(Yestere’n was Hallowe’en,
To-day is Hallow-day,
It’s nine free nichts to Martinmas,
And then we’ll get away.
Old Song among Angus Farm Servants.)
Frae Hallowe’en to Martinmas
There’s little time to fill,
And yet there’s mony a warkin’ lass
Thinks a’ the days stand still.
Oh, cauld the mornin’ creeps on nicht
Alang the eerie skies,
An’ cauld the blink o’ caun’le-licht
That lets me see to rise.
For late an’ airly at the fairm
The wark seems niver past,
But a week, come Monday, brings the tairm
When I may flit at last.
My mither hauds her docters ticht,
My mither’s hoose is sma’,
An’ I niver lo’ed my mither richt
Until I gaed awa.
But yestere’en was Hallowe’en
When a’ may dance an’ sing;
The auld guidwife shut doon her e’en,
The young anes got their fling;
Set up, the fiddler wrocht. Below,
The reel swang ilka ane,
But my feet danced oot to meet my joe
By the licht o’ Charlewayn.
My mither’s hame’s a happy hame
Whaur easy I may lie,
And o’ mysel’ I’m thinkin’ shame,
Sic a feckless queyn am I.
For, by the licht o’ Charlewayn,
It’s Rab that gar’d me lairn
To see a lover’s lass mair plain
E’en than a mither’s bairn.
Aye, yestere’en was Hallowe’en,
An’ Martinmas is near;
It’s wae for Martinmas I’ve been
But it’s like to find me here!
FOOTNOTES:
[17] Charles’ Wain, the Plough.
THE MUCKLE MOU’
When ye are auld an’ pitten past,
Ye’ll whiles be sittin’ wi’ a freen’
And crackin’, as ye hear the blast
Rage i’ the lum, o’ fowk ye’ve seen.
There’s some gangs whingein’,[18] singin’ sma’,
An’ some that taks a baulder tune,
But ae thing’s aye the same wi’ a’—
Their mou’s owre muckle for their spune.
Ye’ll see a lad—his hoose the best,
A thrivin’ swine in till his yaird,
His gairden fu’—he winna rest,
He’s wud because he’s no a laird!
He coorts a lass; she’ll tak’ her aith
He isna fit to dicht her shune,
What’s wrang wi’ ane is wrang wi’ baith—
Their mou’s owre muckle for their spune.
O’ tinkler-fowk, an’ fowk wi’ means
Ye’ll scarcely hae the time to speak,
Men, wives an’ widdies, lords an’ weans,
The mair they get, the mair they’ll seek.
Ye’d think the vera warld was deav’d
Wi’ them that’s roarin’ for the mune,
Nae maitter what they’ve a’ receiv’d
Their mou’s owre muckle for their spune.
But when ye’ve lookit mony a year
Upon yersel’ and ither men,
Although to lairn ye’ve whiles been sweir,
There’s twa-three things ye’re like to ken;
Ye winna need to mak’ ado
An’ warstle wi’ the powers abune,
Yer spune’s the measure o’ yer mou’,
Gin ane is wrang, it’s no the spune!
FOOTNOTES:
[18] Whining.
THE GANGEREL
It’s ye maun whustle for a breeze
Until the sails be fu’;
They bigg yon ships that ride the seas
To pleasure fowk like you.
For ye hae siller i’ yer hand
And a’ that gowd can buy,
But weary, in a weary land,
A gangerel-loon am I.
Ye’ll feel the strang tides lift an’ toss
The scud o’ nor’land faem,
And when ye drap the Southern Cross
It’s a’ roads lead ye hame.
And ye shall see the shaws o’ broom
Wave on the windy hill,
Alang the strath the hairst-fields toom[19]
And syne the stackyairds fill.
Ye’ll hear fu’ mony a raittlin’ cairt
On Forfar’s causey-croon,[20]
Wi’ young stirks loupin’ to the Mairt
That roars in Forfar toon.
O’ nichts, ayont yer snibbet door,
Ye’ll see in changeless band,
Abune Craig Oule, to keep Strathmore,
The stars of Scotland stand.
But tho’ ye think ye sicht them fine
Gang ben an’ tak’ yer rest,
Frae lands that niver kent their shine
It’s me that sees them best!
For they shall brak’ their ancient trust,
Shall rise nae mair nor set,
The Sidlaw hills be laid in dust
Afore that I forget.
Lowse ye the windy-sneck a wheen,
An’ glowre frae ilka airt
Fegs! Ye may see them wi’ yer een—
I see them wi’ my he’rt!