He cut a sappy sucker from the muckle rodden-tree,
He trimmed it, an' he wet it, an' he thumped it on his knee;
He never heard the teuchat when the harrow broke her eggs,
He missed the craggit heron nabbin' puddocks in the seggs,
He forgot to hound the collie at the cattle when they strayed,
But you should hae seen the whistle that the wee herd made!
He wheepled on't at mornin' an' he tweetled on't at nicht,
He puffed his freckled cheeks until his nose sank oot o' sicht,
The kye were late for milkin' when he piped them up the closs,
The kitlins got his supper syne, an' he was beddit boss;
But he cared na doit nor docken what they did or thocht or said,
There was comfort in the whistle that the wee herd made.
For lyin' lang o' mornin's he had clawed the caup for weeks,
But noo he had his bonnet on afore the lave had breeks;
He was whistlin' to the porridge that were hott'rin' on the fire,
He was whistlin' ower the travise to the baillie in the byre;
Nae a blackbird nor a mavis, that hae pipin' for their trade,
Was a marrow for the whistle that the wee herd made.
He played a march to battle, it cam' dirlin' through the mist,
Till the halflin' squared his shou'ders an' made up his mind to 'list;
He tried a spring for wooers, though he wistna what it meant,
But the kitchen-lass was lauchin' an' he thocht she maybe kent;
He got ream an' buttered bannocks for the lovin' lilt he played.
Wasna that a cheery whistle that the wee herd made?
He blew them rants sae lively, schottisches, reels, an' jigs,
The foalie flang his muckle legs an' capered ower the rigs,
The grey-tailed futt'rat bobbit oot to hear his ain strathspey,
The bawd cam' loupin' through the corn to "Clean Pease Strae";
The feet o' ilka man an' beast gat youkie when he played—
Hae ye ever heard o' whistle like the wee herd made?
But the snaw it stopped the herdin' an' the winter brocht him dool,
When in spite o' hacks an' chilblains he was shod again for school;
He couldna sough the catechis nor pipe the rule o' three,
He was keepit in an' lickit when the ither loons got free;
But he aften played the truant—'twas the only thing he played,
For the maister brunt the whistle that the wee herd made!
SKEELY KIRSTY
A stane-cast fae the clachan heid
An auld feal dyke enclosed a reed
O' garden grun', where flower an' weed
In spring grew first aye;
An' there the humble hauddin' steed
O' Skeely Kirsty.
Upon the easin' sods a fou
Thick-leaved an' sappy yearly grew,
Which, for a scrat or scabbit mou',
Beat aught in "Buchan";
An' draughts fae herbs she used to brew
That drank like brochan.
To heal a heid, or scob a bane,
To ease a neebour's grippit wean,
Or thoom a thraw, there wasna ane
Could e'er come near her;
Nae income, fivver, hoast, nor nane
Would ever steer her.
She cured for pleasure, nae for fees;
Healed man an' beast wi' equal ease:
She gae a lotion for the grease
To Spence the carrier,
That cured his mear, when the disease
Gaed ower the farrier.
Was there a corp to streck or kist,
She aye was foremost to assist;
She grat to think "how he'd be miss't,
Sae good and gifted"!
Syne handed roon' anither taste
Afore they lifted.
Ae morn grim Death—that poacher fell—
Gat Kirsty in his girn hersel';
Nae epitaph her virtues tell,
It needs nae vreetin':
On ae thing maistly Fame will dwell—
Her gift o' greetin'.
THE ANTIQUARY
A little mannie, nae ower five feet three,
Sae bent wi' eild he lookit less than that,
His cleadin' fashioned wi' his tastes to 'gree,
Fae hose an' cuitikins to plaid an' hat.
His cot stob-thackit, wi' twa timmer lums,
A box-bed closet 'tween the but an' ben,
A low peat fire, where bauldrins span her thrums,
Wat dried his beets, an' smoked, an' read his lane.
The horn-en' fu' o' craggins, quaichs, an' caups,
Mulls, whorls, an' cruisies left bare room to stir;
Wi' routh o' swourds an' dirks a' nicks an' slaps,
An' peer-men, used langsyne for haudin' fir.
He'd skulls in cases, lest the mouldy guff
Should scunner frien's, or gather muckle flees;
He'd querns for grindin' either meal or snuft,
An' flints an' fleerishes to raise a bleeze,
Rowed in a cloutie, to preserve the glint;
He had a saxpence that had shot a witch,
Sae stark, she hadna left her like ahint
For killin' kye or giein' fouk the itch.
He kent auld spells, could trail the rape an' spae,
He'd wallets fu' o' queer oonchancie leems,
Could dress a mart, prob hoven nowt, an' flay;
Fell spavined horse, an' deftly use the fleems.
He lived till ninety, an' this deein' wiss
He whispered, jist afore his spirit flew—
"Gweed grant that even in the land o' bliss
I'll get a bield whaur some things arena new."
JEAMES
It's but a fortnight since we laid him doon,
An' cut the sods to hap his narrow lair—
On Sunday still the grass was dry an' broon;
An' noo they're up again the kist is bare,
For Bell this day we e'en maun lay aboon,
An' face in fun'ral blacks the drift ance mair.
Twa Fiersdays back she seem'd baith swak an' strang,
A' day her clogs were clankin' roon' the closs;
An' tho' an income she'd complained o' lang
It never kept her yet fae kirk or moss.
Wha would hae thocht she'd be the next to gang
That never grieved a grain at Jeames's loss?
It seem'd richt unco—faith, 'twas hardly fair,
Just when he thocht to slip awa' at last
An' drap for aye the trams o' wardly care—
The muckle gates aboon were barely fast
Ere she was pechin' up the gowden stair,
An' fleechin' Peter till he let her past.
When Jeames—I'se warrant ye, wi' tremblin' shins—
Stands forrit, an' they tak' the muckle beuk
To reckon up his shortcomes, slips, an' sins,
She'll check the tally fae some canny neuk,
An' prod his memory when he begins
Should there be ony he would fain o'erleuk.
That Scuttrie Market when he was the waur—
He thocht the better—o' a drap o' yill,
An' fell at Muggart's door amo' the glaur,
Forgot the shaltie ower the hindmost gill,
Syne stoitered aff alane, he kent nae whaur,
An' sleepit wi' the sheep on Baadin's hill.
That Fast-day when he cawed an early load,
When craps were late an' weather byous saft,
Instead o' daund'rin to the Hoose o' God
An' noddin' thro' "fourteenthly" in the laft;
Or how he banned the Laird upon the road—
His bawds an' birds that connached sae the craft.
Nae chance for him to discount or excuse
The wee'est bit, wi' her there keen to tell
How a' was true; but yet, gin he should choose
To bid them look the credit side as well—
Ae conter claim they canna weel refuse—
The mony patient years he bore wi' Bell.
THE MILLER
When riven wicks o' mou's were rife,
An' bonnets clad the green,
Aye in the thickest o' the strife
Auld Dusty Tam was seen.
Nae Tarlan' man daur flout his fame
Had he a chance to hear;
The Leochel men slid canny hame
When he cam' aff his mear.
At Scuttrie or at Tumblin' Fair
Nane ordered in sae free,
Or kent sae weel the way to share
A mutchkin amo' three.
An' when he took the road at nicht,
His bonnet some ajee,
Ye seldom saw a baulder wicht—
Till Isie met his e'e.
She waited whaur the muirlan' track
Strikes wi' the hamewith turn;
An' ower him there her anger brak'
Like some spate-ridden burn.
The ouzel, startled, left the saugh
An' skimmed alang the lade,
The kitty-neddies fae the haugh
Gaed pipin' ower her head.
But still she flate till Tammas, now
Dismounted on the loan,
Ran to the mill an' pu'd the tow
That set the water on;
Syne busy banged the girnal lids,
An' tossed the sacks about,
Or steered again the bleezin' sids,
While aye she raved without.
She bann'd the moulter an' the mill,
The intak, lade, and dam,
The reekit dryster in the kil',
Syne back again to Tam.
Till dark—the minister himsel'
I'll swear he couldna stap her—
Her teethless mou' was like a bell,
Her tongue the clangin' clapper.
Neist mornin' she laid doon the law—
He'd gang nae mair to fairs;
An' sae he held the jaud in awe
He kept it—till St. Sairs.
THE MILLER EXPLAINS