.

Yet I'd like anither sizzon, for the hatchin' time was dry,

An the simmer's been a beauty a' the time;

The 'll be muckle bags for gamey, an aneuch for me forby-

Gin I only cud get stoot, I'd risk the crime.

But this bloomin' hoast is killin, an my spurtle shanks are sair,

Fegs! I never was sae tired upo' the hill;

It's my crawlin' i' the ditches, an my wand'rin' late an air',

His p]ayed Harry wi the life o Poacher Bill.

The parson, couthie body, he was here on Tyesday nicht,

An he telt me fat I am, an didna spare;

But he telt me o the huntin' lan's ayont the eagle's flicht:

Man, he even trysted me to meet him there!

Oh! I win'er if there's mercy to gie chaps like me a chance:

Oh! I win'er if it's trowth the parson said:

It wad gar my pulses canter, an my dacklin hert to dance,

War I shuir my black accoont his a' been peyed.

I hae tastit little mercy, for 'twas aye the saxty days;

But the Shirra winna hae the himnost wird:

If I only cud but lippen as I ocht, the Pilot says,

I'd get throu the swallin' river at the ford.

FAR across this wardle's hill-taps dae I cast my weary glance-

They hae kirsen'd it the Countrie o the Leal-

Whaur the aefauld an forfochen wichts will get anither chance,

Whaur there's nane to pit a sprag upo' their wheel.

I hae little i' my moggin as I clim' the hinmost brae,

Tho I tyauv'd upon my haudin late an air';

There was naething threeve but dockens-nether girse, nor neeps, nor strae-

But I'm howpin' I'll dee better up the Stair.

We haed twice the wicket pleura, an we'd aince the fit-an-mou,

We haed braxy, there was fivver 'mong the kine;

But the warst o a' misfortunes-I can hardly telt to you-

Fin the wife begood to dwine i' the decline.

Oh! it's little hae I made o it, an little I'm thocht o,

An at me the foggit billies glower askance;

This is no a chummy warld for him whause boatie disna row,

But there's Ane sticks close wha'll gie anither chance.

Shuir ayont the muckle mountains that dae mairch the countries twa,

There are haudins whaur the tack 'll ne'er rin oot,

Whaur a' thrives to eident wirkers, an there's naething crines ava,

Whaur the sizzons bring nae duil, nor dreed, nor dout.

I'll forgaither wi aul' cronies, an wi missin' wife an weans,

An oor hoose 'll be whaur God pinned aff the stance;

There we'll sing "The Lord's my Shepherd," an we'll ken syne fat it means,

I' the Lan' whaur leal an trauchlet get their chance.

GOD gied my man an me a bairn,

But only ane;

A strappin lass was Annie Nairn,

Her marrow nane.

Her face was fair as simmer's broo

At mornin tide,

Her hert was pure as fa'in' dew

On mountain side.

An ithers saw her winnin wirth,

Swains swarmed like bees,

An some o them o gentle birth,

Wi pedigrees.

But Daith, the suitor, wan the day,

Tho hard she struve;

He got her haun, tho she said nay,

But nae her luve.

Yet Annie wisna lang his bride;

She chait the banns,

An sailed awa on early tide

To ither lan's,

Whaur dowie Daith daur ne'er set fit

An his nae say,

Whaur lovin' herts need never flit

Throu' en'less day.

An there my Annie waits for me,

An a' that murn;

Sue we'll forgaither whaur we'll be

A couthie curn.

I'M gled I am a fairmer's dug,

An nae a shepherd's yelp;

It's better grub, an langer rists,

An seldomer a skelp.

My dish is full't three times a day

Wi fat's gyaun but an ben,

An files a moufu', o the sly,

I pilk fae cat an hen.

They bed my cooch wi aiten strae,

Far I can drowse an sleep;

They dinna mak me fob wi wark

Sin they gied up the sheep.

The baillie loon, that widdiefu',

Files sets me at the kye;

The maister scauls, exceptin' fin

The gager leuks in-by.

It's something aboot leeshinsin'

That gars him cheenge his tune;

He disna pey for me gin I'm

A haun as weel's the loon.

O coorse, I dee some watchin', tee,

An fleg the gangrel clan,

An at an unco fit at nicht

I raise a gey ran-dan.

I dee mair barkin' files, I dout,

Than ony o them like;

They widna hae me min' the meen

Nor conter Hilly's tyke!

But fin the maiden wints her lad,

'At bides ayont oor rigs,

I ken richt weel to bark my best

As we gyang by his digs.

Gin he comes oot, an doon the road,

I'm seer to get a clap;

I'm nae blackguairded for my din,

But hae a brandy snap.

There's ae thing 'at I canna thole,

An that's to hird the craws-

To scamper ower the tatie-grun

Aneth their lood guffas.

I like to gyang wi plooman Tam,

Sae roch an richt an droll,

An guaird his jaiket o the fleed,

Aside a rabbit's hole.

I like fin there's a ruck taen in

To full the barn laft,

An I can crack the rottans' backs

Afore they bite my chaft.

An mony ither ploys, awat,

Are fairly to my taste;

It's braw to be a fairmer's dug,

His billet's 'boot the best.

But, och, I'm nae sae soople noo

To rin a mile or twa,

I'm hirplin like my mither did

Afore she gaed awa.

I kenna far she gaed, ava,

Nor far they will pit me,

But I wid be a fairmer's dug

Farever I mey be.

THE lease is deen, an sae am I,

The three nineteens hiv galloped by;

I haed the tack fin young an spry,

But waes me noo!

I've seen fower lairds in fifety year-

They dinna laist as factors weer-

An they maun gyang an leave their gear

Jist like the lave.

Fin I cam here 'twis but a scaup,

Its awcres widna keept a whaup;

I fairly haed a scrimpy caup

Fin I begood.

I tapdressed weel afore the pioo,

An keepit stas an midden foo,

I giddered wides, an oot I blew

The heathen steens.

I drained it far the beasties laired,

Cleaned oot the stripes yaird efter yaird,

The dikes an pailin's I repaired,

An made them trig.

I reeve in fae the hedder muir,

An I haed darger chiels galore,

An added awcres near a score

Ontill the ferm.

An sae for forty year an 'mair

I haed the bouns for twa gweed pair,

Forby a shall to tak its share

At orra wark.

I ken ilk rig upo' the place;

They're dearer that I cheenged their face,

An set them growin neeps an gress

Wi a' their micht.

But I maun leave the haudin noo,

The wecht o years is garrin's boo,

An win' an limb are ower far throu

For ane in chairge.

The mistress, tee, haes sair come doon;

The mony jots 'boot hoose an toon

Are nae for ane wi sic a croon

O fitened thack.

She cam wi me fin I cam here,

An weel she's hauden in the gear;

"The better horse is the grey mear,"

The neebors said.

She mibbie is; I winna say:

But baith hiv hid oor turn an day;

Thegither doon the road we'll gae,

Leal, lovin' herts.

We've taen a craft wi ae coo's maet-

It's handy that it wis to let-

For file we're kneef an at the gate

We need some ploy.

I'm gled it's near the Hoose o Gweed,

For Jean an me hiv aye gien heed

To mair than a bit daily breid

That disna laist.

We'll manage to creep up the road,

An hear the Wird, an meet wi God,

An pit oor offerin's i' the brod,

Thanks till His name.

We'll aften think upo' the ferm,

But mair aboot the hinmost term,

Tho nae, I howp, to dee us hairm,

An hinmost flit.

I'M back to Starnyfinnan efter fifety years awa,

An hardly meet a livin' sowel wi wham I eesed to jaw;

I fin' mysel an ootlin i' the pairis' that wis hame;

I coontit upo' cheenges here, but naething noo's the same.

The hoosies o the clachan 'at I left in claes o thack,

They're spick an span wi cans an sclaits upo' their heid an back;

Nae dout, it's richt an up to date; but, man, I miss the breem,

An this is nae the clachan o my hamesick, nichtly dream.

The kirks are nae the same to me; the ministers are new;

I dinna see sae mony fowk on Sawbath i' the pew;

The dominie is nae like fat I haed fin at the skweel;

The doctor 's unco wice-like, but I dinna ken the chiel.

I miss the canny joggin' o the days fin I wis here,

Fin we wid tak a file to sneeze, an rade on Shanks's mear;

But a'thing noo's like lichtnin', wi their cars, an bikes, an 'phones;

They daur misca' oor forbeers for a lot o lazy drones.

I miss the muckle thochts an howps o whilk we aften spak,

The gweed an bonny custom, tee, o Robbie's cottar folk;

The youngsters noo they rowle the reest, their moos they winna sneck,

Their paarents get their cheek an tongue, but dinna get respeck.

I miss the pains' dafties-an o them we haed a fyow;

There's Sandy wi a pooch o stanes to tak him throu a row;

There's Meg upo' her daily roons wi hauf a dizzen dogs,

An Davie at a preachin' bout, an Jock in weemen's togs.

We leuch at them, we grat for them, they made us gled an wae;

But gin I binna sair mistaen, they've wicer heids the day;

An gin we dinna men' oor wyes, an up an fecht the deil,

We'll see, when ilk comes till his ain, fa' wis the biggest feel.

Ye bid me stop my chirmin, for ye say that it's ill-faured;

But, min' ye, I'm an ootlin here excep' i' the kirkyaird,

An cronies there, they winna speak as i' the days o aul'-

My cert! they're seelent billies that are lyin i' that faul'.

I thocht to pack my pyockies, an gae back across the sea,

But Nance, my faithfu pairtner, haes refeesed to gyang wi me;

Ah weel, I'll hae a freen an chum fin she's abeen the sod,

An I'll get back the ither anes when comes the ca' o God.

O THE sea is aul' an grey,

For she's seen an auncient day;

An I ken I'm aul' an deen,

Sae I greet her as a freen.

O the sea is young an new,

Like a mornin sky o blue,

An she woos the bairnie ban'

Wi her glist'nin' shalls an san'.

O the sea's a muckle hert,

For she welcomes dull an smert-

Baith the ragget fae slumlan',

An the gentry spick an span.

Ay, she broons the cheeks o wealth

Wi the tan o lusty health,

An her tonic to the peer

Isna scrimp, an isna dear.

She's her humours like the lave,

Sometimes gay, an sometimes grave,

Noo a cuddle, noo a cloot,

Lauchin', froonin', time aboot.

She's her shallas an her deeps,

She's her valleys an her steeps,

An fae them she gets at me,

For I hiv the same as she.

I hae h'ard her mony years,

Files in frolic, files wi tears;

Noo I'm near my hinmost sleep,

Cranin' maist for voices deep.

Noo I'm neth the evenin' star,

Heark'nin' for the souns fae far,

Deen wi shallas an the near;

Deep an distant I maun hear.

Sirs, the ocean speaks to me

O the things that never dee,

Waukens echoes o a creed

That is nae o flesh an bleed,

Sings o hames, in mony tunes,

Farrer than her farrest boun's,

Farrer than the farrest blue,

Farrer than the birds e'er flew.

It's the tryst o Him, I deem,

Wha fulfils the swalla's dream,

Wha will ne'er brak faith wi me,

An Whause ocean daurna lee.

WE kent the doctor's biggin weel,

Doon at the turnpike crook;

An aften as I gaed to skweel,

A message there I teuk.

"An, laddie, try an see himsel,"

The neebors yelled to me;

"Min', gin ye dinna ring the bell,

Nae doctor we mey see."

For Jinse, 'at keepit hoose, wis aul',

Haed dottlin' been for lang,

Foryet fat she wis clairly taul',

An sent the doctor vrang.

She pat him to the mullert's wife,

Insteed o Gowpenwell,

A pooshan'd laddie lost the life,

'Cause Jinse foryet to tell.

The doctor wisna sweer to road,

Tho sleepin deid wi fag;

He seen wis up, an cled, an shod,

An stridelins on his nag.

In lambin' time, at midnicht 'oor,

The shepherd h'ard the trot;

The poachers h'ard it fae the muir,

But didna care a jot.

In saidle aft, an syne in gig,

At beck o great an sma',

An never war his chairges big,

An files nae chairge ava.

He'd spen' a nicht in some peer hoose,

An never get a bite,

Excep' fae social flech or lowse,

Wha peetied 's weary wyte.

His skeel was trusted but an ben,

Wi fivver, hoast, an drow,

An fin he cudna guess or ken,

He kent to shut his mou.

To tell their sairs aul' wifes laid wait,

Hallo'd him at a mile;

The bairnies shammed jist for to get

His penny an his smile.

Folk sent for him tho nae oonweel;

He kent fine fat to dee;

He gied to them a breid-made peel,

An coloured-watter bree.

He kent lang seen fat noo is clair-

For he was i' the van-

That lovin' faith 'll aft dee mair

Than pheesic jibbles can.

An sae for forty years an three

He helpit ane an a':

We gat him near the sheilin' tree

Smored in a wraith o sna.

The shepherd taul' him nae to come

Afore 'twas mornin licht,

That there war wraiths as heich's the lum,

An roads war oot o sicht.

But Jean was a' the shepherd haed,

His love an pridefu' care;

The doctor cudna rist in bed

Fin life hung by a hair.

He faced the mirk nicht's fearsome moan,

An leggit up the steep;

But foonert, an the drowse cam on,

An seen his hinmost sleep.

We brak' the news to little Jean,

Her een grew weet an dim;

"He canna gyang to Heeven his leen,

An I maun eftir him."

The shepherd an his sabbin wife

Loot's pit them in ae grave-

The man that blithely gied his life,

The lass he tried to save.

We buried them in frost an sna,

Oor dirge the soughin' win',

But saw them meetin' far awa,

Their tribbles left ahin'.

For him nae mair the midnicht ring,

An fechts wi mortal waes;

For her nae mair shud winter bring

The croup an waesome days.

The Lan' o bonny health they reach,

For which my hert sair pines,

Far parsons never need to preach,

Nor doctors vreet oot lines.

THE skweel steed by the wimplin Don,

In sicht o Benachie,

An there the howpfu' mither's son

Gat lear, an smeddum, tee.

The Dominie I'll ne'er forget

As lang's my mem'ry bides,

His pictur' in my hert is set,

Unblurred by times an tides.

His quizzin' een ahin' the specks,

His croon o toozlet hair,

His sonsy cheeks like bulgin' secks,

A chin twa-faul an mair.

But kibble he on hills an dales,

On fleer, on stour, or mud;

his heid weel first, the swalla'-tails

Gaed efter as they cud.

Oor Domsie never teuk a wife,

Aul' Bet o hoose haed care;

Wi her he haed aneuch o strife

He widna risk nae mair.

We kent fin there haed been a strush,

The tag was to the fore;

Wi mair than ane he haed a brush,

The thrashin's war galore.

But dear to me that lang, lang syne,

In spite o tag an dunt;

'twas then I gat the best that's mine

For time, an far ayont.

I leernt to coont, an vreet, an read,

Gat map an gremmar dreel,

Cud tell fan kings haed lived an dee'd,

An Latin verbs aff-reel.

But best o a', I leernt the Beuk

That lifts the human lot;

Haed catechis sax times an ouk-

As aft's the pottage pot.

The Maister ever did his pairt

To teach the wyes o Gweed,

An that a clean an lovin' hert

Was mair than brainy heid.

An fat he bade's he wis himsel,

Nae pick o hate nor spite;

Fin throu' the reek we got oor kail,

'twas a' Aul' Betty's wyte.

Fin we gaed oot the warl' to try,

At poopit, shop, or pleuch,

There aye was on's the Maister's ee,

An that was seer aneuch.

Whan we wan hame to see oor folks,

To Domsie's we gaed ower,

An got a sneeshin fae his box,

A kin'ly wird an glower.

But, oh thae days are far ahin's,

An Domsie's sleepin soon',

An near him aye the river rins,

An Benachie leuks doon.

The Maister haed a fun'ral braw;

A kist o aik wi bress,

O kerridges a hauf-mile raw,

Ilk chiel in Sawbath dress.

We thocht that he was wirth't an mair,

For years o lawbor spent;

I'll vooch they thocht sae up the Stair,

Far wirth is better kent.

Ay, gin there be a farrer lan',

Far fowk come to their ain,

Far honest wark we here began,

We'll there begin again;

Gin there is still in front a task,

Mair things we need to ken,

Oor Domsie will be at the dask,

For he was aye far ben.

An I will tak a raith, or mair,

An hear him ca' my name,

An he will mak the drumly clair,

An Heeven 'll be like hame.

FIN days are short, an nichts are lang,

An country billies furth maun gyang,

It's blithe to see ye hale an strang,

O freenly meen!

The streen I haed to cross the muir,

The road was roch, an late the oor,

I'd fa'en an peeled my shins for shuir

But for yer licht.

They say that ye are nae sae far

As starns an planets maistly are;

They brag they'll leuk ye up by car;

But I hae doots.

Ye're near aneuch to far we bide,

Ye're near aneuch to rowle the tide,

An rax the day ower kwintra side

In hervest time.

They speer if there are fowk abeen?

The glaiket breets, gin they haed een,

They'd see the Mannie o the Meen,

An haud their tongues.

There's never on yer face a snarl,

Altho ye hae to trail that carl

Aroon an roon' the muckle wan',

Year in an oot.

But files, I dout, ye greet, my queen;

'mang mairriet folk ye're nae yer leen;

An fat's that broch aroon yer sheen

But sautie tears?

An aften efter ye hae grat,

The lift in sympathy growes wat,

An doon there comes on kwite an hat

The bickerin' rain.

Some sweer that widder's i' yer pouer,

That fin for ouks we've haed a stour,

A cheenge o meen 'll gart gae ower;

But ithers lauch.

An sae the argie-bargies rin;

Tho quaet yersel', ye roose some din,

An fader will fa' oot wi sin,

On your accoont.

But never min'; haud on yer wye;

Ye've mony freens aneth the sky;

Keep at yer job till a' sail lie

Amo' the muils.

The day 'll come fin ye'll get rist,

Fin a'thing here haes turned to dist;

The Hame o Life ayon the mist

Needs nae yer licht.

I wis sittin on the dresser as the gloam began to fa',

An wis glow'rin' at the peats upo' the fire,

Nae a cratur but nor ben, excep' the rottans i' the waa,

For the men were oot, the weemen at the byre.

But as seer's my name is Tamson, there was speakin' i' the hoose,

An the nyatter'd wirds were near me, I could vooch,

Sae I cocked my lugs fou glegly, file I sat as quaet's a moose,

Till I track'd the argie-bargie to my pooch.

Then I thocht what could be there ava to keep up sic a jaw,

An I clawed my lyart haffets, strok'd my nob,

An this was fat I made o it, as seer 's a craw's a craw'-

There was naething but a bawbee an a bob.

Said the shillin', hiech an michty-like, "How daur ye chum wi me?

Jist an ill-faur't, broun-faced sharger ca'd a maik,

I am wirth twa dizzen coppers o yer name an low degree,

It's lang time the Mint haed gien ye a' the saick."

But the bawbee wisna seelence'd, nor wad tak it lyin doon-

"There is nether o's a giant, sae methinks,

An altho it hurts your lordly een, I maun allou I'm broun,

But it betters the fite-iron sheen o tinks.

"Och, I weel ken fa' they ca' me i' the orra vulgar mob,

'At 'll hardly gie a dacent coin his due,

But there's twa things ye will min' on-that they've kirsen'd you a bob,

An I'm aftener i' the kirk, I'll sweer, than you."

But I h'ard nae mair for lauchin', for I leuch like ane gane gyte,

Ay, I leuch throu a' the forenicht, an the mirk;

I've been lauchin' aff an on sin seen whene'er I min' the bite

At the Scottie wi his bawbee i' the kirk.

THEY planned it at the market, far they baith were buyin' kye,

Wi a sample o the barley i' their kwite,

That Backie till his meal an ale wad tak a step ower by,

An like neebors hae a hamely sup an bite.

"But min'," said Mains, "the ploitery roads, an that the meen's awa;

Ye'll be seer to fesh a lantern i' your hand;

Your een are no sae clever as when we were laddies twa,

Gin ye snapper at the briggie ye'll be pranned."

Sae Backie teuk his lantern-fin the wife haed made him snod-

An got throu' the clorty feedles wintin' hairm,

He sowfed himsel across the brig, an up the Tinklers' Road,

Then he lap the stile 'at stan's forenent the ferm.

The nicht gaed by like winkin'-Och, I min' the splorey weel-

But the fermers didna fash the kitchie lang;

They slippet ben the hoose, far ale was rifer than the meal,

An they blebbet there till baith their heids were wrang.

'twas twal fin Backie startit for his biggin yont the burn,

But he feared na fire nor watter, man nor deil,

Lat him only get his lantern 'at haed deen sae weel its turn,

An he'd cairry Mains's ale as easy's meal.

He ne'er gied a' the rinnins o the hameward tramp that nicht,

But he thocht he beddit's lantern at the stack:

He swore 'twas byous wechty, an maist awfu scrimp o licht,

An whene'er he spak he aye got answer back.

His mistress telt me, froonin', o the proticks o her man,

An that Mains sent ower a letter in a rage;

"Dear sir,-Herewith's your lantern 'at ye left upo' my haun,

You will please return my parrot an my cage."

O DINNA think it wrang to lauch,

To see the fun o things,

For mirth, it is a medicine

To peer fowk an to kings.

They say that far abeen the lift

The fires o humour play,

That God Himsel raxed doon some quiles

To cheer oor mortal day.

I hear the thunner's lood guffa,

That gars the rafters dirl,

I watch the aul' wind's idelty,

When oot upo the birl.

The wee roy't kittlins on the hearth,

The lammies on the lea,

The doggies at their tackie games,

The monkeys on the tree-

Far can the craturs get it a'?

Heeven's aumrie gies 't, I think:

War we but gleg I'm shuir we'd see

The vera wirmies wink.

But fawvour't man haes mair than a'

O humour in his ee;

The beists, they get a gowpenfu';

An oxterfu' haes he.

He needs it, for there's mony whisks

An scaums abeen the sod;

He needs it, as the tourin' lum

Maun hae its lichtnin'-rod.

There's mony freenships wid be smash't,

An mony joys tak wings,

But for the licht by which we see

The fun o fowk an things.

Sae we will gie oor thanks an eke,

For sel's an for the race,

An pray that Gweed sen' doon galore

Kind humour's savin' grace.

THEY say he leuch fin he was born-

The doctor gat a scare;

His face was fite as frostit corn

As he cam doon the stair.

He'd never haed a case like that,

Nor read o't in his beuk;

An knacky he pat on his hat,

An nippet roon' the neuk.

Sae Will begood wi lauchs an craws,

He widna sleep nor drowse;

The cradle rockit till's guffaws-

They didna think it mowse.

Fin Willie gaed to skweel at five,

A' trig wi kaim an soap,

He cheeng't it fae an eident hive

Intil a snick'rin' shop.

The maister frooned an feemed; but na,

He cudna stop the souch,

He lun'ert Will, the deed o a',

But Willie only leuch.

His fader teuk him hame to wirk

Fan skweelin' days war by,

An sae there cam a mirky birk

Amo' the milkin' kye.

The crummies sheuk their horny heids-

They cudna mak him oot;

An never cud they chaw their queeds

Fin Willie wis aboot.

His lauchin set the cocks to craw,

The hens to flap the wing,

The bubbly habbert oot his jaw,

The pigs danced jingo-ring.

Fin Willie cam to haud the pleuch,

A beard fae lug to lug,

'twas aye the mair that Willie leuch,

The mair the mears wid rug.

I've h'ard that Willie socht a quine,

But that she gied him nay,

An that a lauch, wi ne'er a whine,

Wis a' he hid to say.

Gin ever Willie ferms the toon,

An sits his fader's sate,

Fatever be his up or doon,

He'll keep his lauch, I beet.

An fin the nicht comes ower the hill,

The nicht we a' maun meet,

He winna lauch-gweed, honest Bill-

Bit, fegs! he winna greet.

ALMICHTY KING, my fader's God,

Hoo can I leuk Thee in the face?

Yet aye I've lippened to Thy grace,

An will dee file abeen the sod.

Anither day haes steek't its ee:

Forfochen wi its moil an dist,

I pray for peacefu' oors o rist,

An cowerin sleep, a' gifts fae Thee.

For scores o mercies tak my praise,

For micht to gyang my eeswal roons,

An haud my ain wi market loons,

For hame an freens, for breid an claes.

But maist for Him 'at cam fae far,

An 'gainst the deevil teuk oor side-

The Son o Man 'at cam to bide,

An help us throu' the sowl's teuch war.

Forgie my sins, mistaks I've made,

Forgie a fairmer's wattery faith,

For aye I'm dreedin' wraith an sraith;

They say compleenin' is my trade.

Hae mercy, Lord, gin I've been near:

I think I hiv' been feckly straucht,

But on my breest there sits a waucht

For sellin' faut-free yon grey mear.

There's been ower mony market drams,

My warldliness maun Thee provoke,

For oh! my hert's aye i' the yoke,

My thochts ower aft atween the trams.

The sins 'at I've forgot forgie,

An hap them wi Thy mercy's haun;

The Lord remembers mair than man,

He's better at forgettin', tee.

Lord, keep me ever on the squaar,

Mey kin'ly wirds an deeds be rife,

An leern me that there's mair in life

Than neeps an strae, than kye an car.

A maister fair I'd like to be,

An widna scaul fin I sid reeze,

Nor fat's in rizzon e'er refeese,

For mair than that Thoo's been to me.

I pray that a' aboot this hame,

Espeeshially my flesh an bleed,

Mey never see in me but gweed,

Nor ever blush to hear my name.

Oh! mey my laddies dee their pairt;

Lord, hird them fae the wyes o ill,

An gie to Jock as strang a will

As Thoo hast gien a ten'er hert.

My dothers, Rosie, Jean, an Liz-

I thank Thee for the bonny bairns-

Lord, guaird them fae the deevil's girns,

Lat them growe as their mither is.

Fatever sin'rins lie in front,

Fatever be oor up an doon,

Lord, guide us to the Gowden Toon,

Far we'll forget ilk scaud an dunt.

FIN I gaed to the kirk wi Nan,

The fowk did gape an leuk,

But neen o them heeld oot a haun,

Nor offered seal nor beuk.

My wifie's bunnet catched their e'en,

They scanced her weel-made goon,

They glowered at me fae heid to sheen,

An back fae breeks to croon.

Twa el'er billies weel cud see

Fat we pat i' the brod;

Ane winket wi his buzness ee,

The tither gied a nod.

We mibbie forket oot o bress

Mair than we cud afford;

As ither sants 'll aye gie less,

To pruve they loe the Lord.

But neen to his did speak a wird,

We only got a grunt

Fin Nannie gied a chiel a dird,

An bade him hurschle yont.

As little haed the feck I saw

To say to God Himsel;

They sat like divots in a raw,

Ooncarin heeven or hell.

An sae the wife an me cam oot

Wi dowie herts an caul,

An fegs, we baith did mair than dout

If yon's oor Shepherd's faul.

Tf britherheed is ony wye,

An love that barms an wirks,

If there are welcomes neth the sky-

They shud be i' the kirks.

O sirs, ye'll gie the Lord a chance,

His Hoose a better name,

An dinna leuk at fowk askance,

But gar them fin' at hame.

HE played the pipes in Aiherdeen

Fin I wis a bit loon,

An pipes an temper, weel-a-wat,

War aften oot o tune.

His fawvorite springs war "Monymus',"

"The Braes o Tullimet,"

He'd mairch to "Aden's Barren Rocks"

Till reamin ower wi sweat.

He kent far there war Hielin' herts

'At beat wi Celtic throb,

An seer they gat their weekly skirl,

An files he gat a bob.

But Donal's tribble wis the bairns

Wha wid play on him rigs,

They mocket him, they cloddet him,

An pat him intae tigs.

Finever Donal' haed the chance

He tried to squaar the score,

An kicks, an sclafferts i' the lug,

War missoured oot galore.

A cripple quinie fae the slums,

Wha never did him hairm,

Cam hirplin in aboot ower near;

He strak, an brak' her airm.

The Shirra's fine wis easy peyed,

The siller wisna missed;

But or the piper left the coort

A mou haed to be kissed.

The lassie he haed mauled wis there,

Her gairdy in a sling,

Heeld up her greetin face to him,

An widna lat him ging.

He swithered till the sautie tears

Did on her weet cheeks fa',

He kissed her, an the hate o years

Wis fairly washt awa.

I saw him aften efterhin,

But aye amo' the slums,

An roon' him wis a wheen o weans-

His billies an his chums.

He played nae mair in swagger streets

Far purse an wallet thruve,

But gied his best to ragget fowk,

For antrin maiks an luve.

I'm thinkin fin he gyangs alaft,

An herpers need a rist,

The angels 'll gar Donal' tak

His pipes oot o the kist.

I AINCE wis at a gidderin' o the cracksmen o oor toon,

Fin a' the Sikes's sheuk their craps wi ugly sweer an froun:

I kenna hoo they loot me far they feart a bobbies' raid,

Oonless it wis they teuk me for a brither i' the trade.

The meetin' didna start wi prayer, not yet the Hunnert Psalm,

But ilk brocht oot a cutter stoot in case o nerves, or dwalm;

Belyve a muckle burglar muved himsel into the cheer,

An tecklet an oration to his pals an brethren dear.

"Oors is an occipation, freens, the kwintra disna like,

They hunt us as the gamey ferrets rabbits i' the dyke,

But, by my trusty jemmy, I will pruve that they are vrang,

An that there sud be mair regaird for Wullie Sikes's gyang.

"Gin they wid think hoo mony chaps we gie a peyin' job,

They widna ca's a pilkin' crew 'at sorns on them they rob:

Fat wid come o the bobbies, an the consequential beaks?

The warders o the jilin' shops, the 'tecs, an ither sneaks?

"Fat, bit for his, wid chaplains dee, an Black Maria vrichts?

The papers wi their fleggin strouds to gie their readers frichts?

The lawyers an the locksmiths, ay, an ithers i' my heid?

A mengyie o them's hingin on's for bed an daily breid.

"There's toffs that yarn in Parliament-altho they dinna care-

They ban the boys that hiv the swag, an creesh the millionaire,

But fat's the taxes they pit on to mak the balance richt?

Let them gie his a freer haun, we'll dee mair in a nicht.

"An nae a brag aboot it a', nor rinnin to the Press

To adverteese oor modest sel's, an win the toun's caress:

We dinna coort the public ee, nor care for fame a dite,

Fin we are hauled into the licht it's a' the coppers' wite.

"I tell ye we're an ill-ess'd lot, an hiv to dee oor wark

I' maugre o their bolts an bars, an maistly i' the dark:

Nae ither buzness men wid stan't; I'll sweer they wid brak doon

In facin' the diffeeculties we hae in ilky toon.

"We canna leern oor bairnies hoo in wisdom's wyes to keep,

They're wauken't fin we're snoozin', an we're wirkin' fin they sleep,

The wifes are sair negleckit 'cause oor 'oors are late an air,

They'll aften gyang unthrashen for a fortnicht's time an mair."

But noo a reemis at the door fair strak the speaker dumb;

An some gaed throu' the winda, an a puckle up the lum:

I think I see him stannin' yet whause gassin' cheers haed won,

Ablessin' at the bobbies as they pat the darbies on.

I KENT him as a laddie, an I kent him as a man-

He was fairly wirth the kennin a' his days-

He haedna muckle siller, an he haedna ony lan',

An he wisna cled in gran' or skyrie claes.

But Benjie haed a moggin that was stockit fae abeen,

He haed toggery fae the wardrobe o the King,

A packit hert o gowden loves, a sowel weel dress't an clean,

An a conscience clangin' oot its honest ring.

But aye there is a something that is seer to crook the lot,

An to clood the morn's mornin wi a dreed,

An Benjie's lowrin' tribble wis a common ane, I wot;

It was fear o bein in wint for hoose an breed.

His waages war but meagre-he wis jist the tanner's clerk-

An the buz'ness cudna stan' a leebral fee,

But gin the pey was scrimpy, syne there wisna muckle wark,

Tho aneuch, I dout, for sober Ben to dee.

For mither, brithers, sisters he provided boord an bed,

An for a' he did his leal an lovin' best,

Till brithers cam to manheed, an the lassies a' got wed,

An his mither dwined awa intil her rest.

His biggin noo was lanely baith at mornin an at nicht,

An in kitchie an in parlour was a blank,

An a' thing gaed agley wi Ben, an naething noo gaed richt,

Tho he pat a puckly notes into the bank.

He seen grew little boukit, an fowk said he was a wrack,

Yet he warstled throu' the lang day's weary roon',

But ae nicht cam the notice that the tanner haed to brak',

That the place wid be immedantly shut doon.

Peer Ben was fair dumfoonert, an his e'en war weet an scaired,

For he cudna lang keep hoose an pey the rint;

He widna get anither crib, sae dwebble an grey-haired,

There was naething for't but beggary an wint.

His noties noo grew fyower, an his stoons war growin mair,

He was dooblet wi the wecht o duil an pain,

Till sair against the grain he socht the doctor's skeely care,

An was telt that he wid ne'er be weel again.

His beater was a waster, an a growth was at its wiles,

An the en' was near an wisna ouks awa;

The doctor said it sadly, but Ben h'ard it a' wi smiles-

It was a' he cud to thrapple a guffa.

They win'ert at his crooseness an at Benjie's fusslin face,

But the rizzon o it a' to me was kent;

His burden haed been liftit, he was near the bonny place

Far there arena ony dreeds nor nane in wint.

HE cam in fae the stable wi a face wad yirned milk,

An he didna gie the doggie his bit piece,

An he clauchtit at my shoother wi a haun that wisna silk,

Syne he, grainin', clytit doon upo' the deece.

"It's come at last, my wumman, an the maister's gien's the bag-

He cud hardly get it oot for 'Hum' an 'Ha';

'The horse is to be saul,' he said; they're nae to keep ae nag,

An in futur' they'll be motorin' for a'.

"I thocht I micht be keepit, for the laird's an aul'ish carl,

An the remnant o the road can no be lang;

The horse is seerly fest aneuch to tak him throu' the warl',

Ay, for a' the puckly miles he haes to gyang.

"But na, the donnert body, he maun jist be like the rest-

The Bible says that fashion is a snare-

He's been proddit, I cud sweer, by the leddy to invest.

Ach! the weemen's been a bucker evermair.

"As sure's my name is Lammie, I can hardly lat it licht

That the roans are gyaun to tramp the roupin' ring,

The coach-hoose to be lockit, the kerridge oot o sicht,

For a bloomin', bummin', tootin' motor thing.

"They say I shud hae lairnt mysel to dee the chafer's job;

They forget the scores o towmonds on my croon:

Nor wid I lat the stang atween the knees that gripped a cob,

Na, nor foorich wi the levers like a cloon.

"Aweel, we canna help it; but I'm clair it's a comedoon,

An the cheenge fae horse an kerridge gars me irk,

A foumart o a motor gyangin' fuddrin' to the toon,

To the station, to the cooncil, an the kirk!

"Yet, aiblins, it's ordeenit that the horse gae to the waa,

An that coachmen chiels be pitten i' the neuk;

But Heeven's spashious steadin' will maist seerly hae a sta',

For I've read as much in Scripturs hin'most beuk.

"I dout I wis ower suddent wi the maister i' my heat,

An I tongued him till the cratur turned his back;

But I will tak his pension, an beg pardon to the beet,

For withoot it, Jean, we winna hae a plack."

Wi that he teuk his pottage, an a leebral dish o tay,

Syne he vrat a bonny letter to the laird;

He never speaks o motors, tho he sees them ilky day,

An the pension will gae wi's to the kirkyaird.

I'M naething but a tinkler, but I dinna care a hang,

I'll souder wi the best o them, an lick the hale jingbang,

I'll cowp a horse, I'll drink the gree fae evenin' until morn,

I'll tell a lee an haud my face, wi ony mortal born.

It's nae sic times for tinklers as fin I wis a bit loon,

Och! than it wis we'd scouth an routh ower a' the kwintra roon';

I'm up against the fermers, an I'm bannin' a' the lairds;

A plague upo' the fowk that's sae fell hard upo' the cairds.

Fin I set oot wi cairt an kit, the belts an roadside wids

War apen to the tinklers, an their tents, an wifes, an kids,

But noo they're fairly pailin't up wi wicket weer that prods,

An guairdet wi the ugly face o daur-ye-camp-here brods.

I win'er foo the tinkler is caul-shouthered nooadays;

He isna sic a thief as some that weer far better claes,

An tho he files mey hae the scab, he's clean in ither wyes-

There arena ony bastards i' the tent far tinkler lies.

Ye seerly ken that gangrel bleed rins reed in ilky vein,

That we maun rove the kwintra side in sunshine an in rain;

Tho ye mey cage the eagle, an the lion, an baboon,

Ye winna crib us in a hoose, nor tether's till a toon.

They speak o eddication noo for dother an for sin,

An fin we see the offisher, it gars us pack an rin;

But we hae a' the leernin' 'at we need, or can afoord-

Aneuch to read the road-post, an the cursed plantin board.

O, brither man, hae mercy on 's, tho sair against the grain,

O, dinna brak' the tinkler's hert, that's unco like yer ain,

An gie's a stance far we will hae the sun, an win', an sna,

An mibbie ye'lI be nane the waur wi Him 'at loe's us a'.

AUL' Chairlie Darwin-lang aneth the sod-

Says man an beast thegither teuk the road,

But sin'ert, for the human cudna wait,

Sae brak' awa an proodly gaed his gate.

But aye there is a sibness 'tween the twa,

That ilk maks oot sae far the ither's jaw;

An sae it cam aboot that I cud hear

The musin's o my fader's aul' grey mear.

It was the term when horsemen chiels will flit,

An Peter Smith haed gane wi kist an kit;

Bess, hin'leg ristin, heid oot ower the dyke,

Refleckit on the cheenge, an things siclike.

"Sae Peter's aff-I win'er fa' I'll get?

Gin he's a scoot I'll try my gemme an set;

If gweed to me wi lippies heapit weel,

I'se dee my best, an ne'er gyang oot o reel.

"A warl' o cheenge! They selt my neiper mear

A towmond syne, when horse wis gey an dear;

Noo I maun rug 'langside a ducksie skate,

Fa' jouks at a'thing, 'cep' at corn an bait.

"The maister aince haed thochts o sellin' me,

An wid hae deen't, but, saul, I'd nae agree;

The couper cam an rattled wi his staff;

I reart an scoolt, an sae that deal was aff.

"I micht hae gane, for a' the easedom here;

The times growe sair an sairer ilky year;

'twas better when I first begood the yoke;

The wark for ouks thegither wis a joke.

"The neepseed deen, me an my chums an pals

Wid shim a bit, or dander to the wa's;

Till leadin' time oor lines were pleasant cuist-

Nae mair to dee than keep oor jints fae roost.

"But noo there's cairtin' eerans evermair,

Coals for the engin'-fegs, it's unco sair-

Draff for the kye, an milk for Aiberdeen,

An nane for his peer beists maks ony meen.

"Wi tractions, motors, we get mony flegs;

They tie oor tails, an we maun thole the glegs;

In hairst we're eident jist as at the seed,

Withoot the horse they cudna cut a reed.

"I win'er aften fat my granny 'd say

Gin she were back an seein' things the day?

It maiters na, we'll hae to dee oor pairt,

Till roon' the neuk comes Johnny Gash's cairt."

THE wind is soughin' sair, Jean;

It's greetin for the sna,

The grun 'll seen be fleckit, Jean,

But I will be awa.

We needna gar-believe, Jean;

There's things that winna hide;

I h'ard the knock last nicht, Jean;

I'll no get leave to bide.

I've prayed an wrastl'd hard, Jean,

Rut noo I maun be dumb;

His will's the best, my ain Jean;

My hinmost term his come.

It's thirty years the morn, Jean,

Sin we cam till Lairstane,

We thocht to leave thegither, Jean,

But I maun gyang my lane.

I've ploo'd my furrows fair, Jean,

An taen my turn wi a'.

The maister kent me stiffer, Jean,

But widna pit's awa.

God plenish weel his sowel, Jean,

An keep his girnal fou;

He says ye winna wint, Jean,

Tho I am taen fae you.

The wind is soughin' waur, Jean;

It's greetin for the sna,

An I am fairly deen, Jean,

I've need to be awa.

Gie me your grip, my ain Jean,

I'm at the hinmost mile,

I'll need but ae lift mair, Jean,

Oot ower the hinmost stile.

I'VE cairriet the beuks for mony a year,

I've sortit the' lichts an swypit the fleer,

Seelenced the loons fin they made a minneer:

But my day is nearly deen.

My birn haes been big, as ony can see

Wha kens I've haen chairge o ministers three,

To mak them ging straucht an keep i' my ee;

But my task is nearly deen.

Nae dout they did gweed-gat sowls for their hire-

An weel they'll come oot o the Jeedgment fire,

But fat's awin' me they ne'er did inquire;

But oor pickthank days weer deen.

Nae eese for the poopit withoot the fowk,

An, wintin his man, the parson's a gowk,

Feckless on Sawbath, an wull a' the ouk;

He kens na a' I hae deen.

I'm jist at a back, but I'm nae to greet:

New-fanglet wyes, an an aul-fashion't breet-

It's time 'at the stair kent swyppirter feet,

For mine, I am fin'in, 's deen.

The bulks hiv grown wechty sin I began,

For hymnies are scraicht to the meesic-fan,

An sma's mak an odds till a dwebble man

Wha's elbick is nearly deen.

I kenna fa' keeps the kirk abeen snod;

I'd like weel a job in yon Hoose o God;

Gin He gie's the sign I'll jump at His nod,

An gae on as I hae deen.

I HAVE watched the strang Atlantic

When the full spring-tide was due,

How it focht its wey full bravely

'gainst the deevil's blasts that blew.

It claim'd the bourne o its faithers,

It must lap the distant duin,

An keep the rights o the ocean,

An seal the micht o the muin.

The Tide an the Wind encoontered-

They clash'd in a wild embrace;

'twas the battle-grip o giants,

But steyed not the tidal pace.

Not lang, by the clocks o Heeven,

Did the roarin turmoil rage;

To me on the lanely foreland

It seemed an age an an age.

Till oot frae the white-haired breakers,

Oot o the brine an the dark,

There rowed the shout o the victor-

"Rejoice! I have reached the mark."

I watch the surge o the ages,

The tide o that human sea

Which counters an braves the hell-blasts,

An my hopes come back to me.

Man! Not till the warld is hoary

Wilt thoo reach the gowden duin;

But the tides o God are in thee,

Thy magnet abuin the muin.

MY name is Captain Ex,

An for years I walked the decks

O the gallant, guid auld ship, The Trinitie;

I sign'd aff wi a sich,

But let anither try

How he can steer the Trin. across the sea.

In weather ruch an wild,

In weather calm an mild,

I have heidit her to Beulah's sunny shore;

If I e'er have left the track,

God's mercy will not lack,

Forgie me, for I'll touch the wheel no mair.

We were a happy crew,

Tho we haed oor battles, too,

'Board the guid auld ship, the gallant Trinitie;

But we focht oor fights like men,

Then sheuk hands as mates again,

An we plough'd oor wey ance mair across the sea.

We'd changes evermore,

We'd changes gled an sair,

We have cried, an lauched, an siched within an oor;

We rang the mairiage bell,

We Toiled the funeral knell,

But we sailed oor ship in sunshine an in shouer.

"God speed the dear auld bark!

God bless in licht an dark!"

Is the prayer o Captain Ex, wha sail'd the main:

Till He wha keeps the log

In the land beyond the fog,

Shall caa him to the captain's brig again.