THEOCRITUS IN SCOTS

The Kirn⁠[5]

(Idyll vii)

’Twas last back-end that me and Dauvit Sma’
And Robert Todd, the herd at Meldonha’,
The hairst weel ower and under rape and thack,
Set oot to keep the kirn at Haystounslack,
Wat Laidlaw’s fairm—for Wat’s the rale stench breed
The Borders kenned afore the auld lairds dee’d,
And a’ the soor-milk Wast ran doun the Tweed.
We werena half the road, nor bye the grain
Whaur auncient Druids left the standin’ stane,
When Gidden Scott cam heinchin’ ower the muir,
Gidden the wale o’ men; ilk kirn and fair,
Clippin’ and spainin’, was a cheerier place
For ae sicht o’ his honest bawsened face.
He was a drover, famed frae Clyde to Spey,
The graundest juidge o’ beasts—a dealer tae.
His furthy coat o’ tup’s ’oo spun at hame,
His weel-worn maud that buckled roond his wame,
His snootit kep that hid the broos aneath,
His buits wi’ tackets like a harrow’s teeth,
His shairny leggin’s and his michty staff
Proclaimed him for a drover three mile aff.
“Losh! lads,” he cried, “whaur are ye traivellin’ noo,
Trig as the lassies decked for them they loe?
Is’t to a countra splore, or to the toun
Whaur creeshy baillies to their feasts sit doun?
Or is’t some waddin’ wi’ its pipes and reels
That gars the chuckies loup ahint your heels?”
“Weel met,” says I. “The day our jaunt we mak
To join Wat Laidlaw’s kirn at Haystounslack.
Lang is the gait, and, sin’ it’s pairtly yours,
What say ye to a sang to wile the ’oors?
In a’ the land frae Wigtoun to the Mearns
There’s nane that ploos sae straucht the rig o’ Burns
As your guid sel’ (so rins the countra sough);
And I, though frae sic genius far eneuch,
I, tae, hae clinkit rhymes at orra whiles.
We’ll niffer sangs to pass the muirland miles.”
“Na, Jock,” says he, and wagged a sarious pow,
“Sma’ share hae I in that divinest lowe.
A roopy craw as weel a pairt micht claim
I’ the laverock’s sang as me in Robin’s fame.
But sin’ we’re a’ guid freends, I’ll sing a sang
I made last Monday drovin’ ower the Whang.”⁠[6]

Gidden’s Song

Sin’ Andra took the jee and gaed aff across the sea
I’m as dowff as ony fisher-wife that watches on the sand,
I’m as restless as a staig, me that aince was like a craig,
When I think upon yon far frem’t land.
We had aften cuisten oot, I mindna what aboot;
We had feucht a bit and flytit and gien and taen the blow;
But oor dander was nae mair than the rouk in simmer air,
For I loe’d him as a lassie loes her joe.
He had sic a couthy way, aye sae canty and sae gay;
He garred a body’s hert loup up and kept the warld gaun roun’;
The dreichest saul could see he had sunlicht in his ee,
And there’s no his marrow left in the toun.
We were ’greed like twae stirks that feed amang the birks,
My every thocht I shared wi’ him, his hinmost plack was mine;
We had nocht to hide frae ither, he was mair to me than brither;
But that’s a’ bye wi’t langsyne.
As I gang oot and in, in my heid there rins a tüne,
Some tüne o’ Andra’s playin’ in the happy days that’s gane.
When I sit at festive scene there’s a mist comes ower my een
For the kind lad that’s left me my lane.
So Gidden spak, and ower the lave o’ us cam
A sadness waur than penitential psalm.
The tüne was cried; nae jovial rantin’ stave
Wad set a mood sae pensive and sae grave.
Sae, followin’ on, I cleared my hass and sung
A sang I made langsyne when I was young.

Jock’s Song

Sing, lads, and bend the bicker; gloamin’ draps
On Wiston side.
A’ ye that dwal in sicht o’ Tintock’s taps
Frae Tweed to Clyde
Gae stert your reels and ding the warlock Care
At young bluid’s call.
The wind that blaws frae yont the mountain muir
Will steal my saul.
Mind ye the lass that üsed to bide langsyne
At Coulter-fit?
(Gae pipe your sprigs, for youth is ill to bin’
And pleesures flit.)
Her mither keep’t the inn, and doun the stair
A’ day wad bawl.
The wind that blaws frae yont the mountain muir
Will steal my saul.
My heid rins round—I think they ca’d her Jean.
She looked sae high,
She walked sae prood, it micht hae been the Queen
As she gaed bye,
Buskit sae trig, and ower her yellow hair
A denty shawl.
The wind that blaws frae yont the mountain muir
Will steal my saul.
Ae day the King himsel’ was ridin’ through
And saw her face.
He telled his son, “For ae kiss o’ her mou
I’d change my place
Wi’ ony gangrel, roup my royal share,
My kingly hall.”
The wind that blaws frae yont the mountain muir
Will steal my saul.
I kenna if I loe’d the lassie true,
But this I ken;
To get a welcome frae her een o’ blue,
To see again
Her dimpled cheek, ten ’ears o’ life I’d spare
In prison wall.
The wind that blaws frae yont the mountain muir
Will steal my saul.
Ae simmer morn when a’ the lift was clear
And saft winds sighed,
Wi’ kilted coats I saw her wanderin’ near
The burnie’s tide.
Thinks I, Queen Mary was na half as fair
In days o’ aul’.
The wind that blaws frae yont the mountain muir
Will steal my saul.
Sing, lads, and bend the bicker; e’enin’ fa’s—
My denty doo
Has sell’t hersel’ for gowd and silken braws
That weemen loe.
A feckless laird has bocht her beauty rare,
Her love, her all.
The wind that blaws frae yont the mountain muir
Will steal my saul.
I watched them as their coach gaed ower the pass
Wi’ blindit een;
A shilpit carle aside the brawest lass
That Scotland’s seen.
Far, far she’s gane, and toom the warld and puir
Whaur I maun dwal.
The wind that blaws frae yont the mountain muir
Will steal my saul.
A’ day I wander like a restless ghaist
Ower hill and lea;
The gun hangs in the spence, the rod’s unüsed,
The dowg gangs free.
At nicht I dream, and O! my dreams are sair,
My hert’s in thrall.
The wind that blaws frae yont the mountain muir
Has stown my saul.
Loud Gidden spak; “Weel dune!—The convoy’s ower.
Here we maun pairt, for I’m for Auchenlour.
Oor forbears, when they set a makkers’ test
Gied cups and wreaths to him that sang the best.
Nae drink hae I, thae muirland floo’ers are wauf,
Sae tak for awms my trustit hazel staff.”
We cried guid-farin’ to his massy back,
And turned intil the road for Haystounslack.
Aroond the hills and heughs the gloamin’ crap,
And a braw mune cam ridin’ ower the slap.
The stirlin’s crooded thick as flees in air,
An auld blackcock was flytin’ on the muir.
Afore the steadin’ cairts were settin’ doun
Ilk snoddit lassie in her kirk-gaun gown,
And bauld young lads were swingin’ up the braes,
Ilk ane wi’ glancin’ een and dancin’ taes.
The fiddles scrapit and atower the din
The “Floo’ers o’ Embro’” soughed oot on the win’.
Furth frae the ben cam sic a noble reek
That hungry folk maun snowk but daurna speak;—
Haggis and tripe, and puddin’s black, and yill,
And guid saut beef and braxy frae the hill,
Crisp aiten farles, bannocks and seein’ kail;
And at the door stood Wat to cry us hail.
His walie nieves upheld a muckle bowl
Whase spicy scent was unction to the saul.
His ladle plowtered in the reamin’ brew,
And for us three he filled the rummers fou.
Nae nectar that the auld gods quaffed on hie,
Nae heather wine wanchancy warlocks prie,
Nae Well o’ Bethlehem or Siloam’s püle,
Was ever half as guid as Wattie’s yill.
Heaven send anither ’ear that I gang back
To drink wi’ honest folk at Haystounslack!

1916