Songs of Angus and More Songs of Angus Part 1

Songs of Angus and More Songs of Angus.

by Violet Jacob.

PREFACE

There are few poets to-day who write in the Scots vernacular, and the modesty of the supply is perhaps determined by the slenderness of the demand, for pure Scots is a tongue which in the changes of the age is not widely understood, even in Scotland. The various accents remain, but the old words tend to be forgotten, and we may be in sight of the time when that n.o.ble speech shall be degraded to a northern dialect of English. The love of all vanis.h.i.+ng things burns most strongly in those to whom they are a memory rather than a presence, and it is not unnatural that the best Scots poetry of our day should have been written by exiles. Stevenson, wearying for his "hills of home," found a romance in the wet Edinburgh streets, which might have pa.s.sed unnoticed had he been condemned to live in the grim reality. And we have Mr. Charles Murray, who in the South African veld writes Scots, not as an exercise, but as a living speech, and recaptures old moods and scenes with a freshness which is hardly possible for those who with their own eyes have watched the fading of the outlines. It is the rarest thing, this use of Scots as a living tongue, and perhaps only the exile can achieve it, for the Scot at home is apt to write it with an antiquarian zest, as one polishes Latin hexameters, or with the exaggerations which are permissible in what does not touch life too nearly. But the exile uses the Doric because it is the means by which he can best express his importunate longing.

Mrs. Jacob has this rare distinction. She writes Scots because what she has to say could not be written otherwise and retain its peculiar quality. It is good Scots, quite free from misspelt English or that perverted slang which too often nowadays is vulgarising the old tongue. But above all it is a living speech, with the accent of the natural voice, and not a skilful mosaic of robust words, which, as in sundry poems of Stevenson, for all the wit and skill remains a mosaic. The dialect is Angus, with unfamiliar notes to my Border ear, and in every song there is the sound of the east wind and the rain. Its chief note is longing, like all the poetry of exiles, a chastened melancholy which finds comfort in the memory of old unhappy things as well as of the beat.i.tudes of youth. The metres are cunningly chosen, and are most artful when they are simplest; and in every case they provide the exact musical counterpart to the thought. Mrs. Jacob has an austere conscience. She eschews facile rhymes and worn epithets, and escapes the easy cadences of hymnology which are apt to be a snare to the writer of folk-songs. She has many moods, from the stalwart humour of "The Beadle o' Drumlee," and "Jeemsie Miller," to the haunting lilt of "The Gean-Trees," and the pathos of "Craigo Woods" and "The Lang Road." But in them all are the same clarity and sincerity of vision and clean beauty of phrase.

Some of us who love the old speech have in our heads or in our note-books an anthology of modern Scots verse. It is a small collection if we would keep it select. Beginning with Princ.i.p.al Shairp's "Bush aboon Traquair," it would include the wonderful Nithsdale ballad of "Kirkbride," a few pieces from _Underwoods_, Mr. Hamish Hendry's "Beadle," one or two of Hugh Haliburton's Ochil poems, Mr. Charles Murray's "Whistle" and his versions of Horace, and a few fragments from the "poet's corners" of country newspapers.

To my own edition of this anthology I would add unhesitatingly Mrs.

Jacob's "Tam i' the Kirk," and "The Gowk."

JOHN BUCHAN.

TAM I' THE KIRK

O Jean, my Jean, when the bell ca's the congregation Owre valley an' hill wi' the ding frae its iron mou', When a'body's thochts is set on his ain salvation, Mine's set on you.

There's a reid rose lies on the Buik o' the Word 'afore ye That was growin' braw on its bush at the keek o' day, But the lad that pu'd yon flower i' the mornin's glory, He canna pray.

He canna pray; but there's nane i' the kirk will heed him Whaur he sits sae still his lane at the side o' the wa, For nane but the reid rose kens what my la.s.sie gie'd him-- It an' us twa!

He canna sing for the sang that his ain he'rt raises, He canna see for the mist that's 'afore his een, An a voice drouns the hale o' the psalms an' the paraphrases, Cryin' "Jean, Jean, Jean!"

THE HOWE O' THE MEARNS

Laddie, my lad, when ye gang at the tail o' the plough An' the days draw in, When the burnin' yellow's awa' that was aince a-lowe On the braes o' whin, Do ye mind o' me that's deaved wi' the wearyfu' south An' it's puir concairns While the weepies fade on the knowes at the river's mouth In the Howe o' the Mearns?

There was nae twa lads frae the Grampians doon to the Tay That could best us twa; At bothie or dance, or the field on a fitba' day, We could sort them a'; An' at courtin'-time when the stars keeked doon on the glen An' its theek o' fairns, It was you an' me got the pick o' the basket then In the Howe o' the Mearns.

London is fine, an' for ilk o' the la.s.ses at hame There'll be saxty here, But the springtime comes an' the hairst--an it's aye the same Through the changefu year.

O, a lad thinks lang o' hame ere he thinks his fill As his breid he airns-- An' they're thras.h.i.+n' noo at the white fairm up on the hill In the Howe o' the Mearns.

Gin I mind mysel' an' toil for the lave o' my days While I've een to see, When I'm auld an' done wi' the fash o' their English ways I'll come hame to dee; For the lad dreams aye o' the prize that the man'll get, But he lives an' lairns, An' it's far, far 'ayont him still--but it's farther yet To the Howe o' the Mearns.

Laddie, my lad, when the hair is white on yer pow An' the work's put past, When yer hand's owre auld an' heavy to haud the plough I'll win hame at last, An we'll bide our time on the knowes whaur the broom stands braw An' we played as bairns, Till the last lang gloamin' shall creep on us baith an' fa'

On the Howe o' the Mearns.

THE LANG ROAD

Below the braes o' heather, and far alang the glen, The road rins southward, southward, that grips the souls o' men, That draws their fitsteps aye awa' frae hearth and frae fauld, That pairts ilk freen' frae ither, and the young frae the auld.

And whiles I stand at mornin' and whiles I stand at nicht, To see it through the gaisty gloom, gang slippin oot o sicht; There's mony a lad will ne'er come back amang his ain to lie, An' its lang, lang waitin' till the time gangs by.

An far ayont the bit o' sky that lies abune the hills, There is the black toon standin' mid the roarin' o' the mills.

Whaur the reek frae mony engines hangs 'atween it and the sun An the lives are weary, weary, that are just begun.

Doon yon lang road that winds awa' my ain three sons they went, They turned their faces southward frae the glens they aye had kent, And twa will never see the hills wi' livin' een again, An' it's lang, lang waitin' while I sit my lane.

For ane lies whaur the gra.s.s is hiech abune the gallant deid, An ane whaur England's michty s.h.i.+ps sail proud abune his heid, They couldna' sleep mair saft at hame, the twa that sairved their king, Were they laid aside their ain kirk yett, i' the flower o' the ling.

But whaur the road is twistin' through yon streets o' care an' sin, My third braw son toils nicht and day for the gowd he fain would win, Whaur ilka man grapes i' the dark to get his neebour's share, An' it's lang, lang strivin' i' the mirk that's there.

The een o' love can pierce the mools that hide a sodger's grave, An' love that doesna' heed the sod will naither hear the wave, But it canna' see 'ayont the cloud that hauds my youngest doon Wi' its mist o' greed an' sorrow i' the smokin' toon.

An whiles, when through the open door there fades the deein' licht, I think I hear my ain twa men come up the road at nicht, But him that bides the nearest seems the furthest aye frae me-- And it's lang, lang listenin' till I hear the three!

THE BEADLE O' DRUMLEE

Them that's as highly placed as me (Wha am the beadle o' Drumlee) Should na be prood, nor yet owre free.

Me an' the meenister, ye ken, Are no the same as a' thae men We hae for neebours i' the glen.

The Lord gie'd him some lairnin' sma'

An me guid sense abune them a', An them nae wuts to ken wha's wha.

Ye'd think, to hear the lees they tell, The Sawbath day could mind itsel'

Withoot a hand to rug the bell,

Ye'd think the Reverend Paitrick Broun Could ca' the Bible up an' doon An' loup his lane in till his goon.

Whiles, gin he didna get frae me The wicelike wird I weel can gie, Whaur wad the puir bit callant be?

The elders, Ross an' Weellum Aird, An' fowk like Alexander Caird, That think they're c.o.c.ks o' ilka yaird,

Fegs aye! they'd na be sweir to rule A lad sae newly frae the schule Gin _my_ auld bonnet crooned a fule!

But oh! Jehovah's unco' kind!

Whaur wad this doited pairish find A man wi' sic a powerfu' mind?

Sae, let the pairish sleep at nicht Blind wi' the elders' s.h.i.+nin' licht, Nor ken wha's hand keeps a' things richt.

It's what they canna understan'

That brains hae ruled since time began, An' that the beadle is the man!