Songs of Angus and More Songs of Angus | Page 8

traivel
England, but I'm dee'in for the north." "My man, I heard the siller tides
rin up the Firth o' Forth."
"Aye, Wind, I ken them weel eneuch, and fine they fa' an' rise, And
fain I'd feel the creepin' mist on yonder shore that lies, But tell me, ere

ye passed them by, what saw ye on the way?" "My man, I rocked the
rovin' gulls that sail abune the Tay."
"But saw ye naething, leein' Wind, afore ye cam' to Fife?
There's
muckle lyin' 'yont the Tay that's mair to me nor life." "My man, I swept
the Angus braes ye hae'na trod for years." "O Wind, forgi'e a hameless
loon that canna see for tears!"
"And far abune the Angus straths I saw the wild geese flee, A lang,
lang skein o' beatin' wings, wi' their heids towards the sea, And aye
their cryin' voices trailed ahint them on the air--" "O Wind, hae maircy,
haud yer whisht, for I daurna listen mair!"
GLOSSARY
Airt, point (of compass).
Billies, cronies.
Braws, finery.

Bubbly-jock, turkey-cock.
Cankered, cross-grained.
Causey, paved
edge of a street.
Chanter, mouth-piece of a bag-pipe.
Clour, a blow.

Coup, to fall.
Deaved, deafened, bewildered.
Droukit, soaked.

Dunt, a blow.
Fit, foot.
Fleggit, frightened.
Gean-tree, a wild
cheerry-tree.
Girnin', groaning.
Gowk, a cuckoo.
Grapes, gropes.

Hairst, harvest.
Happit, happ'd, wrapped.
Haughs, low-lying
lands.
Keek, peer.
Kep, meet.
Laigh, low.
Lane, his lane, alone.

Loan, disused, overgrown road, a waste place.
Loon, a fellow.

Lowe, flame.

Lum, chimney.
Mear, mare.
Mill-lade, mill-race.

Neep, turnip.
Poke, pocket.
Puddock-stules, toadstools.

Rodden-tree, rowan-tree.
Rug, to pull.
Sark, shift, smock.
Shaws,
small woods.
Sheltie, pony.
Skailed, split, dispersed.
Smoors,
smothers.
Sneck, latch.
Soom, swim.
Sort them, deal with them.

Speels, climbs.
Speir, to inquire.
Steerin', stirring.
Sweir, loth.

Syne, since, ago, then.
Tawse, a leather strap used for correcting
children.
Thole, to endure.
Thrawn, twisted.
Tint, lost.
Tod, fox.

Toom, empty.
Toorie, a knob, a topknot.
Traivel, to go afoot;
literally, to go at a foot's pace.
Warslin', wrestling.
Wauks, wakes.

Waur, worse.
Wean
, infant.
Weepies, rag-wort.
Whaup, curlew.


Wildfire, summer lightning.
Writer, attorney.
Yett, gate.
MORE SONGS
OF ANGUS
AND OTHERS
By
VIOLET JACOB
Published at the offices of "Country
Life," 20 Tavistock Street,
Covent Garden,
London, W.C. 2, and by George Newnes, LTD.,

8-11, Southampton Street, Strand, W.C. 2.
New York: Charles
Scribner's Sons
MCMXVIII
To A. H. J.
Past life, past tears, far past the grave,
The tryst is set for me,
Since,
for our all, your all you gave
On the slopes of Picardy.
On Angus, in the autumn nights,
The ice-green light shall lie,

Beyond the trees the Northern Lights
Slant on the belts of sky.
But miles on miles from Scottish soil
You sleep, past war and scaith,

Your country's freedman, loosed from toil,
In honour and in faith.
For Angus held you in her spell,
Her Grampians, faint and blue,

Her ways, the speech you knew so well,
Were half the world to you.
Yet rest, my son; our souls are those
Nor time nor death can part,

And lie you proudly, folded close
To France's deathless heart.
The whole of the poems under the heading In Scots appeared
in
Country Life. Of the others, one or two have appeared in The Cornhill
or The Outlook. They are all reprinted by kind permission of the
respective editors.
CONTENTS
IN SCOTS

JOCK, TO THE FIRST ARMY
THE TWA WEELUMS
THE
FIELD BY THE LIRK O' THE HILL
MONTROSE
THE
ROAD TO MARYKIRK
KIRSTY'S OPINION
THE BRIG

THE KIRK BESIDE THE SANDS
GLORY
THE SHEPHERD
TO HIS LOVE
A CHANGE O' DEILS
REJECTED
THE
LAST O' THE TINKLER
IN ENGLISH
FRINGFORD BROOK
PRISON
PRESAGE
THE BIRD IN
THE VALLEY
BACK TO THE LAND
THE SCARLET
LILIES
FROSTBOUND
ARMED
"THE HAPPY
WARRIOR"
UNITY
IN SCOTS
JOCK, TO THE FIRST ARMY
O Rab an' Dave an' rantin' Jim,
The geans were turnin' reid
When
Scotland saw yer line grow dim,
Wi' the pipers at its heid;
Noo, i'
yon warld we dinna ken,
Like strangers ye maun gang--
_"We've
sic a wale[1] o' Angus men_
That we canna weary lang."
An' little Wat--my brither Wat--
Man, are ye aye the same?
Or is
yon sma' white hoose forgot
Doon by the strath at hame?
An' div'
ye mind foo aft we trod
The Isla's banks before?--
--"My place is
wi' the Hosts o' God,
But I mind me o' Strathmore."
It's daith comes skirling through the sky,
Below there's naucht but
pain,
We canna see whaur deid men lie
For the drivin' o' the rain;

Ye a' hae passed frae fear an' doot.
Ye're far frae airthly ill--

--"We're near, we're here, my wee recruit,
An' we fecht for Scotland
still."
[1] Choice.

THE TWA WEELUMS
I'm Sairgeant Weelum Henderson frae Pairth,
That's wha I am!
There's jist ae bluidy regiment on airth
That's worth a damn;
An' gin the bonniest fechter o' the lot
Ye seek to see,
Him that's the best--whaur ilka man's a Scot--
Speir you at me!
Gin there's a hash o' Gairmans pitten oot
By aichts an' tens,
That Wully Henderson's been thereaboot
A'body kens.
Fegs-aye! Yon Weelum that's in Gairmanie,
He hadna reckoned
Wi' Sairgeant Weelum Henderson, an' wi'
The Forty-Second!
Yon day we lichtit on the shores o' France,
The lassies standin'
Trod ilk on ither's taes to get the chance
To see us landin';
The besoms! O they smiled to me--an' yet
They couldna' help it,
(Mysel', I just was thinkin' foo we'd get
The Gairmans skelpit.)
I'm wearied wi' them, for it's aye the same
Whaure'er we gang,
Oor Captain thinks we've got his