THE END O’T
There’s a fine braw thistle that lifts its croon
By the river-bank whaur the ashes stand,
An’ the swirl o’ water comes whisp’rin’ doon
Past birk an’ bramble an’ grazin’ land.
But simmer’s flittit an’ time’s no heedin’
A feckless lass nor a pridefu’ flow’r;
The dark to hide me’s the grace I’m needin’,
An’ the thistle’s seedin’
An’ my day’s owre.
I redd the hoose an’ I meat the hens
(Oh, it’s ill to wark when ye daurna tire!)
An’ what’ll I get when my mither kens
It’s niver a maiden that biggs her fire?
I mind my pray’rs, but I’m feared to say them,
I hide my een, for they’re greetin’ fast,
What though I blind them—for wha wad hae them?
The licht’s ga’en frae them
An’ my day’s past.
Oh, wha tak’s tent for a fadin’ cheek?
No him, I’se warrant, that gar’d it fade!
There’s little love for a lass to seek
When the coortin’s through an’ the price is paid.
Oh, aince forgotten’s forgotten fairly,
An’ heavy endit what’s licht begun,
But God forgie ye an’ keep ye, Chairlie,
For the nicht’s fa’en airly
An’ my day’s done!
THE KELPIE
I’m feared o’ the road ayont the glen,
I’m sweir to pass the place
Whaur the water’s rinnin’, for a’ fowk ken
There’s a kelpie sits at the fit o’ the den,
And there’s them that’s seen his face.
But whiles he watches an’ whiles he hides
And whiles, gin na wind manes,
Ye can hear him roarin’ frae whaur he bides
An’ the soond o’ him splashin’ agin the sides
O’ the rocks an’ the muckle stanes.
When the mune gaes doon at the arn-tree’s back
In a wee, wee weary licht,
My bed-claes up to my lugs I tak’,
For I mind the swirl o’ the water black
An’ the cry i’ the fearsome nicht.
And lang an’ fell is yon road to me
As I come frae the schule;
I duarna think what I’m like to see
When dark fa’s airly on buss an’ tree
At Martinmas and Yule.
Aside the crusie[11] my mither reads,
“My bairn,” says she, “ye’ve heard
The Lord is mindfu’ o’ a’ oor needs
An’ His shield an’ buckler’s abune the heids
O’ them that keeps His word.”
But I’m a laddie that’s no that douce,
An’ fechtin’s a bonnie game;
The dominie’s pawmies[12] are little use,
An’ mony’s the Sawbath I’m rinnin’ loose
When a’body thinks I’m hame!
Dod, noo we’re nearin’ the shorter days,
It’s cannie I’ll hae to gang,
An’ keep frae fechtin’ an’ sic-like ways,
And no be tearin’ my Sawbath claes
Afore that the nichts grow lang.
Richt guid an’ couthie I’ll need to be,
(But it’s leein’ to say I’m glad),
I ken there’s troubles that fowk maun dree,
An’ the kelpie’s no like to shift for me,
Sae, gin thae warlocks are fear’d o’ Thee,
Lord, mak’ me a better lad!
FOOTNOTES:
[11] Iron oil-lamp.
[12] Canings.
BALTIC STREET
My dainty lass, lay you the blame
Upon the richtfu’ heid;
’Twas daft ill-luck that bigg’d yer hame
The wrang side o’ the Tweed.
Ye hae yer tocher a’ complete,
Ye’re bonnie as the rose,
But I was born in Baltic Street,
In Baltic Street, Montrose!
Lang syne on mony a waefu’ nicht,
Hie owre the sea’s distress,
I’ve seen the great airms o’ the licht
Swing oot frae Scurdyness;
An’ prood, in sunny simmer blinks,
When land-winds rase an’ fell,
I’d flee my draigon[13] on the links
Wi’ callants like mysel’.
Oh, Baltic Street is cauld an’ bare
An’ mebbe nae sae grand,
But ye’ll feel the smell i’ the caller air
O’ kippers on the land.
’Twixt kirk an’ street the deid fowk bide
Their feet towards the sea,
Ill nee’bours for a new-made bride,
Gin ye come hame wi’ me.
The steeple shades the kirkyaird grass,
The seamen’s hidden banes,
A dour-like kirk to an English lass
Wha kens but English lanes;
And when the haar, the winter through,
Creeps blind on close and wa’
My hame micht get a curse frae you,
Mysel’ get, mebbe, twa.
I’ll up an’ aff the morn’s morn
To seek some reid-haired queyn,
Bauld-he’rted, strang-nieved,[14] bred an’ born
In this auld toon o’ mine.
And oh! for mair I winna greet,
Gin we hae meal an’ brose
And a but an’ ben in Baltic Street,
In Baltic Street, Montrose!