Violet Jacob

“ Its chief note is longing, like all the poetry of exiles, a chastened melancholy which finds comfort in the memory of old unhappy things as well as of the beatitudes of youth. The metres are cunningly chosen, and are most artful when they are simplest ”

“ But the guidwife's no contentit yet, her like ye never saw!
Cries she—"This time it is the lass, an' she's awa'!
Aye, yon laddie's waur nor ony tod, for Bell's awa'!"
THE BLIND SHEPHERD The land is white, an' far awa'
Abune ae bush an' tree
Nae fit is movin' i' the snaw
On the hills I canna see;
For the sun may shine an' the darkness fa',
But aye it's nicht to me.
I hear the whaup on windy days
Cry up amang the peat
Whaur, on the road that speels the braes,
I've heard my ain sheep's feet,
An' the bonnie lambs wi' their canny ways
An' the silly yowes that bleat. ”

“ THE WATER-HEN As I gae'd doon by the twa mill dams i' the mornin'
The water-hen cam' oot like a passin' wraith
And her voice cam' through the reeds wi' a sound of warnin',
"Faith—keep faith!"
"Aye, bird, tho' ye see but ane ye may cry on baith!"
As I gae'd doon the field when the dew was lyin',
My ain love stood whaur the road an' the mill-lade met,
An it seemed to me that the rowin' wheel was cryin',
"Forgi'e—forget,
An turn, man, turn, for ye ken that ye lo'e her yet!" ”

“ V. J. PREFACE There are few poets to-day who write in the Scots vernacular, and the modesty of the supply is perhaps determined by the slenderness of the demand, for pure Scots is a tongue which in the changes of the age is not widely understood, even in Scotland. The various accents remain, but the old words tend to be forgotten, and we may be in sight of the time when that noble speech shall be degraded to a northern dialect of English. ”

“ Syne, a' is weel, though my banes lie here for iver,
An' hame is no for me,
Till the reid tide brak's like the spate in a roarin' river
O'er the micht o' Gairmanie.
Sae gang you back, my dear, whaur the gulls are cryin',
Gie thanks by kirk an' grave,
That yer man keeps faith wi' the land whaur his he'rt is lyin',
An' the Lord will keep the lave.
GLORY I canna' see ye, lad, I canna' see ye,
For a' yon glory that's aboot yer heid,
Yon licht that haps ye, an' the hosts that's wi' ye,
Aye, but ye live, an' it's mysel' that's deid! ”

“ He'll skelp the scholars wi' the tawse
(I'd like that fine mysel'!)
They're easy pleased, my brithers three—
I hate the smiddy's lowe,
A weary dominie I'd be,
An' I canna thole the plough.
But by the doo'cot up the braes
There's nane frae me can steal
The blue sea an' the ocean haze
An' the ships I like sae weel.
The brigs ride oot past Ferryden
Ahint the girnin' tugs,
And the lasses wave to the Baltic men
Wi' the gowd rings i' their lugs.
My mither's sweir to let me gang.
My feyther gi'es me blame,
But youth is sair and life is lang
When yer he'rt's sae far frae hame. ”

“ And the bramble happs ye baith,
O what do I see, i' the lang nicht, lyin' an' thinkin'
As I see yer wraith—yer wraith?
There's a road to a far-aff land, an' the land is yonder
Whaur a' men's hopes are set;
We dinna ken foo lang we maun hae to wander,
But we'll a' win to it yet;
An' gin there's woods o' fir an' the licht atween them,
I winna speir its name,
But I'll lay me doon by the puddock-stules when I've seen them,
An' I'll cry "I'm hame—I'm hame!"
THE WILD GEESE "O tell me what was on yer road, ye roarin' norlan' Wind,
As ye cam' blawin' frae the land that's niver frae my mind? ”

“ By nicht or day, come ben, my bairn, come ben!
[5] Alder.
THE SHEPHERD TO HIS LOVE Abune the hill ae muckle star is burnin',
Sae saft an' still, my dear, sae far awa,
There's ne'er a wind, noo day to nicht is turnin',
To lift the brainches o' the whisperin' shaw;
Aye, Jess, there's nane to see,
There's just the sheep an' me,
And ane's fair wastit when there micht be twa!
Alang the knowes there's no a beast that's movin',
They sheep o' mine lie sleepin' i' the dew;
There's jist ae thing that's wearyin' an' rovin',
An' that's mysel', that wearies, wantin' you. ”

“ That's fechtin' for his ain.
Gin I had kept whate'er was mine
As I hae gie'd my best,
My he'rt were licht by day, and syne
The nicht wad bring me rest;
There is nae heavier he'rt to find
Frae Forfar toon to Ayr,
As aye I sit me doon to mind
On him I see nae mair.
Lad, gin ye fa' by Chairlie's side
To rid this land o' shame,
There winna be a prooder bride
Than her ye left at hame,
But I will seek ye whaur ye sleep
Frae lawlands to the peat,
An ilka nicht at mirk I'll creep
To lay me at yer feet.
MAGGIE Maggie, I ken that ye are happ'd in glory
And nane can gar ye greet ”

“ An' it's lang, lang strivin' i' the mirk that's there.
The een o' love can pierce the mools that hide a sodger's grave,
An' love that doesna' heed the sod will naither hear the wave,
But it canna' see 'ayont the cloud that hauds my youngest doon
Wi' its mist o' greed an' sorrow i' the smokin' toon.
An whiles, when through the open door there fades the deein' licht,
I think I hear my ain twa men come up the road at nicht,
But him that bides the nearest seems the furthest aye frae me—
And it's lang, lang listenin' till I hear the three! ”

“ And in yon streets o' licht
Walks mony an Angus lad;
But my he'rt's aye back
Whaur my ain toon stands,
And the steeple's shade is laid when the tide's at the slack
On the lang sands.
[2] Sea-fog.
THE ROAD TO MARYKIRK To Marykirk ye'll set ye forth,
An' whustle as ye step alang,
An' aye the Grampians i' the North
Are glow'rin' on ye as ye gang.
By Martin's Den, through beech an' birk,
A breith comes soughin', sweet an' strang,
Alang the road to Marykirk. ”

“ But, lad, there is a safter licht
In thae twa een o' mine!
Aye—wark yer best—but youth is short,
An' shorter ilka year—
There's ane wad gar ye sune forget
Yon limmer o' a mear!
JEEMSIE MILLER There's some that mak' themsels a name
Wi' preachin', business, or a game,
There's some wi' drink hae gotten fame
And some wi' siller:
I kent a man got glory cheap,
For nane frae him their een could keep,
Losh! he was shapit like a neep,
Was Jeemsie Miller!
When he gaed drivin' doon the street
Wi' cairt an' sheltie, a' complete,
The plankie whaur he had his seat
Was bent near double ”

“ That draws their fitsteps aye awa' frae hearth and frae fauld,
That pairts ilk freen' frae ither, and the young frae the auld.
And whiles I stand at mornin' and whiles I stand at nicht,
To see it through the gaisty gloom, gang slippin oot o sicht;
There's mony a lad will ne'er come back amang his ain to lie,
An' its lang, lang waitin' till the time gangs by.
An far ayont the bit o' sky that lies abune the hills,
There is the black toon standin' mid the roarin' o' the mills.
Whaur the reek frae mony engines hangs 'atween it and the sun
An the lives are weary, weary, that are just begun. ”

“ I've ne'er let anither lad near ye—
An' what can a lassie need mair?
An' oh! but I've socht ye an' watched ye,
Whauriver yer fitsteps was set,
Gin ye had but yer neb i' the gairden
I was aye glowerin' in at the yett!
Ye'll mind when ye sat at the windy,
Dressed oot in yer fine Sawbath black,
Richt brawly I kent that ye saw me,
But ye just slippit oot at the back.
Christina, 'twas shamefu'—aye was it!
Affrontin' a man like mysel',
I'm thinkin' ye're daft, for what ails ye
Is past comprehension to tell.
Guid stuff's no sae common, Christina,
And whiles it's no easy to see ”

“ A' nicht he's lauchin', for, fegs, there's nane
To draw the blind on his windy-pane
And tak' an' bed him, to lie his lane
And pleasure himsel' nae mair.
III Says I to Grannie, "Keek up the glen
Abune by the rodden tree,
There's a braw lad 'yont i' the mune, ye ken."
Says she, "Awa' wi' ye, bairn, gang ben,
For noo it's little I fash wi' men
An' it's less that they fash wi' me!"
IV When I'm as big as the tinkler-man
That sings i' the loan a' day,
I'll bide wi' him i' the tinkler-van
Wi' a wee-bit pot an' a wee-bit pan ”

“ That was growin' braw on its bush at the keek o' day,
But the lad that pu'd yon flower i' the mornin's glory,
He canna pray.
He canna pray; but there's nane i' the kirk will heed him
Whaur he sits sae still his lane at the side o' the wa,
For nane but the reid rose kens what my lassie gie'd him—
It an' us twa!
He canna sing for the sang that his ain he'rt raises,
He canna see for the mist that's 'afore his een,
An a voice drouns the hale o' the psalms an' the paraphrases,
Cryin' "Jean, Jean, Jean!" ”

“ For there's mony a load on shore may be skailed at sea!"
* * * * * *
When I cam' hame wi' the thrang o' the years 'ahint me
There was naucht to see for the weeds and the lade in spate,
But the water-hen by the dams she seemed aye to mind me,
Cryin' "Hope—wait!"
"Aye, bird, but my een grow dim, an' it's late—late!"
THE HEID HORSEMAN O Alec, up at Soutar's fairm,
You, that's sae licht o' he'rt,
I ken ye passin' by the tune
Ye whustle i' the cairt;
I hear the rowin' o' the wheels,
The clink o' haims an' chain,
And set abune yer stampin' team
I see ye sit yer lane. ”

“ Whaur wad the puir bit callant be?
The elders, Ross an' Weellum Aird,
An' fowk like Alexander Caird,
That think they're cocks o' ilka yaird,
Fegs aye! they'd na be sweir to rule
A lad sae newly frae the schule
Gin my auld bonnet crooned a fule!
But oh! Jehovah's unco' kind!
Whaur wad this doited pairish find
A man wi' sic a powerfu' mind?
Sae, let the pairish sleep at nicht
Blind wi' the elders' shinin' licht,
Nor ken wha's hand keeps a' things richt.
It's what they canna understan'
That brains hae ruled since time began,
An' that the beadle is the man! ”

“ Sort them, deal with them. Speels, climbs. Speir, to inquire. Steerin', stirring. Sweir, loth. Syne, since, ago, then. Tawse, a leather strap used for correcting children. Thole, to endure. Thrawn, twisted. ”