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 a while 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 thegither;

  The wild bees seek the gairden raws,

  Weariet wi’ heather.

  Or in the gloamin’ douce an’ grey

  The sweet-throat mavis tunes her lay;

  The herd comes linkin’ doun the brae;

  An’ by degrees

  The muckle siller müne 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

  Abüne my heid —

  I wadna 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,

  A while 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, tautit 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 cock,

  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’ pleesure’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 lasses’ 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,

  Abüne the burn, ayont the law,

  Davie an’ Donal’ an’ Cherlie an’ a’,

  An’ the müne was shinin’ 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 müne was shinin’ 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 müne was shinin’ 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 müne was shinin’ 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 müne was shinin’ clearly!

  Twa o’ them walkin’ an’ crackin’ their lane,

  The mornin’ licht cam grey an’ plain,

  An’ the birds they yammert on stick an’ stane,

  An’ the müne was shinin’ 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 müne was shinin’ clearly.

  V

  A LOWDEN SABBATH MORN

  The clinkum-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,

  Bestial an’ human,

  The singin’ lintie on the brae,

  The restin’ plou’man.

  He, mair than a’ the lave o’ men,

  His week completit joys to ken;

  Half-dressed, he daunders out an’ in,

  Perplext wi’ leisure;

  An’ his raxt limbs he’ll rax again

  Wi’ painfü’ pleesure.

  The steerin’ mither strang afit

  Noo shoos the bairnies but a bit;

  Noo cries them ben, their Sinday shüit

  To scart upon them,

  Or sweeties in their pooch to pit,

  Wi’ blessin’s on them.

  The lasses, clean frae tap to taes,

  Are busked in crunklin’ underclaes;

  The gartened hose, the weel-fllled stays,

  The nakit shift,

  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 waefü’ 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’ kiltit 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 prentit 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 shüne

  Be up the gate,

  Filled fu’ wi’ clavers about sin

  An’ man’s estate.

  The tünes are up — French, to be shüre,

  The faithfü’ French, an’ twa-three mair;

  The auld prezentor, hoastin’ sair,

  Wales out the portions,

  An’ yirks the tüne 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 pows are seen

  Nid-noddin’ like a mandareen;

  When tenty mithers stap a preen

  In sleepin’ weans;

  An’ nearly half the parochine

  Forget their pains.

  There’s just a waukrif twa or three:

  Thrawn commentautors sweer to ‘gree,

  Weans glowrin’ at the bumlin’ bee

  On windie-glasses,

  Or lads that tak a keek a-glee

  At sonsie lasses.

  Himsel’, meanwhile, frae whaur he cocks

  An’ bobs belaw the soundin’-box,

  The treasures of his words unlocks

  Wi’ prodigality,

  An’ deals some unco dingin’ knocks

  To infidality.

  Wi’ sappy unction, hoo he burkes

  The hopes o’ men that trust in works,

  Expounds the fau’ts o’ ither kirks,

  An’ shaws the best o’ them

  No’ muckle better than mere Turks,

  When a’s confessed o’ them.

  Bethankit! what a bonny creed!

  What mair would ony Christian need? —

  The braw words rummle ower his heid,

  Nor steer the sleeper;

  An’ in their restin’ graves, the deid

  Sleep aye the deeper.

  Note. — It may be guessed by some that I had a certain parish in my eye, and this makes it proper I should add a word of disclamation. In my time there have been two ministers in that parish. Of the first I have a special reason to speak well, even had there been any to think ill. The second I have often met in private and long (in the due phrase) “sat under” in his church, and neither here nor there have I heard an unkind or ugly word upon his lips. The preacher of the text had thus no original in that particular parish; but when I was a boy, he might have been observed in many others; he was then (like the schoolmaster) abroad; and by recent advices, it would seem he has not yet entirely disappeared. — [R. L. S.]

  VI

  THE SPAEWIFE

  O, I wad like to ken — to the beggar-wife says I —

  Why chops are guid to brander and nane sae guid to fry.

  An’ siller, that’s sae braw to keep, is brawer still to gi’e.

  — It’s gey an’ easy speirin’, says the beggar-wife to me.

  O, I wad like to ken — to the beggar-wife says I —

  Hoo a’ things come to be whaur we find them when we try.

  The lassies in their claes an’ the fishes in the sea.

  — It’s gey an’ easy speirin’, says the beggar-wife to me.

  O’ I wad like to ken — to the beggar-wife says I —

  Why lads are a’ to sell an’ lasses a’ to buy;

  An’ naebody for dacency but barely twa or three.

  — It’s gey an’ easy speirin’, says the beggar-wife to me.

  O, I wad like to ken — to the beggar-wife says I —

  Gin death’s as shüre to men as killin’ is to kye,

  Why God has filled the yearth sae fu’ o’ tasty things to pree.

  — It’s gey an’ easy speirin’, says the beggar-wife to me.

  O, I wad like to ken — to the beggar-wife says I —

  The reason o’ the cause an’ the wherefore o’ the why,

  Wi’ mony anither riddle brings the tear into my e’e.

  — It’s gey an’ easy speirin’, says the beggar-wife to me.

  VII

  THE BLAST —

  It’s rainin’. Weet’s the gairden sod,

  Weet the lang roads whaur gangrels plod —

  A maist unceevil thing o’ God

  In mid July —

  If ye’ll just curse the sneckdraw, dod!

  An’ sae wull I!

  He’s a braw place in Heev’n, ye ken,

  An’ lea’s us puir, forjaskit men

  Clamjamfried in the but and ben

  He ca’s the earth —

  A wee bit inconvenient den

  No muckle worth;

  An’ whiles, at orra times, keeks out,

  Sees what puir mankind are about;

  An’ if He can, I’ve little doubt,

  Upsets their plans;

  He hates a’ mankind, brainch and root,

  An’ a’ that’s man’s.

  An’ whiles, whan they tak’ heart again,

  An’ life i’ the sun looks braw an’ plain,

  Doun comes a jaw o’ droukin’ rain

  Upon their honours —

  God sends a spate out ower the plain,

  Or mebbe thun’ers.

  Lord safe us, life’s an unco thing!

  Simmer and Winter, Yule an’ Spring,

  The damned, dour-heartit seasons bring

  A feck o’ trouble.

  I wadna try ‘t to be a king —

  No, nor for double.

  But since we’re in it, willy-nilly,

  We maun be watchfü’, wise an’ skilly,

  An’ no’ mind ony ither billy,

  Lassie nor God.

  But drink — that’s my best counsel till ‘e;

  Sae tak’ the nod.

  VIII

  THE COUNTERBLAST —

  My bonny man, the warld, it’s true,

  Was made for neither me nor you;

  It’s just a place to warstle through,

  As Job confessed o’t;

  And aye the best that we’ll can do

  Is mak’ the best o’t.

  There’s rowth o’ wrang, I’m free to say:

  The simmer brunt, the winter blae,

  The face of earth a’ fyled wi’ clay

  An’ dour wi’ chuckies,

  An’ life a rough an’ land’art play

  For country buckies.

  An’ food’s anither name for clart;

  An’ beasts an’ brambles bite an’ scart;

  An’ what would WE be like, my heart!

  If bared o’ claethin’?

  — Aweel, I canna mend your cart:

  It’s that or naethin’.

  A feck o’ folk frae first to last

  Have through this queer experience passed;

  Twa-three, I ken, just damn an’ blast

  The hale transaction;

  But twa-three ithers, east an’ wast,

  Fand satisfaction.

  Whaur braid the briery muirs expand,

  A waefü’ an’ a weary land,

  The bumble-bees, a gowden band,

  Are blithely hingin’;

  An’ there the canty wanderer fand

  The laverock singin’.

  Trout in the burn grow great as herr’n’;

  The simple sheep can find their fair’n’;

  The winds blaws clean about the cairn

  Wi’ caller air;

  The muircock an’ the barefit bairn

  Are happy there.

  Sic-like the howes o’ life to some:

  Green loans whaur they ne’er fash their thumb,

  But mark the muckle winds that come,

  Soopin’ an’ cool,

  Or hear the powrin’ burnie drum

  In the shilfa’s pool.

  The evil wi’ the guid they tak’;

  They ca’ a grey thing grey, no’ black;

  To a steigh brae a stubborn back

  Addressin’ daily;

  An’ up the rude, unbieldy track

  O’ life, gang gaily.

  What you would like’s a palace ha’,

  Or Sinday parlour dink an’ braw

  Wi’ a’ things ordered in a raw

  By denty leddies.

  Weel, then, ye canna hae’t: that’s a’

  That to be said is.

  An’ since at life ye’ve ta’en the grue,

  An’ winna blithely hirsle through,

  Ye’ve fund the very thing to do —

  That’s to drink speerit;

  An’ shüne we’ll hear the last o’ you —

  An’ blithe to hear it!

  The shoon ye coft, the life ye lead,

  Ithers will heir when aince ye’re deid;

  They’ll heir your tasteless bite o’ breid,

  An’ find it sappy;

  They’ll to your dulefü’ house succeed,

  An’ there be happy.

  As whan a glum an’ fractious wean

  Has sat an’ sullened by his lane

  Till, wi’ a rowstin’ skelp, he’s ta’en