Read Ebook: Songs of Angus and More Songs of Angus by Jacob Violet

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Ebook has 144 lines and 8490 words, and 3 pages

Alder.

THE SHEPHERD TO HIS LOVE

Abune the hill ae muckle star is burnin', Sae saft an' still, my dear, sae far awa, There's ne'er a wind, noo day to nicht is turnin', To lift the brainches o' the whisperin' shaw; Aye, Jess, there's nane to see, There's just the sheep an' me, And ane's fair wastit when there micht be twa!

Alang the knowes there's no a beast that's movin', They sheep o' mine lie sleepin' i' the dew; There's jist ae thing that's wearyin' an' rovin', An' that's mysel', that wearies, wantin' you. What ails ye, that ye bide In-by--an' me ootside To curse an' daunder a' the gloamin' through?

To haud my tongue an' aye hae patience wi' ye Is waur nor what a lass like you can guess; For a' yer pranks I canna but forgi'e ye, I'fegs! there's naucht can gar me lo'e ye less; Heaven's i' yer een, an' whiles There's heaven i' yer smiles, But oh! ye tak' a deal o' courtin', Jess!

A CHANGE O' DEILS

My Grannie spent a merry youth, She niver wantit for a joe, An gin she tell't me aye the truth, Richt little was't she kent na o'.

An' whiles afore she gae'd awa' To bed her doon below the grass, Says she, "Guidmen I've kistit twa, But a change o' deils is lichtsome, lass!"

Sae dinna think to maister me, For Scotland's fu' o' brawlike chiels, And aiblins ither folk ye'll see Are fine an' pleased to change their deils.

Aye, set yer bonnet on yer heid, An' cock it up upon yer bree, O' a' yer tricks ye'll hae some need Afore ye get the best o' me!

Sma' wark to fill yer place I'd hae, I'll seek a sweethe'rt i' the toon, Or cast my he'rt across the Spey An' tak' some pridefu' Hieland loon.

I ken a man has hoose an' land, His airm is stoot, his een are blue, A ring o' gowd is on his hand, An' he's a bonnier man nor you!

But hoose an' gear an' land an' mair, He'd gie them a' to get the preen That preened the flowers in till my hair Beside the may-bush yestre'en.

Coffined. Sometimes.

REJECTED

I'm fairly disjaskit, Christina, The warld an' its glories are toom; I'm laid like a stane whaur ye left me, To greet wi' my heid i' the broom.

A' day has the lav'rock been singin' Up yont, far awa' i' the blue, I thocht that his sang was sae bonnie, Bit it disna' seem bonnie the noo!

A' day has the cushie been courtin' His joe i' the boughs o' the ash, But gin Love was wheeped frae the pairish, It isn't mysel' that wad fash!

For losh! what a wark I've had wi' ye! At mairkit, at kirk, an' at fair, I've ne'er let anither lad near ye-- An' what can a lassie need mair?

An' oh! but I've socht ye an' watched ye, Whauriver yer fitsteps was set, Gin ye had but yer neb i' the gairden I was aye glowerin' in at the yett!

Ye'll mind when ye sat at the windy, Dressed oot in yer fine Sawbath black, Richt brawly I kent that ye saw me, But ye just slippit oot at the back.

Christina, 'twas shamefu'--aye was it! Affrontin' a man like mysel', I'm thinkin' ye're daft, for what ails ye Is past comprehension to tell.

Guid stuff's no sae common, Christina, And whiles it's no easy to see; Ye micht tryst wi' the Laird or the Provost, But ye'll no find the marrows o' me!

Match.

THE LAST O' THE TINKLER

Lay me in yon place, lad, The gloamin's thick wi' nicht; I canna' see yer face, lad, For my een's no richt, But it's owre late for leein', An' I ken fine I'm deein', Like an auld craw fleein' To the last o' the licht.

The kye gang to the byre, lad, An' the sheep to the fauld, Ye'll mak' a spunk o' fire, lad, For my he'rt's turned cauld; An' whaur the trees are meetin', There's a sound like waters beatin', An' the bird seems near to greetin', That was aye singin' bauld.

There's jist the tent to leave, lad, I've gaithered little gear, There's jist yersel' to grieve, lad, An' the auld dug here; An' when the morn comes creepin', An' the waukw'nin' birds are cheipin', It'll find me lyin' sleepin' As I've slept saxty year.

Ye'll rise to meet the sun, lad, An' baith be traiv'lin west, But me that's auld an' done, lad, I'll bide an' tak' my rest; For the grey heid is bendin', An' the auld shune's needin' mendin', But the traiv'lin's near its endin', And the end's aye the best.

IN ENGLISH

FRINGFORD BROOK

The willows stand by Fringford brook, From Fringford up to Hethe, Sun on their cloudy silver heads, And shadow underneath.

They ripple to the silent airs That stir the lazy day, Now whitened by their passing hands, Now turned again to grey.

The slim marsh-thistle's purple plume Droops tasselled on the stem, The golden hawkweeds pierce like flame The grass that harbours them;

Long drowning tresses of the weeds Trail where the stream is slow, The vapoured mauves of water-mint Melt in the pools below;

Serenely soft September sheds On earth her slumberous look, The heartbreak of an anguished world Throbs not by Fringford brook.

They waded in the sun-shot flow, They loitered in the shade, Who trod the heavy road of death, Jesting and unafraid.

Peace! What of peace? This glimpse of peace Lies at the heart of pain, For respite, ere the spirit's load We stoop to lift again.

O load of grief, of faith, of wrath, Of patient, quenchless will, Till God shall ease us of your weight We'll bear you higher still!

O ghosts that walk by Fringford brook, 'Tis more than peace you give, For you, who knew so well to die, Shall teach us how to live.

PRISON

In the prison-house of the dark I lay with open eyes, And pale beyond the pale windows I saw the dawn rise. From past the bounds of space Where earthly vapours climb, There stirred the voice I shall not hear On this side Time. There is one death for the body, And one death for the heart, And one prayer for the hope of the end, When some links part. Christ, from uncounted leagues, Beyond the sun and moon, Strike with the sword of Thine own pity-- Bring the dawn soon.

PRESAGE

The year declines, and yet there is A clearness, as of hinted spring; And chilly, like a virgin's kiss, The cold light touches everything.

The world seems dazed with purity, There hangs, this spell-bound afternoon, Beyond the naked cherry tree The new-wrought sickle of the moon.

What is this thraldom, pale and still, That holds so passionless a sway? Lies death in this ethereal chill, New life, or prelude of decay?

In the frail rapture of the sky There bodes, transfigured, far aloof, The veil that hides eternity, With life for warp and death for woof.

We see the presage--not with eyes, But dimly, with the shrinking soul-- Scarce guessing, in this fateful guise, The glory that enwraps the whole,

The light no flesh may apprehend, Lent but to spirit-eyes, to give Sign of that splendour of the end That none may look upon and live.

THE BIRD IN THE VALLEY

Above the darkened house the night is spread, The hidden valley holds Vapour and dew and silence in its folds, And waters sighing on the river-bed. No wandering wind there is To swing the star-wreaths of the clematis Against the stone; Out of the hanging woods, above the shores, One liquid voice of throbbing crystal pours, Singing alone.

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