On Leave
I had auchteen months o’ the war,
Steel and pouther and reek,
Fitsore, weary and wauf,—
Syne I got hame for a week.
Daft-like I entered the toun,
I scarcely kenned for my ain.
I sleepit twae days in my bed,
The third I buried my wean.
The wife sat greetin’ at hame,
While I wandered oot to the hill,
My hert as cauld as a stane,
But my heid gaun roond like a mill.
I wasna the man I had been,—
Juist a gangrel dozin’ in fits;—
The pin had faun oot o’ the warld,
And I doddered amang the bits.
I clamb to the Lammerlaw
And sat me doun on the cairn;—
The best o’ my freends were deid,
And noo I had buried my bairn;—
The stink o’ the gas in my nose,
The colour o’ bluid in my ee,
And the biddin’ o’ Hell in my lug
To curse my Maker and dee.
But up in that gloamin’ hour,
On the heather and thymy sod,
Wi’ the sun gaun doun in the Wast
I made my peace wi’ God....
······
I saw a thoosand hills,
Green and gowd i’ the licht,
Roond and backit like sheep,
Huddle into the nicht.
But I kenned they werena hills,
But the same as the mounds ye see
Doun by the back o’ the line
Whaur they bury oor lads that dee.
They were juist the same as at Loos
Whaur we happit Andra and Dave.—
There was naething in life but death,
And a’ the warld was a grave.
A’ the hills were graves,
The graves o’ the deid langsyne,
And somewhere oot in the Wast
Was the grummlin’ battle-line.
······
But up frae the howe o’ the glen
Came the waft o’ the simmer een.
The stink gaed oot o’ my nose,
And I sniffed it, caller and clean.
The smell o’ the simmer hills,
Thyme and hinny and heather,
Jeniper, birk and fern,
Rose in the lown June weather.
It minded me o’ auld days,
When I wandered barefit there,
Guddlin’ troot in the burns,
Howkin’ the tod frae his lair.
If a’ the hills were graves
There was peace for the folk aneath
And peace for the folk abune,
And life in the hert o’ death....
······
Up frae the howe o’ the glen
Cam the murmur o’ wells that creep
To swell the heids o’ the burns,
And the kindly voices o’ sheep.
And the cry o’ a whaup on the wing,
And a plover seekin’ its bield.—
And oot o’ my crazy lugs
Went the din o’ the battlefield.
······
I flang me doun on my knees
And I prayed as my hert wad break,
And I got my answer sune,
For oot o’ the nicht God spake.
As a man that wauks frae a stound
And kens but a single thocht,
Oot o’ the wind and the nicht
I got the peace that I socht.
Loos and the Lammerlaw,
The battle was feucht in baith,
Death was roond and abune,
But life in the hert o’ death.
A’ the warld was a grave,
But the grass on the graves was green,
And the stanes were bields for hames,
And the laddies played atween.
Kneelin’ aside the cairn
On the heather and thymy sod,
The place I had kenned as a bairn,
I made my peace wi’ God.
1916