Hamewith

by Charles Murray

A GREEN YULE

I'm weary, weary houkin', in the cauld, weet, clorty clay,

But this will be the deepest in the yaird;

It's nae a four fit dibble for a common man the day—

Ilk bane I'm layin' by is o' a laird.

Whaever slips the timmers, lippens me to mak' his bed,

For lairds maun just be happit like the lave;

An' kistit corps are lucky, for when a'thing's deen an' said,

There's lythe, save for the livin', in a grave.

Up on the watch-tower riggin' there's a draggled hoodie craw

That hasna missed a funeral the year;

He kens as weel's anither this will fairly ding them a',

Nae tenant on the land but will be here.

Sae up an' doon the tablin' wi' a gloatin' roupy hoast,

He haps, wi' twistit neck an' greedy e'e,

As if some deil rejoicin' that anither sowl was lost

An' waitin' for his share o' the dregie.

There's sorrow in the mansion, an' the Lady that tak's on

Is young to hae sae muckle on her ban',

Wi' the haugh lands to excamb where the marches cross the Don,

An' factors aye hame-drauchted when they can.

Come spring, we'll a' be readin', when the kirk is latten oot,

"Displenish" tackit up upon the yett;

For hame-fairm, cairts an' cattle, will be roupit up, I doot,

The policies a' pailined aff an' set.

Twa lairds afore I've happit, an' this noo will mak' the third,

An' tho' they spak' o' him as bein' auld,

It seerly seemed unlikely I would see him in the yird,

For lang ere he was beardit I was bald.

It's three year by the saxty, come the week o' Hallow Fair,

Since first I laid a divot on a grave;

The Hairst o' the Almighty I hae gathered late an' ear',

An' coont the sheaves I've stookit, by the thrave.

I hae kent grief at Marti'mas would neither haud nor bin'—

It was sair for even unco folk to see;

Yet ere the muir was yellow wi' the blossom on the whin,

The tears were dry, the headstane a' ajee.

Nae bairns, nae wife, will sorrow, when at last I'm laid awa',

Nae oes will plant their daisies at my head;

A' gane, but I will follow soon, an' weel content for a'

There's nane but fremt to lay me in my bed.

Earth to earth, an' dust to dust, an' the sowl gangs back to God:

An' few there be wha think their day is lang;

Yet here I'm weary waitin', till the Master gies the nod,

To tak' the gait I've seen sae mony gang.

I fear whiles He's forgotten on his eildit gard'ner here,

But ae day He'll remember me, an' then

My birn o' sins afore Him I'll spread on the Judgment fleer,

Syne wait until the angel says "Come ben."

There noo, the ill bird's flaffin' on the very riggin' stane,

He sees them, an' could tell ye, did ye speer,

The order they will come in, ay, an' name them ilka ane,

An' lang afore the funeral is here.

The feathers will be noddin' as the hearse crawls past the Toll,

As soon's they tap the knowe they'll be in sicht;

The driver on the dickey knappin' sadly on his mull,

Syne raxin' doon to pass it to the vricht.

The factor in the carriage will be next, an' ridin' close

The doctor, ruggin' hard upon his grey;

The farmers syne, an' feuars speakin' laich aboot their loss,

Yet thankfu' for the dram on sic a day.

Ay, there at last they're comin', I maun haste an' lowse the tow

An' ring the lang procession doon the brae;

I've heard the bell sae aften, I ken weel its weary jow,

The tale o' weird it tries sae hard to say.

Bring them alang, the young, the strong,

The weary an' the auld;

Feed as they will on haugh or hill,

This is the only fauld.

Dibble them doon, the laird, the loon

King an' the cadgin' caird,

The lady fine beside the queyn,

A' in the same kirkyaird.

The warst, the best, they a' get rest;

Ane 'neath a headstane braw,

Wi' deep-cut text; while ower the next

* The wavin' grass is a'.*

Mighty o' name, unknown to fame

Slipptt aneth the sod;

Greatest an' least alike face

Waitin' the trump o' God.

HAME

There's a wee, wee glen in the Hielan's,

Where I fain, fain would be;

There's an auld kirk there on the hillside

I weary sair to see.

In a low lythe nook in the graveyard

Drearily stands alane,

Marking the last lair of a' I lo'ed,

A wee moss-covered stane.

There's an auld hoose sits in a hollow

Half happit by a tree;

At the door the untended lilac

Still blossoms for the bee;

But the auld roof is sairly seggit,

There's nane now left to care;

And the thatch ance sae neatly stobbit

Has lang been scant and bare.

Aft as I lie 'neath a foreign sky

In dreams I see them a'—

The auld dear kirk, the dear auld hame,

The glen sae far awa'.

Dreams flee at dawn, and the tropic sun

Nae ray o' hope can gie;

I wander on o'er the desert lone,

There's nae mair hame for me.

SPRING IN THE HOWE O' ALFORD

There's burstin' buds on the larick now

A' the birds are paired an' biggin';

Saft soughin' win's dry the dubby howe,

An' the eildit puir are thiggin'.

The whip-the-cat 's aff fae hoose to hoose,

Wi' his oxtered lap-buird lampin',

An' hard ahint, wi' the shears an' goose,

His wee, pechin' 'prentice trampin'.

The laird's approach gets a coat o' san',

When the grieve can spare a yokin';

On the market stance there's a tinker clan,

An' the guidwife's hens are clockin'.

The mason's harp is set up on en',

He's harlin' the fire-hoose gable;

The sheep are aff to the hills again

As hard as the lambs are able.

There's spots o' white on the lang brown park,

Where the sacks o' seed are sittin';

An' wily craws fae the dawn to dark

At the harrow tail are flittin'.

The liftward lark lea's the dewy seggs,

In the hedge the yeldrin 's singin';

The teuchat cries for her harried eggs,

In the bothy window hingin'.

Nae snaw-bree now in the Leochel Burn,

Nae a water baillie goupin'—

But hear the whirr o' the miller's pirn,

The plash where the trouts are loupin'.

THE HINT O' HAIRST

O for a day at the Hint o' Hairst,

With the craps weel in an' stackit,

When the farmer steps thro' the corn-yard,

An' counts a' the rucks he's thackit:

When the smith stirs up his fire again,

To sharpen the ploughman's coulter;

When the miller sets a new picked stane,

An' dreams o' a muckle moulter:

When cottars' kail get a touch o' frost,

That male's them but taste the better;

An' thro' the neeps strides the leggined laird,

Wi' 's gun an' a draggled setter:

When the forester wi' axe an' keel

Is markin' the wind-blawn timmer,

An' there 's truffs aneuch at the barn gale

To reist a' the fires till simmer.

Syne O for a nicht, ae lang forenicht,

Ower the dambrod spent or cairtin',

Or keepin' tryst wi' a neebour's lass—-

An' a mou' held up at pairtin'.

WINTER

Now Winter rides wi' angry skirl

On sleety winds that rive an' whirl,

An' gaberlunzie-like plays tirl

At sneck an' lozen.

The bairns can barely bide the dirl

O' feet gane dozin.

The ingle's heaped wi' bleezin' peats

An' bits o' splutt'rin' firry reets

Which shortly thow the ploughmen's beets;

An' peels appear

That trickle oot aneth their seats

A' ower the fleer.

The auld wife's eident wheel gaes birr,

The thrifty lasses shank wi' virr;

Till stents are finished nane will stir

Lest Yule should come,

When chiels fae wires the wark mith tirr

To sweep the lum.

The shepherd newly fae the hill

Sits thinkin' on his wethers still;

He kens this frost is sure to kill

A' dwinin' sheep:

His collie, tired, curls in its tail

An' fa's asleep.

Now Granny strips the bairns for bed:

Ower soon the extra quarter fled

For which sae sairly they had pled:

But there, it chappit;

An' sleepy "gweed words" soon are said,

An' cauld backs happit.

The milkers tak' their cogues at last,

Draw moggins on, tie mutches fast,

Syne hap their lantrens fae the blast

Maun noo be met;

An' soon the day's last jot is past,

Milk sey'd an' set.

Syne Sandy, gantin', raxes doon

His fiddle fae the skelf aboon,

Throws by the bag, an' souffs a tune,

Screws up a string,

Tries antics on the shift, but soon

Starts some auld spring.

Swith to the fleer ilk eager chiel

Bangs wi' his lass to start the reel,

Cries "Kissin' time"; the coy teds squeal,

An' struggle vainly:

The sappier smacks whiles love reveal,

But practice mainly.

An opening chord wi' lang upbow

The fiddler strikes, syne gently now

Glides into some Strathspey by Gow,

Or Marshall't may be;

The dancers lichtly needle thro';

Rab sets to Leebie.

Wi' crackin' thooms "Hooch! Hooch!" they reel.

The winceys, spreadin' as they wheel,

Gie stolen glints o' souple heel

An' shapely queet.

The guidman claps his hands, sae weel

He's pleased to see't.

The wrinkles leave the shepherd's broo,

For see the sonsy mistress too

Shows what the aulder fouks can do,

An', licht's a bird,

Some sober country dance trips thro'

Wi' Jock the herd.

Syne lads wha noo can dance nae mair

To cauldrife chaumers laith repair;

An' lasses, lauchin', speel the stair,

Happy an' warm.

For liftin' hearts an' killin' care

Music's the charm!

When frost is keen an' winter bauld,

An' deep the drift on muir an' fauld;

When mornin's dark an' snell an' cauld

Bite to the bane;

We turn in thocht, as to a hauld,

To some sic e'en.