Charles Murray

“ Scotland our Mither—we sow, we plant, we till,
But plagues that passed o'er Egypt light here an' work their will.
They've harried barn an' basket till ruin claims us sure;
We'd better kept the auld craft an' herdit on the muir.
Scotland our Mither—we weary whiles and tire;
When Bad Luck helps to outspan, Regret biggs up the fire;
But still the hope uphaulds us, tho' bitter now the blast,
That we'll win to the auld hame across the seas at last.
Scotland our Mither—we've bairns you've never seen—
Wee things that turn them northward when they kneel down at e'en ”

“ Poetry, like Christmas cards, is bought, not to keep, but to give away at Christmas, on birthdays, and, by economical friends of the bride, at weddings. There is always plenty of poetry in small volumes, in flabby leather covers, among the array of wedding presents. ”

“ Indeed, the poems beget a certain melancholy. "I am never merry when I hear sweet music" from a world that is dead or dying, the world of Scott and Hogg, the world that knew not polluted streams, and railways, and motor cars, and, worst of abominations, the gramophone.
In a far-off land Mr. Murray retains the sentiment of that forgotten time, and is haunted by the scent of peat and bog myrtle, the sound of old words that now are strange, the poverty that was not the mate of discontent. ”

“ An' ilka name baith great an' wee
Shak's thro' his sieve;
Syne sadly wags his pow to see
The few that live.
An' still the quickest o' the lot
Is his wha made the lowly cot
A shrine, whaur ilka rev'rent Scot
Bareheadit turns.
Our mither's psalms may be forgot,
But never Burns.
This nicht, auld Scotland, dry your tears,
An' let nae sough o' grief come near's;
We'll speak o' Rab's gin he could hear's;
Life's but a fivver,
And he's been healed this hundred years
To live for ever. ”

“ Nae marrow for the blackbird's lay,
They may hae cheered somebody's way
Wha wanted better,
An' sent him happier up the brae
My welcome debtor.
Nae care hae I, nor wish to speel
Parnassus' knowe, for mony a chiel
Has tint his time, his life as weel,
To claim a bit o't:
I only crave a wee bit biel'
Near han' the fit o't.
SCOTLAND OUR MITHER
Scotland our Mither—this from your sons abroad,
Leavin' tracks on virgin veld that never kent a road,
Trekkin' on wi' weary feet, an' faces turned fae hame,
But lovin' aye the auld wife across the seas the same. ”

“ We pay what we're awin', we're awin', we're awin',
We pay a' we're awin' when Death's at the door.
THE GYPSY
O wasna he bauld for a tinker loon,—
Sim leant on his rake an' swore—
To fling a' his wallets an' bawd-skins doon,
An' rap at the castle door.
Wi' my Lord awa' at the Corbie's linn
There was man nor dog at hame,
Save a toothless bitch 'at was auld an' blin',
An' the gard'ner auld an' lame.
When my Lady heard she cam' doon the stair,
An' ben thro' the antlered ha',
Whaur, bonnet in hand, stood the gypsy there
As raggit as she was braw. ”

“ Them ower his weel-raxed thrapple;
The life scarce left the quivering ham
That shivered in his grapple.
But never was Ulysses slack
To pay where he was awin',
An' starkly did he gie him 't back,
An' bravely cleared the lawin'.
For while the hoven monster snored,
An' rifted in his dreams,
We first the great God's help implored
An' blessing on our schemes;
The kavils cuist: a feerious thrang
Syne gaithered roond aboot,
An' wi' a sturdy pointed stang
We bored his ae e'e oot. ”

“ 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 ”

“ The o'ercome o' ilka sang 's the same:
"There are ower mony maidens at the Mill,
It's time the ane I trysted wi' cam' hame!"
THE WITCH O' THE GOLDEN HAIR
Auld carlins ride on their brooms astride
Awa' thro' the midnight air,
But they cast nae spell on a man sae fell
As the Witch o' the Golden Hair.
Nae a fairy free 'neath the hazel tree
That dances upon the green
Ever kent a charm that could heal or harm
Like the glint o' her twa blue een.
Fae the earth she's reived, fae the Heav'n she's thieved,
For her cauldron's deadly brew ”

“ Murray is so pure and so rich that it may puzzle some patriots whose sentiments are stronger than their linguistic acquirements. The imitations of Horace are among the best extant, and Mr. Murray might take Professor Blackie's advice, trying how far the most rustic idylls of Theocritus, say the "Oaristus," can be converted into the Doric of the Lowlands. If one may have favourites, among these is "The Packman," "The Howe of Alford," "The Hint o' Hairst," "The Antiquary," and "The Lettergae." ”

“ Speed to the mirk brings the mornin's fight.
Here's luck to me if you chance to fa',
An' here's to luck if it favours you;
For she's but ane, an' o' us there's twa,
To him that's left may she yet prove true.
In days to come, when the reivers ride,
They'll miss ae sword that was swift an' keen,
An' you or I, as the Fates decide,
Will curse the glint o' a woman's een.
A parting cup, we will drink it noo,
Syne break the quaich to a shattered faith;
Here's happiness to the lass we lo'e,
The lying lass wha deceived us baith. ”

“ For the maister brunt the whistle that the wee herd made!
SKEELY KIRSTY
A stane-cast fae the clachan heid
An auld feal dyke enclosed a reed
O' garden grun', where flower an' weed
In spring grew first aye;
An' there the humble hauddin' steed
O' Skeely Kirsty.
Upon the easin' sods a fou
Thick-leaved an' sappy yearly grew,
Which, for a scrat or scabbit mou',
Beat aught in "Buchan";
An' draughts fae herbs she used to brew
That drank like brochan.
To heal a heid, or scob a bane,
To ease a neebour's grippit wean,
Or thoom a thraw, there wasna ane
Could e'er come near her ”

“ When Jeames—I'se warrant ye, wi' tremblin' shins—
Stands forrit, an' they tak' the muckle beuk
To reckon up his shortcomes, slips, an' sins,
She'll check the tally fae some canny neuk,
An' prod his memory when he begins
Should there be ony he would fain o'erleuk.
That Scuttrie Market when he was the waur—
He thocht the better—o' a drap o' yill,
An' fell at Muggart's door amo' the glaur,
Forgot the shaltie ower the hindmost gill,
Syne stoitered aff alane, he kent nae whaur,
An' sleepit wi' the sheep on Baadin's hill. ”

“ 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." ”

“ 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. ”

“ An' flints an' fleerishes to raise a bleeze,
Rowed in a cloutie, to preserve the glint;
He had a saxpence that had shot a witch,
Sae stark, she hadna left her like ahint
For killin' kye or giein' fouk the itch.
He kent auld spells, could trail the rape an' spae,
He'd wallets fu' o' queer oonchancie leems,
Could dress a mart, prob hoven nowt, an' flay;
Fell spavined horse, an' deftly use the fleems.
He lived till ninety, an' this deein' wiss
He whispered, jist afore his spirit flew—
"Gweed grant that even in the land o' bliss
I'll get a bield whaur some things arena new." ”

“ Hoo short or lang for you an' me the tack o' life will rin,
We'll better jist dree oot the span as we hae dane the ell,
Content gin mony towmonds still we're left to store the kin,
Or this the last we'll see the rocks tashed wi' the weary seas;
Hae sense an' set the greybeard oot; wi' life sae short for a'
They're daft that plan ae ook ahead; Time keeks asklent an' flees
E'en as we crack; the nicht is oors, the morn may never daw.
HORACE IN SCOTS
Persicos odi
Foreign fashions, lad, allure you
Hamespun happit I would be ”

“ Still they are not in quite such evil case as they would be were I a poet, for many a man and most women most justly disesteem their own capacity for reading verses. Indeed that art is now almost lost, and it is strange to think that there are probably to-day more persons who write verse than who read it. ”

“ Ruler ower the Council Board,
An' tho' never re-elected,
"Ance a Provost, aye 'My Lord.'"
Credit's got by advertisin'
Ye hae siller still to lend;
Get the word o' early risin',
Ye can sleep a week on end.
Gie a man a name for fightin'—
Never need he wear a sword;
Men will flee afore his flytin'—
"Ance a Provost, aye 'My Lord.'"
But for mischief name a body,
He can never win aboon 't,
Folk wad swear he chate the wuddy
In the lint-pot gin he droon't ”

“ Said the big ane then to the wee ane there:
"In colour an' scouk we are sib as sins,
Wi' a half ell mair we would pass for twins."
("A wee toad spits," quo' the Deevilock.)
"Since the warl' was made"—'twas the auld Deil spak'—
("That's a far cry noo," quo' the Deevilock.)
"I hae wandered far but I've aye come back."
("To a het hame too," quo' the Deevilock.)
"Since first I set oot wi' a teem new creel,
Haena mortals changed an' their ways as weel!
For then I was thin an' had wark enew,
Noo I'm fat as creesh, an' the furnace fu'."
("Improve the draught," quo' the Deevilock.) ”

“ 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. ”

“ 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. ”

“ 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. ”

“ 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'! ”

“ Tho' soorocks an' tansies grow green in the ha',
An' a mither is a' I hae left o' my ain,
The ivy sae kindly aye covers the wa'.
THE LAWIN'
The way o' transgressors is hard;
There cometh a day
The Wicked will get their reward,
The Devil his pay. ”

“ 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 ”

“ This offering is a survival: the idea of love is still connected with the writings of Tennyson and Browning, though experience tells us that the poetry-reading days of the pair end at the altar.
The child of an earlier generation, I was capable of reading verses in my youth, and even now can do so, retaining at least that faculty of a dead world, just as the last Pict held the secret of "brewing the ale from the heather bell." Mr. Charles Murray's ale (which is excellent) is all brewed from the heather bell, is pure Scots ”

“ Thro' whins an' heather ettlin' aye to rise.
Ane whiles she sees, wha, perched upon a stane,
Proclaims that he at least the goal has won,
But shortly finds he 's shiverin' there his lane
Wi' scores aboon, between him an' the sun.
Another, sair forfochen wi' the braes,
Enjoys the view while he has strength to see;
"Weel 's better aye than waur," content, he says,
"Thus far is far an' far aneuch for me." ”

“ I'd swap wi' a god wha is fond o' ease."
("Ha! ha!—ha! ha!" quo' the Deevilock.)
A BACKCAST
How lanely the nichts by the auld ingle cheek,
Ohone, but a mither is nae like a wife,
Regret on the creepie sits watchin' the reek,
An' whaur are the dainties to comfort my life? ”

“ But you should hae seen the whistle that the wee herd made!
He wheepled on't at mornin' an' he tweetled on't at nicht,
He puffed his freckled cheeks until his nose sank oot o' sicht,
The kye were late for milkin' when he piped them up the closs,
The kitlins got his supper syne, an' he was beddit boss;
But he cared na doit nor docken what they did or thocht or said,
There was comfort in the whistle that the wee herd made. ”