INTER ARMA
Sweet Argos
An Epistle from Jock in billets to Sandy in the trenches.
When the Almichty took His hand
Frae shapin’ skies and seas and land,
Some orra bits left ower He fand,
Riddled them roun’—
A clart o’ stane and wud and sand—
And made this toun.
A glaury loan, a tumblin’ kirk,
Twae glandered mears, a dwaibly stirk,
Hens, ae auld wife, a wauflike birk—
That’s whaur I dwal,
While you are fechtin’ like a Turk
Ayont Thiepval.
The weet drips through the bauks abune,
Ootbye the cundies roar and rin,
There’s comfort naether oot nor in,
The wind gangs blather;—
We maun be michty sunk in sin
To earn sic wather.
But, Sandy lad, for you it’s waur,
You on that muckle Zollern scaur,
Your lintwhite locks a’ fyled wi’ glaur,
And hungry—my word!
While Gairmans dae the best they daur
To send ye skyward....
······
’Twas late yestreen that we cam doun
The road that leads frae Morval toun;
We cam like mice, nae sang nor soun’,
Nae daff nor jest;
Like ghaists that trail the midnicht roun’
We crap to rest.
For sax weeks hunkerin’ in a hole
We’d kenned the warst a man can thole—
Nae skirlin’ dash frae goal to goal
Yellin’ like wud,
But the lang stell that wechts the soul
And tooms the bluid.
Weel, yestereen we limped alang,
Me and auld Dave frae Cambuslang,
And Andra, him that had the gang
In Tamson’s mills,
And Linton Bob that wrocht amang
The Pentland Hills.
And as we socht oor shauchlin’ way
Atween the runts o’ Bernafay,
The mune ayont the darkenin’ brae
Lichted a gap.
Bob peched. “Ma God,” I heard him say,
“The Cauldstaneslap!”
Syne we won ower the hinmost rig
Amang the dumps, whaur warm and trig
The braziers lowe and wee trucks jig
Frae bing to ree.
Dave gripped my airm. “It’s fair Coatbrig!”
He stepped oot free....
······
This morn I’m sittin’ on a box,
Reddin’ an unco pair o’ socks,
Watchin’ the yaird whaur muckle docks
And nettles blaw,
And turks’ caps, marygolds and phlox
Stand in a raw.
The berry busses hing wi’ weet,
The smiddy clang comes doun the street,
A coo is routin’, bairnies greet,
A young cock craws.—
I shut my een; my traivelled feet
Were back i’ the Shaws.
Back twenty year. A tautit wean,
I heard my granny’s voice complain
O’ bursted buits: I saw the rain
Rin aff the byre;
The burn wi’ foamin’ yellow mane
Roared doun the swire.
A can o’ worms ae pooch concealed,
The tither scones weel brooned and jeeled;
Let eld sit cowerin’ in the beild,
Youth maun be oot;
The rain may pour, he’s for the field
To catch a troot....
······
And, Sandy lad, a stound o’ joy
Gaed through my breist. A halflin’s ploy,
An auld wife’s tale, a bairnie’s toy,
A lassie’s favour,
Are things nae war can clean destroy
Nor kill the savour.
It’s in sma’ things that greatness lies,
The simple aye confoonds the wise,
The towers that ettle at the skies
Crack, coup and tummle,
The blather, swalled to unco size,
Bursts wi’ a rummle....
Straucht to the Deil oor hainin’s fly;
A spate can droon the best o’ kye:
The day oor heids we cairry high
And wanton rarely:—
The morn in some black sheugh dounbye
We floonder sairly.
The breist o’ man is fortune-pruif,
He heeds nor jade nor deil nor cuif,
If twae-three things the Guid Folk give
His lot to cheer,
The sma’ things that oor mortal luve
Maun aye haud dear.
What gars us fecht? It’s no the law,
Nor poaliticians in a raw,
Nor hate o’ folk we never saw;—
Oot in yon hell
I’ve killed a wheen—the job wad staw
Auld Hornie’s sel’.
It’s luve, my man, nae less nae mair,—
Luve o’ auld freends at kirk and fair,
Auld-farrant sangs that memories bear
O’ but and ben,
Some wee cot-hoose far up the muir
Or doun the glen.
And Gairmans are nae doot the same:
The lad ye’ve stickin’ in the wame
Fechts no for deevilment or fame,
But juist for pride
In his bit dacent canty hame
By some burnside.
It’s queer that the Almichty’s plan
Sud set oot man to fecht wi’ man
For the same luve—their native lan’,
And wife and weans.
It’s queer, but threep the best ye can,
The truith remains.
The warld’s a fecht. Frae star to stane
The hale Creation strives in pain.
Paiks maun be tholed by ilk alane,
The cup be drainit,
If man’s to get the bunemost gain
That God’s ordainit.
But luve’s the fire that keeps him gaun,
Ilk puir forjaskit weariet man.
Hate sparks like pouther in the pan,
And pride will flicker,
But luve will burn till skies are faun,
Mair clear and siccar.
And a’ we socht o’ honest worth
We’ll find again in nobler birth,
For Heaven itsel’ begins on earth,
And caps the riggin’
O’ what in pain and toil and dearth
We’ve aye been biggin’.
Nae walth o’ gowden streets for me;
I ask but that my een sud see
The auld green hopes, the broomy lea,
The clear burn’s püles,
And wander whaur the wind blaws free
Frae heather hills.
······
Sae, Sandy, if it’s written true
That you and me sud warstle through,
Wi’ whatna joy we’ll hand the ploo
And delve the yaird!
Ten thoosandfauld the mair we’ll loe
Oor Border swaird!
But if like ither dacent men
We’ve looked oor last on Etterick glen,
And some day sune will see the en’
That brings nae shame,
We’ll face’t,—for in that ’oor we’ll ken
We’re hame, we’re hame.
1916