Underwoods Part 6

Beeches an' aiks entwine their theek, An' firs, a stench, auld-farrant clique.

A' simmer day, your chimleys reek, Couthy and bien; An' here an' there your windies keek Amang the green.

A pickle plats an' paths an' posies, A wheen auld gillyflowers an' roses: A ring o' wa's the hale encloses Frae sheep or men; An' there the auld housie beeks an' dozes, A' by her lane.

The gairdner crooks his weary back A' day in the pitaty-track, Or mebbe stops awhile to crack Wi' Jane the cook, Or at some buss, worm-eaten-black, To gie a look.

Frae the high hills the curlew ca's; The sheep gang baaing by the wa's; Or whiles a clan o' roosty craws Cangle thegether; The wild bees seek the gairden raws, Weariet wi' heather.

Or in the gloamin' douce an' gray The sweet-throat mavis tunes her lay; The herd comes linkin' doun the brae; An' by degrees The muckle siller mune maks way Amang the trees.

Here aft hae I, wi' sober heart, For meditation sat apairt, When orra loves or kittle art Perplexed my mind; Here socht a balm for ilka smart O' humankind.

Here aft, weel neukit by my lane, Wi' Horace, or perhaps Montaigne, The mornin' hours hae come an' gane Abune my heid- I wadnae gi'en a chucky-stane For a' I'd read.

But noo the auld city, street by street, An' winter fu' o' snaw an' sleet, Awhile shut in my gangrel feet An' goavin' mettle; Noo is the soopit ingle sweet, An' liltin' kettle.

An' noo the winter winds complain; Cauld lies the glaur in ilka lane; On draigled hizzie, taut.i.t wean An' drucken lads, In the mirk nicht, the winter rain Dribbles an' blads.

Whan bugles frae the Castle rock, An' beaten drums wi' dowie shock, Wauken, at cauld-rife sax o'clock, My chitterin' frame, I mind me on the kintry c.o.c.k, The kintry hame.

I mind me on yon bonny bield; An' Fancy traivels far afield To gaither a' that gairdens yield O' sun an' Simmer: To hearten up a dowie chield, Fancy's the limmer!

III

WHEN aince Aprile has fairly come, An' birds may bigg in winter's lum, An' pleisure's spreid for a' and some O' whatna state, Love, wi' her auld recruitin' drum, Than taks the gate.

The heart plays dunt wi' main an' micht; The la.s.ses' een are a' sae bricht, Their dresses are sae braw an' ticht, The bonny birdies!- Puir winter virtue at the sicht Gangs heels ower hurdies.

An' aye as love frae land to land Tirls the drum wi' eident hand, A' men collect at her command, Toun-bred or land'art, An' follow in a denty band Her gaucy standart.

An' I, wha sang o' rain an' snaw, An' weary winter weel awa', Noo busk me in a jacket braw, An' tak my place I' the ram-stam, harum-scarum raw, Wi' smilin' face.

IV-A MILE AN' A BITTOCK

A MILE an' a bittock, a mile or twa, Abuthe burn, ayont the law, Davie an' Donal' an' Cherlie an' a', An' the mune was s.h.i.+nin' clearly!

Ane went hame wi' the ither, an' then The ither went hame wi' the ither twa men, An' baith wad return him the service again, An' the mune was s.h.i.+nin' clearly!

The clocks were chappin' in house an' ha', Eleeven, twal an' ane an' twa; An' the guidman's face was turnt to the wa', An' the mune was s.h.i.+nin' clearly!

A wind got up frae affa the sea, It blew the stars as clear's could be, It blew in the een of a' o' the three, An' the mune was s.h.i.+nin' clearly!

Noo, Davie was first to get sleep in his head, "The best o' frien's maun twine," he said; "I'm weariet, an' here I'm awa' to my bed."

An' the mune was s.h.i.+nin' clearly!

Twa o' them walkin' an' crackin' their lane, The mornin' licht cam gray an' plain, An' the birds they yammert on stick an' stane, An' the mune was s.h.i.+nin' clearly!

O years ayont, O years awa', My lads, ye'll mind whate'er befa'- My lads, ye'll mind on the bield o' the law, When the mune was s.h.i.+nin' clearly.

V-A LOWDEN SABBATH MORN

THE clink.u.m-clank o' Sabbath bells Noo to the hoastin' rookery swells, Noo faintin' laigh in shady dells, Sounds far an' near, An' through the simmer kintry tells Its tale o' cheer.

An' noo, to that melodious play, A' deidly awn the quiet sway- A' ken their solemn holiday, b.e.s.t.i.a.l an' human, The singin' lintie on the brae, The restin' plou'man,

He, mair than a' the lave o' men, His week complet.i.t joys to ken; Half-dressed, he daunders out an' in, Perplext wi' leisure; An' his raxt limbs he'll rax again Wi' painfu' pleesure.

The steerin' mither strang afit Noo shoos the bairnies but a bit; Noo cries them ben, their Sinday shuit To scart upon them, Or sweeties in their pouch to pit, Wi' blessin's on them.

The la.s.ses, clean frae tap to taes, Are busked in crunklin' underclaes; The gartened hose, the weel-filled stays, The nakit s.h.i.+ft, A' bleached on bonny greens for days, An' white's the drift.

An' noo to face the kirkward mile: The guidman's hat o' dacent style, The blackit shoon, we noo maun fyle As white's the miller: A waefu' peety tae, to spile The warth o' siller.

Our Marg'et, aye sae keen to crack, Douce-stappin' in the stoury track, Her emeralt goun a' kilt.i.t back Frae snawy coats, White-ankled, leads the kirkward pack Wi' Dauvit Groats.

A thocht ahint, in runkled breeks, A' spiled wi' lyin' by for weeks, The guidman follows closs, an' cleiks The sonsie missis; His sarious face at aince bespeaks The day that this is.

And aye an' while we nearer draw To whaur the kirkton lies alaw, Mair neebours, comin' saft an' slaw Frae here an' there, The thicker thrang the gate an' caw The stour in air.

But hark! the bells frae nearer clang; To rowst the slaw, their sides they bang; An' see! black coats a'ready thrang The green kirkyaird; And at the yett, the chestnuts spang That brocht the laird.

The solemn elders at the plate Stand drinkin' deep the pride o' state: The practised hands as gash an' great As Lords o' Session; The later named, a wee thing blate In their expression.

The prent.i.t stanes that mark the deid, Wi' lengthened lip, the sarious read; Syne wag a moraleesin' heid, An' then an' there Their hirplin' practice an' their creed Try hard to square.

It's here our Merren lang has lain, A wee bewast the table-stane; An' yon's the grave o' Sandy Blane; An' further ower, The mither's brithers, dacent men!

Lie a' the fower.

Here the guidman sall bide awee To dwall amang the deid; to see Auld faces clear in fancy's e'e; Belike to hear Auld voices fa'in saft an' slee On fancy's ear.

Thus, on the day o' solemn things, The bell that in the steeple swings To fauld a scaittered faim'ly rings Its walcome screed; An' just a wee thing nearer brings The quick an' deid.

But noo the bell is ringin' in; To tak their places, folk begin; The minister himsel' will shune Be up the gate, Filled fu' wi' clavers about sin An' man's estate.

The tunes are up-_French_, to be shure, The faithfu' _French_, an' twa-three mair; The auld prezentor, hoastin' sair, Wales out the portions, An' yirks the tune into the air Wi' queer contortions.

Follows the prayer, the readin' next, An' than the fisslin' for the text- The twa-three last to find it, vext But kind o' proud; An' than the peppermints are raxed, An' southernwood.

For noo's the time whan pews are seen Nid-noddin' like a mandareen; When tenty mithers stap a preen In sleepin' weans; An' nearly half the parochine Forget their pains.