Hamewith

by Charles Murray

HORACE IN SCOTS

Life an' love I'm by wi' a',

Tho' I've had cause o' baith to brag;

Hang dirk an' chanter on the wa',

Nae mair I'll reive or squeeze the bag.

Whaur on the left my lantren gleams

Weel gairdit by the sea-born queen,

I lay my love an' war worn leems,

Hae mony a midnicht tulzie seen.

O Venus, fae your island fair

Wi' snawless mountains, hear an' help,

Rax back your rung, an' ance—nae mair—

Gie saucy Meg a canny skelp.

HORACE IN SCOTS

Happy is he, far fae the toon's alairm

Wha wons contentit on his forbears' fairm;

Whistlin' ahint his owsen at the ploo,

Oonfashed wi' siller lent or int'rest due.

Nae sodger he, that's piped to wark an' meat,

Nae bar'fit sailor, fleyed at wind an' weet,

Schoolboard nor Session tempt him fae his hame,

Provost or Baillie never heard his name;

His business 'tis to sned the larick trees

For lichened hag to stake his early peas,

Or on his plaid amang the braes to lie

Herdin' his sleekit stots an' hummel kye,

Here wi' his whittle nick a sooker saft,

There mark a stooter shank for future graft;

Whiles fae a skep a dreepin' comb he steals,

Or clips the doddit yowes for winter wheels.

When ower the crafts blythe Autumn lifts her head

Buskit wi' aipples ripe an' roddens red,

He speels the trees the hazel nits to pu',

An' rasps an' aivrins fill his bonnet fu',—

Fit gifts awat, for gods o' wood an' yaird

To show the gratefu' husbandman's regaird.

Ah, then 'tis pleasant on saft mossy banks

'Neath auncient aiks to ease his wearied shanks,

Whaur hidden burnies rumblin' onwards row,

An' liltin' linties cheer the peacefu' howe,

An' babblin' springs, as thro' the ferns they creep

Wi' ceaseless croonin' lull to gentle sleep.

When stormy winter comes an' in its train

Brings drivin' drift an' spates o' plashin' rain,

Wi' dog an' ferret then he's roon' the parks

Whaur rabbits in the snaw hae left their marks;

Or brings wi' smorin' sulphur thuddin' doon

The roostin' pheasant fae the boughs aboon,

Or daunders furth wi' girn an' gun to kill

White hares an' ptarmigan upon the hill.

Wha mid sic joys would ever stop to fash

Wi' trystin' queyns, their valinteens an' trash?

But gin a sonsy wife be his, she'll help

Wi' household jots, the weans she'll dead an' skelp,

An'—Buchan kimmers ken the way fu' weel

Or Hielan' hizzies—tenty toom the creel

O' lang hained heath'ry truffs to reist the fire

Against her man's return, fair dead wi' tire,

An' byre-ward clatter in her creeshie brogues

To fill wi' foamin' milk the scrubbit cogues,

Syne fae the press the cakes an' kebbuck draw

An' hame-brewed drink nae gauger ever saw—

Plain simple fare; could partans better please

Or skate or turbot fae the furthest seas,

Brocht to the market by the trawler's airt

Hawkit fae barrows or the cadger's cairt?

Nae frozen dainties, nae importit meat,

Nae foreign galshochs, taste they e'er sae sweet,

But I will match them fast as ye can name

Wi' simple berries that we grow at hame—

Wi' burnside soorocks that ye pu' yoursel',

Wi' buttered brose, an' chappit curly kail,

Wi' mealy puddins fae the new killed Mart,

Or hill-fed braxy that the tod has spar'd.

What happier life than this for young or auld?

To see the blackfaced wethers seek the fauld,

The reekin' owsen fae the fur' set free

Wear slowly hamewith ower the gowan'd lea,

An' gabbin' servants fae the field an' byre

Scorchin' their moleskins at the kitchen fire.

The banker swore 'mid siccan scenes to die,

"Back to the land" was daily his refrain;

A fortnicht syne he laid his ledgers by,

The nicht he's castin' his accoonts again!

THE REMONSTRANCE

Noo man, hoo can ye think it richt

To waste your time, nicht after nicht,

An' hunker in the failin' licht

Wi' moody broo,

Like some puir dwinin' thewless wicht

Wi' death in view?

I've taul' ye aft aneuch it's nae

As if ye'd aught 'at's new to say,

Or said auld things some better way,

Or like some callants

Gat fouk to praise your sangs an' pay

Ye for your ballants.

Instead o' vreetin' like a clerk

Till bed-time brings alang the dark,

Ye should be sportin' in the park

An' hear the clamour

Wad greet ye, should ye pass my mark

Wi' stane or hammer.

Or tak' a daunder roon' the braes

An' hear the blackies pipe their lays,

The liftward laverock's sang o' praise,

An' syne, my billie,

Mak' nae mair verses a' your days—

Shut doon your millie.

THE REPLY

Tho' loud the mavis whistles now

An' blackbirds pipe fae ilka bough

An' laverocks set the heart alowe—

Mid a' the plenty

You'd miss upon the wayside cowe

The twitt'rin' lintie.

An' think you, when the simmer's gane,

When sleet blaws thro' the leafless plane,

An' bieldless birds sit mute an' lane,

The woods a' cheerless,

The namely robin on the stane

Sings sweet an' fearless.

So tho' my sangs be as you say

Nae marrow for the blackbird's lay,

They may hae cheered somebody's way

Wha wanted better,

An' sent him happier up the brae

My welcome debtor.

Nae care hae I, nor wish to speel

Parnassus' knowe, for mony a chiel

Has tint his time, his life as weel,

To claim a bit o't:

I only crave a wee bit biel'

Near han' the fit o't.

SCOTLAND OUR MITHER

Scotland our Mither—this from your sons abroad,

Leavin' tracks on virgin veld that never kent a road,

Trekkin' on wi' weary feet, an' faces turned fae hame,

But lovin' aye the auld wife across the seas the same.

Scotland our Mither—we left your bieldy bents

To hunt wi' hairy Esau, while Jacob kept the tents.

We've pree'd the pangs o' hunger, mair sorrow seen than mirth,

But never niffer'd, auld wife, our rightfu' pride o' birth.

Scotland our Mither—we sow, we plant, we till,

But plagues that passed o'er Egypt light here an' work their will.

They've harried barn an' basket till ruin claims us sure;

We'd better kept the auld craft an' herdit on the muir.

Scotland our Mither—we weary whiles and tire;

When Bad Luck helps to outspan, Regret biggs up the fire;

But still the hope uphaulds us, tho' bitter now the blast,

That we'll win to the auld hame across the seas at last.

Scotland our Mither—we've bairns you've never seen—

Wee things that turn them northward when they kneel down at e'en;

They plead in childish whispers the Lord on high will be

A comfort to the auld wife—their granny o'er the sea.

Scotland our Mither—since first we left your side,

From Quilimane to Cape Town we've wandered far an' wide;

Yet aye from mining camp an' town, from koppie an' karoo,

Your sons richt kindly, auld wife, send hame their love to you.