The byword "as sweer as the Miller"
Disturbs me but little, for hech!
Ye'll find for ane willin' to bishop
A score sittin' ready to pech.
But come to the brose or the bottle,
There's few need less priggin' than me;
While they're busy blessin' the bannock,
I'm raxin' a han' to fa' tee.
The neighbours clash lood o' my drinkin',
An' naething hits harder than truth;
But tales micht be tempered, I'm thinkin',
Gin fouk would consider my drooth.
Nae doot, at the Widow's displenish
Gey aften I emptied the stoup;
But thrift is a thing we should cherish,
An' whisky's aye free at a roup.
Week in an' week oot, when I'm millin',
The sids seem to stick in my throat;
Nae wonder at markets I'm willin'
To spend wi' a crony a groat.
An' if I've a shaltie to niffer,
Or't maybe some barley to sell,
An oonslockened bargain's aye stiffer—
Ye ken that fu' brawly yersel'.
Fae forbears my thirst I inherit,
As others get red hair or gout;
The heirship's expensive: mair merit
To me that I never cry out.
An' sae, man, I canna help thinkin'
The neighbours unkindly; in truth,
Afore they can judge o' my drinkin'
They first maun consider my drooth.
THE PACKMAN
There was a couthy Packman, I kent him weel aneuch,
The simmer he was quartered within the Howe o' Tough;
He sleepit in the barn end amo' the barley strae
But lang afore the milkers he was up at skreek o' day,
An' furth upon the cheese stane set his reekin' brose to queel
While in the caller strype he gied his barkit face a sweel;
Syne wi' the ell-wan' in his neive to haud the tykes awa'
He humpit roon' the country side to clachan, craft an' ha'.
Upon the flaggit kitchen fleer he dumpit doon his pack,
Fu' keen to turn the penny ower, but itchin' aye to crack;
The ploomen gaithered fae the fur', the millert fae the mill,
The herd just gied his kye a turn an' skirtit doon the hill,
The smith cam' sweatin' fae the fire, the weaver left his leem,
The lass forgot her comin' kirn an' connached a' the ream,
The cauper left his turnin' lay, the sooter wasna slaw
To fling his lapstane in the neuk, the elshin, birse an' a'.
The Packman spread his ferlies oot, an' ilka maid an' man
Cam' soon on something sairly nott, but never missed till than;
He'd specs for peer auld granny when her sicht begood to fail,
An' thummles, needles, preens an' tape for whip-the-cat to wale,
He'd chanter reeds an' fiddle strings, an' trumps wi' double stang,
A dream beuk 'at the weeda wife had hankered after lang,
He'd worsit for the samplers, an' the bonniest valentines,
An' brooches were in great request wi' a' kirk-gangin' queyns.
He'd sheafs o' rare auld ballants, an' an antrin swatch he sang
Fae "Mill o' Tiftie's Annie," or o' "Johnnie More the Lang,"
He would lilt you "Hielan' Hairry" till the tears ran doon his nose,
Syne dicht them wi' a doonward sleeve an' into "James the Rose";
The birn that rowed his shou'ders tho' sae panged wi' things to sell
Held little to the claik he kent, an' wasna laith to tell,—
A waucht o' ale to slock his drooth, a pinch to clear his head,
An' the news cam' fae the Packman like the water doon the lade.
He kent wha got the bledder when the sooter killed his soo,
An' wha it was 'at threw the stane 'at crippled Geordie's coo,
He kent afore the term cam' roon' what flittin's we would see,
An' wha'd be cried on Sunday neist, an' wha would like to be,
He kent wha kissed the sweetie wife the nicht o' Dancie's ball,
An' what ill-trickit nickum catched the troot in Betty's wall,
He was at the feein' market, an' he kent a' wha were fou,
An' he never spoiled a story by consid'rin' gin 'twas true.
Nae plisky ever yet was played but he could place the blame,
An' tell you a' the story o't, wi' chapter, verse an' name,
He'd redd you up your kith an' kin atween the Dee an' Don,
Your forbears wha were hanged or jiled fae auld Culloden on,
Altho he saw your face get red he wouldna haud his tongue,
An' only leuch when threatened wi' a reemish fae a rung;
But a' the time the trade gaed on, an' notes were rankit oot
Had lang been hod in lockit kists aneth the Sunday suit.
An' faith the ablach threeve upon't, he never cried a halt
Until he bocht fae Shou'der-win' a hardy cleekit shalt,
An' syne a spring-cairt at the roup when cadger Willie broke,
That held aneth the cannas a' that he could sell or troke;
He bocht your eggs an' butter, an' awat he wasna sweer
To lift the poacher's birds an' bawds when keepers werna near;
Twa sizzens wi' the cairt an' then—his boolie rowed sae fine—
He took a roadside shoppie an' put "Merchant" on the sign.
An' still he threeve an' better threeve, sae fast his trade it grew
That he thirled a cripple tailor an' took in a queyn to shue,
An' when he got a stoot guidwife he didna get her bare,
She brocht him siller o' her ain 'at made his puckle mair,
An' he lent it oot sae wisely—deil kens at what per cent—
That farmers fan' the int'rest near as ill to pay's the rent;
An' when the bank set up a branch, the wily boddies saw
They beet to mak' him Agent to hae ony chance ava'
Tho' noo he wore a grauvit an' a dicky thro' the week
There never was a bargain gaun 'at he was far to seek,
He bocht the crafter's stirks an' caur, an' when the girse was set
He aye took on a park or twa, an' never rued it yet;
Till when a handy tack ran oot his offer was the best
An' he dreeve his gig to kirk an' fair as canty as the rest,
An' when they made him Elder, wi' the ladle it was gran'
To see him work the waster laft an' never miss a man.
He sent his sons to college, an' the auldest o' the three—
Tho' wi' a tyauve—got Greek aneuch to warsle thro's degree,
An' noo aneth the soundin' box he wags a godly pow;
The second loon took up the law, an' better fit there's fyou
At chargin' sax an' auchtpence, or at keepin' on a plea,
An' stirrin' strife 'mang decent fouk wha left alane would 'gree;
The youngest ane 's a doctor wi' a practice in the sooth,
A clever couthy cowshus chiel some hampered wi' a drooth.
The dother—he had only ane—gaed hine awa' to France
To learn to sing an' thoom the harp, to parley-voo an' dance;
It cost a protty penny but 'twas siller wisely wared
For the lass made oot to marry on a strappin' Deeside laird;
She wasna just a beauty, but he didna swither lang,
For he had to get her tocher or his timmer had to gang:
Sae noo she sits "My Lady" an' nae langer than the streen
I saw her wi' her carriage comin' postin' ower Culblean.
But tho' his bairns are sattled noo, he still can cast the coat
An' work as hard as ever to mak' saxpence o' a groat;
He plans as keen for years to come as when he first began,
Forgettin' he's on borrowed days an' past the Bible span.
See, yon's his hoose, an' there he sits; supposin' cry in,
It's cheaper drinkin' toddy there than payin' at the Inn,
You'll find we'll hae a shortsome nicht an' baith be bidden back,
But—in your lug—ye maunna say a word aboot the Pack.
THE LETTERGAE
Sundays see his saintly look—
What grace he maun be feelin',
When stridin' slawly ben the pass,
Or to the lettrin speelin'!
What unction in his varied tones,
As aff the line he screeds us,
Syne bites the fork, an' bums the note,
Ere to the tune he leads us!
Plain paraphrase, or quirky hymn,
Come a' the same to Peter,
He has a tune for ilka psalm
Nae matter what the metre.
"St. Paul's" or "University"
Wi' equal ease is lifted;
At "Martyrdom" he fair excels—
Eh! keep's sirs, but he's gifted!
But see him now, some workin' day
When aproned in his smiddy,
An' mark the thuds 'at shape the shoon,
An' dint the very studdy;
Or when he cocks his elbuck up
To work the muckle bellows,
An' tells the clachan's latest joke
To loud-lunged farmer fellows;
Or hear him in the forenicht lilt,
Wi' sober face nae langer,
Some sang, nae fae a Sunday book;
A tune that isna "Bangor":
To recognize him then, I'll wad,
A stranger it would baffle;
On Sabbath he's the Lettergae,
The Smith at roup or raffle.
MARGARET DODS
LATE VINTER IN ST. RONAN's
Nae mair the sign aboon the door
Wi' passin' winds is flappin';
Fish Nellie comes nae as afore
Wi' nervous chappin'.
The Captain 's followed Francie Tyrell—
Mind ance he gaed to seek him,
An' felt your besom shaft play dirl
Doon-by at Cleikum.
Wi' thrift as great as made you build
To save the window taxin',
Death closed your e'en when greedy Eild
Cam' schedule raxin'.
How gladly would we lea' the Clubs,
"Wildfire" or "Helter Skelter,"
Dicht fae our feet a' earthly dubs,
Had ye a shelter
Whaur trauchled chiels—"an' what for no?"
Gin sae it pleased the gods—
Could rest an' fish a week or so
At Marget Dods'.
'Twould hearten strangers gin they saw
Across some caller loanin'
A wavin' sign whaur crook an' a'
Hung auld St. Ronan.
Then haudin' hard to new-won grace,
Rejectin' aucht 'at's evil,
Ye wouldna thole in sic a place
Dick Tinto's Deevil,
But send him sornin' doon the howe
To some tamteen or hottle,
Whaur birselt vratches fain, I trow,
Wad dreep a bottle.
An' since you're bye wi' anger noo,
Send wi' him something caller—
As muckle's slock the gizzened mou'
O' ae damned "Waller."
THE BACK O' BEYONT IS DRY
Fae the Back o' Beyont the carlie cam',
He fittit it a' the wye;
The hooses were few, an' the road was lang,
Nae winner the man was dry—
He was covered wi' stoor fae head to heel,
He'd a drooth 'at ye couldna buy,
But aye he sang as he leggit alang
"The Back o' Beyont is dry."
He'd a score o' heather-fed wethers to sell,
An' twa or three scrunts o' kye,
An unbroken cowt to niffer or coup,
A peck o' neep seed to buy;
But never a price would the crater mak',
The dealers got "No" nor "Ay,"
Till they tittit the tow, he'd dae naething but sough
"The Back o' Beyont is dry."
I' the year o' short corn he dee'd o' drooth,
But they waked him weel upbye,
'Twas a drink or a dram to the cronies that cam',
Or baith an they cared to try.
When the wag-at-the-wa' had the wee han' at twa
Ye shoulda jist heard the cry,
As the corp in the bed gied a warsle an' said
"The Back o' Beyont is dry."
Fae Foggyloan to the Brig o' Potarch,
An' sooth by the Glen o' Dye,
Fae the Buck o' the Cabrach thro' Midmar,
Whaurever your tryst may lie;
At ilka toll on the weary road
There's a piece an' a dram forbye,
Gin ye show them your groat, an' say laich i' your throat
"The Back o' Beyont is dry."
"The Back o' Beyont is dry,
The Back o' Beyont is dry,
To slacken a drooth can never be wrang,
Sae help yoursel' an' pass it alang,
The Back o' Beyont is dry"