Songs of Angus and More Songs of Angus | Page 2

would add unhesitatingly Mrs. Jacob's "Tam i' the
Kirk," and "The Gowk."
JOHN BUCHAN.
CONTENTS
TAM I' THE KIRK
THE HOWE O' THE MEARNS
THE
LANG 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,