Bonnie Joann, and other poems

by Violet Jacob

We’ve stookit the hairst an’ we’re needin’
To gaither it in,
Syne, gin the morn’s dry, we’ll be leadin’
An’ wark’ll begin;
But noo I’ll awa doon the braeside
My lane, while I can—
Wha kens wha he’ll meet by the wayside,
My bonnie Joann?
East yonder, the hairst-fields are hidin’
The sea frae my een,
Gin ye keek whaur the stocks are dividin’
Ye’ll see it atween.
Sae douce an’ sae still it has sleepit
Since hairst-time began
Like my he’rt—gin ye’d tak’ it an’ keep it
My bonnie Joann.
Owre a’thing the shadows gang trailin’,
Owre stubble an’ strae;
Frae the hedge to the fit o’ the pailin’
They rax owre the way;
But the sun may gang through wi’ his beamin’
An’ traivel his span,
For aye, by the licht o’ my dreamin’,
I see ye, Joann.
Awa frae ye, naebody’s braver,
Mair wise-like an’ bauld,
Aside ye, I hech an’ I haver,
I’m het an’ I’m cauld;
But oh! could I tell wi’out speakin’
The he’rt o’ a man,
Ye micht find I’m the lad that ye’re seekin’,
My bonnie Joann!

THE WIND FRAE THE BALTIC

Below the wa’s, oot-by Montrose,
The tides ca’ up an’ doon
And mony’s the gallant mairchantman
Lies in aside the toon;
Oh, it’s fine alang the tideway
The loupin’ waters rin
When the wind is frae the Baltic wi’ the brigs comin’ in.
I’d gie the ring upon my hand
To hide me frae the sea
That manes by nicht an’ cries by day
The dule that’s come to me,
For I’ll hear nae mair the fit-fa’
When hame the brigs may win
O’ a man that sailed the Baltic, nor his step comin’ in.
And noo the toon is fair asteer,
The weans rin doon the street,
And I may turn my face aboot
An’ get me hame to greet,
There’s sic a joy wi’ a’ fowk
My tears wad be a sin,
For the wind is frae the Baltic—an’ the brigs comin’ in.

THE TRAMP TO THE TATTIE-DULIE

Thrawn-leggit carle wi’ airms on hie
And jist a hole for ilka ee,
Ye needna lift yer hand to me
As though ye’d strike me;
Ye’re threits abune an’ strae below,
But what-like use is sic a show?
Ye maun respec’ me, bogle, tho’
Ye mauna like me!
To gutsy doo or thievin’ craw
Ye mebbe represent the law
When they come fleein’ owre the wa’
To tak’ an airin’,
Dod, I’ll no say they arena richt
When sic a fell, unchancy sicht
Gars them think twice afore they licht—
But I’m no carin’!
Yer heid’s a neep,[1] yer wame’s[2] a sack,
Yer ill-faured face gars bairnies shak’,
But yet the likes o’ you can mak’
A livin’ frae it;
Sma’ use to me! It isna fair
For though there’s mony wad declare
That I’m no far ahint ye there,
I canna dae it!
Life’s a disgust wi’ a’ its ways,
For free o’ chairge ye get yer claes,
Nae luck hae I on washin’-days—
There’s plenty dryin’,
But gin I see a usefu’ sark
An’ bide or gloamin’ help my wark,
The guidwife’s oot afore it’s dark—
And leaves nane lyin’.
Weel, weel, I’m aff. It’s little pleasure
To see ye standin’ at yer leisure
When I’ve sae mony miles to measure
To get a meal!
Ye idle dog! My bonnet’s through,
An’ yours is no exac’ly new,
But a’ the same I’ll hae’t frae you,
And faur-ye-weel!

FOOTNOTES:

[1] Turnip.

[2] Belly.

HALLOWE’EN

The tattie-liftin’s nearly through,
They’re ploughin’ whaur the barley grew,
And aifter dark, roond ilka stack,
Ye’ll see the horsemen stand an’ crack
O Lachlan, but I mind o’ you!
I mind foo often we hae seen
Ten thoosand stars keek doon atween
The nakit branches, an’ below
Baith fairm an’ bothie hae their show,
Alowe wi’ lichts o’ Hallowe’en.
There’s bairns wi’ guizards[3] at their tail
Clourin’ the doors wi’ runts[4] o’ kail,
And fine ye’ll hear the skreichs an’ skirls
O’ lassies wi’ their droukit curls
Bobbin’ for aipples i’ the pail.
The bothie fire is loupin’ het,
A new heid horseman’s kist is set
Richts o’ the lum; whaur by the blaze
The auld ane stude that kept yer claes—
I canna thole to see it yet!
But gin the auld fowks’ tales are richt
An ghaists come hame on Hallow nicht,
O freend o’ freends! what wad I gie
To feel ye rax yer hand to me
Atween the dark an’ caun’le licht?
Awa in France, across the wave,
The wee lichts burn on ilka grave,
An’ you an’ me their lowe hae seen—
Ye’ll mebbe hae yer Hallowe’en
Yont, whaur ye’re lyin’ wi’ the lave.
There’s drink an’ daffin’, sang an’ dance
And ploys and kisses get their chance,
But Lachlan, man, the place I see
Is whaur the auld kist used to be
And the lichts o’ Hallowe’en in France!