Songs of Angus and More Songs of Angus | Page 5

the great hillside,
A fit that'll come to
the door for me
Doon through the pasture wide,
Maybe I'll hear the baa'in' flocks
Ae nicht when time seems lang,

An' ken there's a step on the scattered rocks
The fleggit sheep amang,

An' a voice that cries an' a hand that knocks
To bid me rise an'
gang.
Then to the hills I'll lift my een
Nae matter tho' they're blind,
For
Ane will treid the stanes between
And I will walk behind,
Till up,
far up i' the midnicht keen
The licht o' Heaven I'll find.
An' maybe, when I'm up the hill
An' stand abune the steep,
I'll turn
aince mair to look my fill
On my ain auld flock o' sheep,
An' I'll
leave them lyin' sae white an' still
On the quiet braes asleep.
THE DOO'UCOT UP THE BRAES
Beside the doo'cot up the braes
The fields slope doon frae me,
An
fine's the glint on blawin' days
O' the bonnie plains o' sea.

Below's my mither's hoosie sma',
The smiddy by the byre
Whaur
aye my feyther dings awa'
And my brither blaws the fire.
For Lachlan lo'es the smiddy's reek,
An' Geordie's but a fule
Wha'
drives the plough his breid to seek,
And Rob's to teach the schule;
He'll haver roond the schulehoose wa's,
And ring the schulehoose bell,

He'll skelp the scholars wi' the tawse
(I'd like that fine mysel'!)
They're easy pleased, my brithers three--
I hate the smiddy's lowe,

A weary dominie I'd be,
An' I canna thole the plough.
But by the doo'cot up the braes
There's nane frae me can steal
The
blue sea an' the ocean haze
An' the ships I like sae weel.
The brigs ride oot past Ferryden
Ahint the girnin' tugs,
And the
lasses wave to the Baltic men
Wi' the gowd rings i' their lugs.
My mither's sweir to let me gang.
My feyther gi'es me blame,
But
youth is sair and life is lang
When yer he'rt's sae far frae hame.
But i' the doo'cot up the braes,
When a'tumn nichts are mirk,
I've
hid my pennies an' my claes
An' the Buik I read at kirk,
An' come ae nicht when a' fowks sleep,
I'll lift them whaur they lie,

An' to the harbour-side I'll creep
I' the dim licht o' the sky;
An' when the eastern blink grows wide,
An' dark still smoors the west,

A Baltic brig will tak' the tide
Wi' a lad that canna rest!
LOGIE KIRK
O Logie Kirk amang the braes,
I'm thinkin' o' the merry days
Afore
I trod thae weary ways
That led me far frae Logie!
Fine do I mind when I was young
Abune thy graves the mavis sung


An' ilka birdie had a tongue
To ca' me back to Logie.
O Logie Kirk, tho' aye the same
The burn sings ae remembered name,

There's ne'er a voice to cry "Come hame
To bonnie Bess at Logie!"
Far, far awa' the years decline
That took the lassie wha was mine

An' laid her sleepin' lang, lang syne
Amang the braes at Logie.
THE PHILOSOPHY OF THE DITCH
Aweel, I'm couped. But wha' could tell
The road wad rin sae sair?
I
couldna gang yon pace mysel',
An' I winna try nae mair!
There's them wad coonsel me to stan',
But this is what I say:
When
Natur's forces fecht wi' man,
Dod, he maun just give way!
If man's nae framed to lift his fit
Agin' a nat'ral law,
I winna' lift my
heid, for it
Wad dae nae guid ava'.
Puir worms are we; the poo'pit rings
Ilk Sawbath wi' the same,
Gin
airth's the place for sic-like things,
I'm no sae far frae hame!
Yon's guid plain raes'nin'; an' forby,
This pairish has nae sense,

There's mony traiv'lin wad deny
Natur and Providence;
For loud an' bauld the leears wage
On men like me their war,

Elected saints to thole their rage
Is what they're seekin' for.
But tho' a man wha's drink's his tea
Their malice maun despise,
It's
no for naething, div ye see,
That I'm sae sweir to rise!
THE LOST LICHT
(A PERTHSHIRE LEGEND)
The weary, weary days gang by,
The weary nichts they fa',
I mauna

rest, I canna lie
Since my ain bairn's awa'.
The soughing o' the springtide breeze
Abune her heid blaws sweet,

There's nests amang the kirkyaird trees
And gowans at her feet.
She gae'd awa' when winds were hie,
When the deein' year was cauld,

An noo the young year seems to me
A waur ane nor the auld.
And, bedded, 'twixt the nicht an' day,
Yest're'en, I couldna bide
For
thinkin', thinkin' as I lay
O' the wean that lies outside.
O, mickle licht to me was gie'n
To reach my bairn's abode,
But
heaven micht blast a mither's een
And her feet wad find the road.
The kirkyaird loan alang the brae
Was choked wi' brier and whin,

A' i' the dark the stanes were grey
As wraiths when I gae'd in.
The wind cried frae the western airt
Like warlock tongues at strife,

But the hand o' fear hauds aff the he'rt
That's lost its care for life.
I sat me lang upon the green,
A stanethraw frae the kirk,
And syne a
licht shone dim between
The shaws o' yew and birk.
'Twas na the wildfire's flame that played
Alang the kirkyaird land,

It was a