George Abel
MAIR MEN!
SONS o Scotlan'! Hardy Northmen!
Men o breed, an men o brawn!
Herken to yer country's priggin!
Are ye deif, or are ye thrawn?
Hear ye nae the guns a-boomin'
Nearer than ye've hard afore?
Nearer than sin Dutch invaaders
Sailed their ships to Britain's shore?
Hear ye nae the Kaiser's orders
Till his hordes o savage loons-
"On to Calais! On to Dover!
Raze their hamesteads! Seck their toons!
"On to Lunnon!-hub o empires,
Rich as Croesus, blawn wi pride-
Lat them hae the German kultur
That maun conquer far an wide!"
Div ye hear him? Will ye lat him?
Min' ye, Scotlan's in his ee,
An the Teuton's hiv is liftet
To come doon on you an me.
An the toozle hings in balance,
Tho oor boys are fechtin' gran';
Herken to yer pechin brithers-
"Scotlan', come an gie's a haun!"
Men are wintet fae the Northlan',
Men wi shanks to weer the kilt,
Men wi Bannockburn's memory,
Men 'at winna warp nor wilt.
They are here in scores an hunners,
I' the trades, an at the ploo;
Brithers! dinna squint at ithers,
King an country wag on you.
Drap the hemmer! Doon the shovel!
Quit yer haud o stilts an rein!
Wash, an turse, an mak yer bun'le!
Wauken for the mornin train!
Kiss yer mither tho she's greetin,
Prood is she for a' she's said!
Gin yer sweethert wiles to keep ye,
That is nae a lass to wed.
Aff to trainin' for the shangie!
Lat them see ye're nae a coord:
On to Dover! On to Calais!
Kep the Kaiser! Brak his soord!
Ye mey ne'er come back to Hamelan'-
Hamelan' 'at ye loe sae weel-
Better deid than come to see her
Wreathin' neth the Kaiser's heel.
Men o Scotlan'! Hardy Northmen!
Bleed o Freedom in yer veins,
Hear yer grainin' country's priggin!
Save her fae the tyrant's chains!
THE FAIRMER'S FAREWEEL TO HIS COMMANDEERED NAG.
FAREWEEL! my bonny, trusty nag,
A shall 'at's aften gart me brag,
An made the tongues o envy wag:
For ye maun gyang.
I've haed ye noo for towmons five,
I brak ye in to ride an drive;
An mey ye dee as weel, an thrive
In ither haun's!
I cud deen wi ye to the en',
An tried to jouk the airmy men,
But fat thae billies dinna ken
They seen fin' oot.
I shanket it to sale an kirk,
An only teuk ye oot fin mirk;
But Moses' mither cudna quirk
Aul' Pharaoh's boys.
I sudna try to dodge the King,
Wi Britain i' the deidly ring,
An fechtin' grim wi sic a bing
O German fangs.
Sae, aff ye gyang to foreign airt;
I hinna loons to dee a pairt,
But oot wi you I sen' my hert;
Gweed speed ye weel!
I'll think o ye by nicht an day,
In bivouac, an i' the fray,
For you I'll howp, for you I'll pray
To Him 'at guairds.
I dout, my lass, 'twill be fair hell
'mang sheeted flame, an burstin' shell;
The tractions, motors o oor dell
Ne'er flegged ye sae.
But min' the chiel 'at 's on yer back,
An cairry him throu' reek an rack,
An lat him hae his sattlin' smack
At German thieves.
An sud he get a stunnin' daud
That lays him i' the bleedy mud,
Ye'll try the fae wi calker's thud,
An haud yer ain.
An gin they dee for you, my mear,
An ett ye to their German beer,
I howp ye'lI mak their sausage dear,
An nae disgeest.
But Gweed forbid 'at ye be pranned
By German trag in foreign land
Na: ye'll be dancin to the band
Doon Berlin's streets.
An fin war cloods nae langer lower,
An ye come back to rist an cower,
I'll gie the price I gat twice ower
To mak ye mine.
They sanna sell ye for a mairt,
Nor yet to fishman, if I'm spar't-
Oonless the Kaiser ca' the cairt:
An that's my aith.
A GORDON I' THE TRENCHES.
I LISTET i' the Gordons, an I left the braes o Mar,
A file afore the Kaiser haed lat lowse his dogs o war,
An here I'm i' the trenches far there's daith an clour an scar,
An guns droon the pipes i' the mornin.
The day I teuk the shillin' wis a day o greetin e'en;
My mither grat fin packin' up my sarks an sarkits clean;
I kenna fat she'd thocht ava gin only she haed seen
The mess I've been in nicht an mornin.
I aften think aboot her fin we dackle for a wee,
An ilky nicht I say the prayer she leernt me at her knee;
I win'er if the dear aul' lass again I'll ever see
Ca' the kye to the hill i' the mornin.
I didna ken 'at Scotlan' haed gat sic a haud o me,
An that the fowk I aft misca'd wis gweed as gowd cud be,
An that the hamely Doric o the bonny North Countree
Wis next till its brose i' the mornin.
They say this kwintra's bonny, an it's trowth I've seen a waur,
But fat's her vine-clad slopes to me, 'at streetch oot near an far,
Aside my ain aul' Morven, an my kingly Lochnagar
Takin aff his kep i' the mornin?
I like the froggy Frenchman, an he's fechtin' teeth an nail,
But Och! he's nae a Scottie 'at thinks less o grapes than kail,
An o his vous an avez I mak nether heid nor tail,
I jist pit him aff wi "Gweed mornin."
But herken! there's the bugle, an the pipes 'll nae be lang,
An syne the screamin' shrapnel, an the rifles' eerie sang:
They're wintin's to gae forrit, an the Gordons they will gyang,
Tho some o 's 'll nae see the mornin.
It isna wark for humans, an it maks us deevils a':
Some day they'll seelence war drums, an the martial trumpet's blaw,
An on this peer, iliguidet warl a better day 'll daw;
'Twill seer be the mornin o mornin's.
MISSIN'.
I LOOKET for my laddie's name amo' the raws o deid,
I looket ilka mornin sair afore I cud brak' breid,
But nae a wird o Jimmy, lad, for a' 'at I haed scanned,
He wisna 'mong the woun'et, nor the nabbet, nor the pranned.
But jist this day, afore I haed taen aff the pottage pot,
I ran my aul' e'en smertly ower a newlins printit lot,
An there wis Jimmy Fraser-but, o coorse, 'twis printit "Jeams"-
I win'ert if I'd waukent, or wis still amo' my dreams.
I gya mysel a gey bit nip to ken gin I was up;
I micht 'a' kent withoot it fae the soorness o my cup,
For it's aye been maist in dreamin' oors that I hiv haed the sweet,
An fin I hiv been waukent that the warl's gart me greet.
My loon's amo' the missin', as are ither mithers' sons,
He hisna answered rowe-ca' sin the coorse stramash at Mons:
The Lord Almichty pit His haun upon this tremlin' hert!
For gin He dinna stan' by me my rizzon 'll depairt.
My laddie he is missin' far it's better to be deid,
He's missin' far there's butchers 'at 'll niver stanch his bleed,
He's missin' far the pillow's but a steen or divot caul,
An far to hoose or shelter he mey nether tramp nor crawl.
I cud 'a' better tholet the news 'at he haed fair been killed,
Or that he wis a patient o the nurse an surgeon skilled,
Or herdit i' the prison-faul far ithers tak their chance;
But tint to a' that's peetifu' amo' the wids o France!
It's mair than my aul' hert can bide; an till my short day's run,
There's something in my breest predicks my lad 'll nae be fun',
But mibbie fin the peace haes dawed, an efter mony meens,
Some forester or hunter mey come upo' Jimmy's beens.
An that's the war an glory 'at the hoochin' crowds 'll cheer,
An poet billies sing aboot, an claithe in fause veneer!
But speer at Scottish mithers if ye wint it's ain grim name,
Wha leuk for loons they've rocket 'at 'll ne'er again come hame.
"Missin'"! Jimmy, "missin'"! but they wistna fat they print,
Nane but a mither's herriet hert kens fin a laddie's tint;
But mibbie I will fin' ye at the rowe-ca' yont the stars,
An hear ye answer blithely far there are nae guns nor wars.
A WIRD TO UNCLE SAM.
I WINT a wird wi you, Sam,
Gin ye've a lug for me;
Ye like to gab yersel, Sam,
An say fat we sud dee.
But I've a craw to pluck, Sam,
Wi you 'at rowles the West,
An cracks sae big 'boot Richt, Saw,
An Freedom, an the rest.
Fatever did ye mean, Sam,
Fin ye pat doon yer aith
That Belgium binna touch't, Sam,
That nane maun dee her skaith?
But fat's the fac the day, Sam?-
Nae need for me to tell;
The Huns hae broken throu', Sam,
The Little Lan' 's a hell!
The king an queen's adrift, Sam,
An oot o hoose an ha'!
The capital is taen, Sam,
The Government awa!
Hale toons are ca'd to spunks, Sam,
An little clachans dear!
The grun it is unvrocht, Sam,
Nae hairst, I dout, the year!
The hameless, hunted fowk, Sam,
Are beggin' bed an breid!
The mithers an the weans, Sam,
Are cryin' for their deid!
But nae a cheep fae you, Sam,
Excep' aboot yer trade!
Na, nae a kick at them, Sam,
'At brak' the bargain made!
Ye've heid an temper keept, Sam,
Fin ithers tint them baith;
The futur' 'll think maist, Sam,
O them 'at keept their aith.
Ye've blaudet sair yer name, Sam,
It will be ill to dicht;
Yer copper an yer ships, Sam,
Are mair to you than Richt.
Ye think that ye'll come in, Sam,
Fin hurly-burly's ower,
That ye'll redd up the soss, Sam,
Fin strik's the sattlin' oor.
But ye'll get a begeck, Sam,
Or I'm mistaen a wee;
A dollar-chasin' Yank, Sam,
Sall never umpire me.
"SOMEWHAUR IN FRANCE."
"SOMEWHAUR in France"; it is a' I can get
Fae the billies that ken o my loon;
"Somewhaur in France"; gin they'd only tell's far,
I wid pairt wi my hinmost hauf-croon.
"Somewhaur in France" he is fechtin' the day;
He is fechtin' for Britain an richt,
God wi his conscience an nervin' his airm,
An wi hell in his hearin' an sicht.
"Somewhaur in France" he is thinkin o hame,
Fin the bullits an shalls lat him be,
Dreamin' o Scotlan', an seein' the glen,
An the hamestead, his fader, an me.
"Somewhaur in France" I am dootin' he'll fa',
For the oolet's been hootin' ower near,
An siccan a dream on Monanday laist!
It waukent me sweatin' wi fear.
"Somewhaur in France" I mey seen hae a grave-
It is a' that I'll get fae the war;
Mithers o Scotlan'! fat mair'll be yours
Than a grave, an a greet, an hert-scar?
"Somewhaur in France": oh, the weary refrain!
An it's naething like fat mithers need:
"Somewhaur" 's a mock fin we're hung'rin' to ken
Far oor laddies are, livin' or deid.
"Somewhaur in France": but they winna bleck God,
For He sees far they've pitten oor loons,
An He'll bring thegither ilk mither an son
Fin the trumpet o destiny soun's.
THE TEEGER O POTSDAM.
A TEEGER dwall't in Potsdam cave,
They ca'd him Weelum,
An he did ramp, an he did rave;
An never wis a bigger knave
Than Weelum.
There wisna bleed aneuch at hame
For droothy Weelum,
Sae oot he set for farrer gemme,
By ony sleekit trick or skaim-
Did Weelum.
He legget Wast, he legget East-
Swack, ready Weelum;
He mang'd to hae a John Bull feast,
An syne the Bear o Rooshia neist-
Smert Weelum!
But East an Wast wis less than fun
To ettlin Weelum;
They widna be his huntin' grun,
Nor yield their place aneth the sun
To Weelum.
He cudna mak it oot ava-
Disgruntled Weelum;
Hoo they sud gie him cla' for cla',
An nae jump doon the comfy maw
O Weelum.
An sae he gurred an mauled at lairge-
Rampagin Weelum;
At kirks an bairns he made a chairge,
An a' wi faem an bleed did spairge-
Mad Weelum!
The countries roon' he fair did roose-
This hell-hun Weelum;
They voued they widna rist nor snooze
Oontill they gied a malagruze
To Weelum.
But fegs! 'twis kittle wark to catch
The wily Weelum;
An files the mongrel' huntin' batch
Misdootit gin they war a match
For Weelum.
But-nae to mak my story lang
'boot slinkin' Weelum-
They gat at him, fair deen, a whang,
An in upon him lap the thrang;
Oh, Weelum!
They've pat him in an iron cage-
Wild, warstlin' Weelum,
Far he can cultivaate his rage,
Oontill the huntsman o aul' age
Bags Weelum.
Sae there he sits wi cla's weel pared-
The dapper Weelum,
A saxpence sicht for laird an caird,
Wha think the doom an tin weel-wared
On Weelum.
WEELUM ON HIS ALLIES - ESPEESHIALLY ANE.
THE Lord an me hae lang been freens,
Thegither rowled the reest-
A pairtnership that's been my pride,
A buin to man an beast.
'Twid mak a muckle odds to me
Gin something cam atween's,
An mair to Him if we sud split,
An be nae langer freens.
But if the trowth his to be taul,
My Allies mak me seek;
Aul' Francie Joe's turned oot a fraud,
The Turk's a bloomin' swick.
An gin the Freen I've coontit on,
An laudet evermair-
The Freen that wis my Granda's chum,
An blessed his aul' grey hair-
Disna buck up an gie's a haun
Wi this fell fechtin' grim,
It's up wi me, an seer as ocht,
'Twill be the waur for Him.
I've apened kirks in ryal style,
An made a holy steer,
I've aiven taen the poopit files,
An preached wi verve an birr.
Fat tho the sermons warna mine-
That disna mak a jot;
I overhauled the manuscript
To see it wisna rot.
The Socialists an Democrats,
An sicklike orra trock,
The scoffers at my Richt Divine,
Hae fun' the mailed fist's knock.
But yet my gemme is hingin fire,
Altho I daurna say't;
That Pairis projeck's up a close-
They've fairly steekt that gate.
An aye the trains come grainin in
Wi wounet fae the fronts;
The fowk are yellin' 'boot their deid;
I'm deavet wi growls an grunts.
I hiv to tell a hunner lees
Far fifety did afore,
An sen' my Auntie telegrams
Wi whappers by the score.
An I expecket ither things!
I think they are my due,
For I hiv aye uphauden Him,
An He sud back me noo.
But gin He lats me to the waa,
An lats them tak my croon,
There's mair than me 'll ken fat for,
An mair than me come doon.
It's taen us baith to rin the warl-
An I've haed maist to dee-
An gin He lats them knock me oot,
The hale thing gyangs ajee.
He'll seer tak tent as Lang's there's time,
An help to brak' the ring,
He'll seerly hear the warnin wird
O William, Emperor, King.
THE KAISER'S GARTENS.
"The King strikes aff the Rowe o the Order o the Gairter the Kaiser - the Croun Prince o Germany, an ither enemies." - Daily Press.
I READ it ower an ower again
Afore I made it oot;
'Twis only wi the sneeshin mull
I gat it, wintin' dout.
The Kaiser an some ither skunks
Haed come for gartens here
To tie their Teuton shanks, blawn up
Wi sausages an beer.
"The Order o the Gairter!" Fegs!
It made my bleed rin het
That, at their sornin orders, we
Wove gartens for the set.
There's wirsit, seer, in Sausage-Lan',
An Fraus 'at ken the weers;
Their wark is mair than gweed aneuch
For thae blue-bleedit leears.
I'm gled oor King haes taen't in haun,
An stapp't the senseless gemme,
An telt his wife an dother baith-
Their wyvin' is for hame.
"Nae mair to Bill o Potsdam, dears,
Sall we sen' claes again,
Nae even a tatie-boodie's togs
To kep the sna an rain.
"The jilin'-fowk 'll gie him duds,
Far he's to en' his days,
An far he'll gyang fin a' is deen
'Twill be ower het for claes.
"There's jist ae order ye can beuk
For that confoonit fang-
An order for a hempen rape:
An min' ye mak it strang."
Weel deen, King George! Ye're fairly richt
To redd yersel' o trock:
An ne'er mey ye a garten wint,
A stockin', nor a sock.
THE POTSDAM ROUP.
IN buzness in a muckle wye
Wis Bill o Potsdam fame,
In East an Wast, in North an Sooth,
The traders kent his name.
His aagents war in ilky lan',
His ships on iiky sea,
In ilky shop his gimcrack waares,
Signed, "Made in Germanie."
But Bill cud nae lat weel alane,
Tho scoopin' in the tin,
An he pit oot his fit sae far,
He cudna tak it in.
He ventered on a dafty's spec,
An fairly gat a cowp;
His creditors they saul him up;
An a' gaed to the roup.
Ay, British birkies, Frenchies, Japs,
War biddin' roon' the ring,
An Rooshians, Belgians, Chinamen,
War heapin' up the bing.
I saw some Yanks wi goaties' beards-
They looket spry an slick;
An Portuguese, an Dutch, an Danes;
Italians needin' tick;
An ithers 'at I cudna name,
Altho ye war to speer,
Fou keerious, an gleg, an glib,
Aroon' the unctioneer.
There wisna ony lan' to sell,
Tho some war fain to get,
The creditors-sae I was taul'-
Haed collared it for debt.
Bit ither things galore war saul,
Fae motors till a preen,
Fae bankrup' Wullie's moustache kaim
To roostin' submarine.
A fist aince mailed, noo bare an peeled,
Brocht only three bawbees;
The pen that vrat aul' Kruger's 'gram,
An only cud vreet lees,
Wis knocket oot for auchteenpence-
I thocht it byous dear;
A Turk wis needin' 't for his skweel
O German modern lear.
An iron crosses fae a stock
That wis fell nearly deen-
A Buchan brookie bocht the lot
For makkin shalties' sheen.
Some saabres, that haed rattled lood
For mair than forty years,
War snappit up by twa aul' wifes
'At wintet stockin' weers.
But efter that I cam awa;
I haedna bocht a rap,
But Wullie's aumrie wis fair teem,
An I wis growin yap.
I haedna seen swank Bill ava,
Nae mair than taste his breid,
Bit I hiv aften h'ard sin syne
That he's in Peterheid.
THE TIFF, AN EFTER.
AFORE he gaed across to France
My man an me haed wirds,
An gin the trowth haes to be kent,
The scashle cam to dirds.
He telt me as he slammed the door,
An oot upo' the hung,
He didna wint to see 's again,
Nor hear my ill-hung tongue.
But months an miles they cheeng'd his tune,
An I haed fae Chapelle
Sic letters as he eesed to sen'
Fin we were beau an belle.
An never for an answer back
Haed he to wait a file,
An aye the ink wi which I vrat
Wis honey sweet an ile.
Ae day an unco letter cam,
'At wisna in his vreet,
My hert gaed dunt, my haun's did shak',
My e'en war like to greet.
He wisna killed-the Lord be praised!
For trogs! I gat a scare-
But sae missaucred 'boot the heid,
He'd hear nor speak nae mair.
I met him at the sedgers' train,
'mang winged, an blin', an lame,
I kissed him ower an ower again,
An syne I brocht him hame.
I'm wae to see him strainin' lugs
That winna dee their wark,
An warstlin' wi a blastet tongue
As dumb's his flannen sark.
He'lI never hear my ill-hung tongue
File we're abeen the sod,
But he sall ken it's better hung
Fin we gyang hame to God.
Oh, sirs, tak tent afore it's late,
An min' yer teens an tongues,
Ye'll think upo' the whack we've gat,
An hae nae tiffs an bungs.
THE MAVIS AN ME.
A MAVIS sang on a leafless brinch,
An 'twas only Can'lemas Day:
The win' wis snell, an he haed nae mate;
But I sensed the drift o his lay.
He wis thinkin lang for spring sunsheen,
An for love, an the bieldy nest,
An eident oors for a wife an weans,
An for grub galore o the best.
He 'd aft been caul i' the sleet an dark,
An his crap haed been aften teem,
But he mindet last year's spring an hairst,
An the neist war his sang an dream.
The mavis lilt it gaed roon' my hert,
An my conscience it strak wi micht;
I turned awa fae the shaidaes grim,
An frontet the Howp an the Licht.
Oh, waesome months hae they been to me!
Oh, doolsome to young an to aul'!
Oh, ne'er war the days an nichts sae lang!
Nor wis ever the frost sae caul.
I ken the bite o the snas o France,
An the rime, an the clorty glaur;
I hear the guns i' my bed at hame,
For I've flesh an bleed i' the war.
But spring will come i' the Lord's ain time,
An the oorie days 'll gyang by,
An Peace creep back fae her exile far,
An Love we've gart greet, fae the sky.
Sae the mavis mauna sing his leen,
Fin there's licht on the hills for me,
Sae I'll tune my throat, tho it's winter yet,
An herald the day that's to be.