Songs of Angus and More Songs of Angus | Page 2

ROAD?THE BEADLE O' DRUMLEE?THE WATER-HEN?THE HEID HORSEMAN?JEEMSIE MILLER?THE GEAN-TREES?THE TOD?THE BLIND SHEPHERD?THE DOO'COT UP THE BRAES?LOGIE KIRK?THE PHILOSOPHY OF THE DITCH?THE LOST LICHT?THE LAD I' THE MUNE?THE GOWK?THE JACOBITE LASS?MAGGIE?THE WHUSTLIN' LAD?HOGMANAY?CRAIGO WOODS?THE WILD GEESE
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 lassie 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 lasses 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 thrashin' 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 grass is hiech abune the gallant deid, An ane whaur England's michty ships 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