The Herd of Farawa
Who in an April hailstorm discoursed to the traveller on the present discontents.
Pastorum et solis exegit montibus aevum.—Virgil.
Losh, man! Did ever mortal see
Sic blasts o’ snaw? Ye’ll bide a wee,
Afore ye think to cross the lea,
And mount the slack!
Kin’le your pipe, and straucht your knee,
And gie’s your crack!
Hoo lang, ye speir! An unco while!
It’s seeventy-sax ’ear came Aprile
That I cam here frae Auchentyle—
A bairn o’ nine;
And mony’s the dreich and dreary mile
I’ve gaed sin’ syne.
My folk were herds, sae roond the fauld
Afore I was twae towmonts auld
They fand me snowkin’, crouse and bauld
In snaw and seep—
As Dauvid was to kingdoms called,
Sae I to sheep.
I herdit first on Etterick side.
Dod, man, I mind the stound o’ pride
Gaed through my hert, when near and wide
My dowgs I ran.
Though no seeventeen till Lammastide
I walked a man.
I got a wife frae Eskdalemuir,
O’ dacent herdin’ folk, and sair
We wrocht for lang, baith late and ’ear,
For weans cam fast,
And we were never aucht but puir
Frae first to last.
Tales I could tell wad gar ye grue
O’ snawy lambin’s warstled through,
O’ drifty days, and win’s that blew
Frae norlan’ sky,
And spates that filled the haughlands fou
And drooned the kye.
But, still and on, the life was fine,
For yon were happier days langsyne;
For gear to hain, and gear to tine
I had nae care—
Content I was wi’ what was mine,
And blithe to share.
Sic flocks ye’ll never see the day,
Nae fauncy ills to mak ye wae,
Nae fauncy dips wi’ stawsome broo,
Wad fricht the French;
We wrocht alang the auld guid way,
And fand it stench.
Nae mawkit kets, nae scabbit een,
But ilka yowe as trig’s a preen;
Sic massy tups as ne’er were seen
Sin’ Job’s allowance,
And lambs as thick on ilka green
As simmer gowans.
Whaur noo ae hirsel jimp can bide
Three hirsels were the countra’s pride,
And mony a yaird was wavin’ wide,
And floo’ers were hingin’,
Whaur noo is but the bare hillside,
And linties singin’.
······
And God! the men! Whaur could ye find
Sic hertsome lads, sae crouse and kind;
Sic skeel o’ sheep, sic sarious mind
At kirk and prayer—
Yet aiblins no to haud or bind
At Boswells fair?
Frae Galloway to Aiberdeen
(I mind the days as ’twere yestreen)
I’ve had my cantrips—Lord a wheen!
But through them a’,
The fear o’ God afore my een,
I keep’t the Law.
My nieves weel hoddit in my breeks,
The Law I keep’t, and turned baith cheeks
Until the smiter, saft and meek’s
A bairn at schule;
Syne struck, and laid him bye for weeks
To learn the fule.
Frae Melrose Cauld to Linkumdoddie,
I’d fecht and drink wi’ ony body;
Was there a couthy lad? Then, dod, he
Sune fand his fellow,
What time the tippenny or the toddy
Had garred us mellow.
Nae wark or ploy e’er saw me shirk;
I had an airm wad fell a stirk;
I traivelled ten lang mile to kirk
In wind and snaw;
I tell ’e, sir, frae morn to mirk,
I keep’t the Law.
······
Weekly we gat, and never fail,
Screeds marrowy as a pat o’ kail,
And awfu’ as the Grey Meer’s Tail
In Lammas rain,
And stey and lang as Moffatdale,
And stieve’s a stane.
Nae Gospel sowens fit for weans,
But doctrines teuch as channel-stanes;
We heard the Word wi’ anxious pains,
Sarious and happy.
And half the week we piked the banes,
And fand them sappy.
Lang years aneath a man o’ God
I sat, my Bible on the brod;
He wasna feared to lift the rod
And scaud the errin’;
He walked whaur our great forbears trod,
And blest his farin’.
But noo we’ve got a bairnly breed,
Whase wee-bit shilpit greetin’ screed
Soughs like a wast wind ower the heid,
Lichter than ’oo’;
Lassies and weans, it suits their need,
No me and you!
My dochter’s servin’ in the toun,
She gangs to hear a glaikit loon,
Whae rows his een, and twirls him roun’
Like ane dementit.
Nae word o’ Hell, nae sicht or soun’
O’ sin repentit.
But juist a weary, yammerin’ phrase
O’ “Saunts” and “Heaven” and “love” and “praise,”
Words that a grown man sudna üse,
God! sic a scunner!
I had to rise and gang my ways
To haud my denner.
At halesome fauts they lift their han’,
Henceforth, they cry, this new comman’,
Bide quate and doucely in the lan’
And love your brither—
This is the total end o’ man,
This and nae ither.
And that’s their creed! An owercome braw
For folks that kenna fear or fa’,
Crouse birds that on their midden craw
Nor think o’ scaith,
That keep the trimmin’ o’ the Law
And scorn the pith.
It’s no for men that nicht and day
See the Almichty’s awesome way,
And ken themselves but ripps o’ strae
Afore His wind,
And, dark or licht, maun watch and pray
His grace to find.
My forbear, hunkerin’ in a hag,
Was martyred by the laird o’ Lagg;
He dee’d afore his heid wad wag
In God’s denial.
D’ye think the folk that rant and brag
Wad thole yon trial?
Man, whiles I’d like to gang mysel
And wile auld Claverse back frae Hell;
Claverse, or maybe Tam Dalziel,
Wad stop their fleechin’;
I wager yon’s the lads to mell
And mend sic preachin’.
······
Whaure’er I look I find the same,
The warld’s nae gumption in its wame;
E’en sin’ I mind the human frame
Grows scrimp and shauchled,
O’ a’ man’s warks ye canna name
Ane that’s no bauchled.
There’s mawkit sheep and feckless herds,
And poopits fou o’ senseless words;
Instead o’ kail we sup on curds,
And wersh the taste o’t;
To parritch-sticks we’ve turned our swirds,
Sae mak’ the maist o’t.
And poalitics! I’ve seen the day
I’d walk ten mile ower burn and brae
To hear some billie hae his say
About the nation.
Tories and a’ their daft-like play
Fand quick damnation.
I thocht—for I was young—that folk
Were a’ the same; I scorned the yoke
O’ cless or gear; wi’ pigs in poke
I took nae han’.
I daured the hale wide warld to choke
The richts o’ man.
It’s still my creed, but hech! sin’ then
We’ve got the richts and lost the men;
We’ve got a walth o’ gear to spen’
And nane to spend it;
The warld is waitin’ ripe to men’,
And nane to mend it.
Our maisters are a flock o’ daws,
Led on by twae-three hoodie-craws;
They weir our siller, mak’ our laws,
And God! sic makin’!
And we sit roun’ wi’ lood applause,
And cheer their crakin’.
We’re great; but daur we lift a nieve
Wi’oot our neebors grant their leave?
We’re free, folk say, to speak, believe,
Dae what we wull—
And what’s oor gain? A din to deave
A yearlin’ bull!
······
A dwaibly warld! I’ll no deny
There’s orra blessin’s. I can buy
My baccy cheap, and feed as high
For half the siller;
For saxpence ony man can lie
As fou’s the miller.
A bawbee buys a walth o’ prent,
And every gowk’s in Paurliament;
The warld’s reformed—but sir, tak tent,
For a’ their threep,
There’s twae things noo that arena kent—
That’s MEN and SHEEP.
1907