Songs of Angus and More Songs of Angus | Page 9

een to blame,
But, man! he's wrang;
I winna say he's no as smairt a lad

As ye micht see
Atween twa Sawbaths--aye, he's no sae bad,
But he's no me!
Weel, let the limmers bide; their bonnie lips
Are fine an' reid;
But me an' Weelum's got to get to grips
Afore we're deid;
An' gin he thinks he hasn't met his match
He'll sune be wiser.
Here's to mysel'! Here's to the auld Black Watch!
An' damn the Kaiser!
THE FIELD BY THE LIRK O' THE HILL
Daytime an' nicht,
Sun, wind an' rain;
The lang, cauld licht
O' the
spring months again.
The yaird's a' weed,
An' the fairm's a' still--

Wha'll sow the seed
I' the field by the lirk o' the hill?
Prood maun ye lie,
Prood did ye gang;
Auld, auld am I,
But O!
life's lang!
Gaists i' the air,
Whaups cryin' shrill,
An' you nae mair

I' the field by the lirk o' the hill--
Aye, bairn, nae mair, nae mair,

I' the field by the lirk o' the hill!
MONTROSE
Gin I should fa',
Lord, by ony chance,
And they howms o' France

Haud me for guid an' a';
And gin I gang to Thee,
Lord, dinna blame,

But oh! tak' tent, tak' tent o' an Angus lad like me
An' let me hame!
I winna seek to bide
Awa owre lang,
Gin but Ye'll let me gang

Back to yon rowin' tide
Whaur aye Montrose--my ain--
Sits like a
queen,
The Esk ae side, ae side the sea whaur she's set her lane

On the bents between.
I'll hear the bar
Loupin' in its place,
An' see the steeple's face
Dim
i' the creepin' haar;[2]
And the toon-clock's sang
Will cry through
the weit,
And the coal-bells ring, aye ring, on the cairts as they gang
I' the drookit street.
Heaven's hosts are glad,
Heaven's hames are bricht,
And in yon
streets o' licht
Walks mony an Angus lad;
But my he'rt's aye back

Whaur my ain toon stands,
And the steeple's shade is laid when the
tide's at the slack
On the lang sands.
[2] Sea-fog.
THE ROAD TO MARYKIRK
To Marykirk ye'll set ye forth,
An' whustle as ye step alang,
An' aye
the Grampians i' the North
Are glow'rin' on ye as ye gang.
By
Martin's Den, through beech an' birk,
A breith comes soughin', sweet
an' strang,
Alang the road to Marykirk.
Frae mony a field ye'll hear the cry
O' teuchits,[3] skirlin' on the wing,

Noo East, noo West, amang the kye,
An smell o' whins the wind 'll
bring;
Aye, lad, it blaws a thocht to mock
The licht o' day on ilka
thing--
For you, that went yon road last spring,
Are lying deid in
Flanders, Jock.
[3] Lapwings.
KIRSTY'S OPINION
Fine div I ken what ails yon puddock, Janet,
That aince would hae her
neb set up sae hie;
There's them that disna' seem to understan' it,


I'se warrant ye it's plain eneuch to me!
Maybe ye'll mind her man--a fine wee cratur,
Owre blate to speak
(puir thing, he didna' daur);
What gar'd him fecht was jist his
douce-like natur';
Gairmans is bad, but Janet's tongue was waur.
But noo he's hame again, ye wadna ken her,
He isna' feared to
contradic' her flat;
He smokes a' day, comes late to get his denner,

(I mind the time she'd sort him weel for that!)
What's gar'd her turn an' tak' a road divairgint?
Ye think she's wae[4]
because he wants a limb?
Ach! haud yer tongue, ye fule--the man's a
sairgint,
An' there's nae argy-bargyin' wi' him!
[4] Sad.
THE BRIG
I whiles gang to the brig-side
That's past the briar tree,
Alang the
road when the licht is wide
Owre Angus an' the sea.
In by the dyke yon briar grows
Wi' leaf an' thorn, it's lane
Whaur
the spunk o' flame o' the briar rose
Burns saft agin the stane.
An' whiles a step treids on by me,
I mauna hear its fa';
And atween
the brig an' the briar tree
Ther gangs na' ane, but twa.
Oot owre yon sea, through dule an' strife,
Ye tak' yer road nae mair,

For ye've crossed the brig to the fields o' life,
An' ye walk for iver
there.
I traivel on to the brig-side,
Whaur ilka road maun cease,
My weary
war may be lang to bide,
An' you hae won to peace.
There's ne'er a nicht but turns to day,
Nor a load that's niver cast;

An' there's nae wind cries on the winter brae,
But it spends itsel' at

last.
O you that niver failed me yet,
Gin aince my step ye hear,
Come to
yon brig atween us set,
An' bide till I win near!
O weel, aye, weel, ye'll ken my treid,
Ye'll seek nae word nor sign,

An' I'll no can fail at the Brig o' Dreid,
For yer hand will be in mine.
THE KIRK BESIDE THE SANDS
It was faur-ye-weel, my dear, that the gulls were cryin'
At the kirk
beside the sands,
Whaur the saumon-nets lay oot on the bents for
dryin',
Wi' the tar upon their strands;
A roofless kirk i' the bield o' the cliff-fit bidin',
And the deid laid near
the wa';
A wheen auld coupit stanes i' the sea-grass hidin',
Wi' the
sea-sound ower them a'.
But it's mair nor daith