The Road to Roberton by Will H. Ogilvie
The hill road to Roberton: Ale Water at our feet,
And grey hills and blue hills that melt away and meet,
With cotton-flowers that wave to us and lone whaups that c...The Road to Roberton by Will H. Ogilvie
The hill road to Roberton: Ale Water at our feet,
And grey hills and blue hills that melt away and meet,
With cotton-flowers that wave to us and lone whaups that call,
And over all the Border mist – the soft mist over all.
When Scotland married England long, long ago,
The winds spun a wedding-veil of moonlight and snow,
A veil of filmy silver that sun and rain had kissed,
And she left it to the Border in a soft grey mist.
And now the dreary distance doth wear it like a bride,
Out beyond the Langhope Burn and over Essenside,
By Borthwick Wa’s and Redfordgreen and on to wild Buccleuch
And up the Ettrick Water, till it fades into the blue.
The winding road to Roberton is little marked of wheels,
And lonely past Blawearie runs the track to Borthwickshiels,
Whitslade is slumbering undisturbed and down in Harden Glen
The tall trees murmur in their dreams of Wat’s mosstrooping men.
A distant glint of silver, that is Ale’s last goodbye,
Then Greatmoor and Windburgh against a purple sky,
The long line of the Carter, Teviotdale flung wide,
And a slight stir in the heather – a wind from the English side.
The hill road to Roberton’s a steep road to climb,
But where your foot has crushed it you can smell the scented thyme,
And if your heart’s a Border heart, look down to Harden Glen,
And hear the blue hills ringing with the restless hoofs again.
In liquid murmurs Yarrow sings
Her reminiscent tune
Of bygone Autumn, bygone Springs,
And many a leafy June.
No more the morning beacons gleam
Upon the silent hills;
The far back years are years of dream—
No...In liquid murmurs Yarrow sings
Her reminiscent tune
Of bygone Autumn, bygone Springs,
And many a leafy June.
No more the morning beacons gleam
Upon the silent hills;
The far back years are years of dream—
Now peace the valley fills.
No more the reivers down the vale
On raid and foray ride;
No more is heard the widow's wail
O'er those who fighting died.
When morning damns with all its joys
Then from the meadows rise
A hundred throbbing hearts to voice
Their anthems to the skies.
When noontide sleeps where brackens wave,
Ere shadows yet grow long,
No sound awakes the echoes save
The Yarrow's pensive song.
And when the eve, with calm delight,
Betokens night is nigh,
Beneath the first star's tender light
Is heard the owlet's cry.
While Yarrow's liquid cadence swells
By meadow, moor, and hill,
At morn or noon or eve there dwells
A mournful memory still.
W. CUTHBERTSON.
The poem below is by Robin Laing.
Smokey the Cat
Smokey the cat came from nowhere;
Just whisped in under some door;
Sniffed quietly around
And knew that she'd found
The best place to stay in Bowmore.
She'd a...The poem below is by Robin Laing.
Smokey the Cat
Smokey the cat came from nowhere;
Just whisped in under some door;
Sniffed quietly around
And knew that she'd found
The best place to stay in Bowmore.
She'd arrived at Bowmore distillery
Where the finest malt whisky is made.
There was no welcome mat
For Smokey the cat
But she liked the place - so she stayed.
They say cats have more than one life
With re-incarnation and that.
Whether it's true
All that cat déja vu,
Smokey's a born again cat.
There's something about her that takes you
Back to the Lords of the Isles
When the cats of Finlaggan
Would go scallywaggin'
For miles and miles and miles.
It's the way she melts into the shadows
Or suddenly creeps up on folk
She'll always find you
Slinking behind you
The cat who was named after smoke.
She sits on the sill of the maltings
On days when the weather is nice
And while one eye sleeps
The other one keeps
A lookout for small birds and mice.
Small birds and mice eat the barley
So Smokey confronts them foursquare
But she pulls in her claws
And quietly ignores
The Angels who come for their share.
Felines don't care for whisky
Everyone understands that
But that peaty odour
Beneath the pagoda
Owes something to Smokey the cat.
On Islay people made whisky
Long before it was chic.
The cat from Bowmore
Is nothing more
Than the ghost of the island's peat-reek.
Meaning of unusual words:
The Angels who come for their share=When whisky is maturing, a small percentage evaporates - that's the "Angel's share"
The Fairy Dance
The poem below is by Carolina Eliza Scott (1777-1853), better known by her married name of Mrs G. G. Richardson. She was born at Forge in the parish of Canonbie near Langholm in Dum...The Fairy Dance
The poem below is by Carolina Eliza Scott (1777-1853), better known by her married name of Mrs G. G. Richardson. She was born at Forge in the parish of Canonbie near Langholm in Dumfries and Galloway, the daughter of a wealthy landowner. While living with an uncle in Madras, India, she met and married Gilbert Geddes Richardson, a captain in the British East India Company. She was greatly admired in the refined society of Anglo-India but when her husband died in the prime of life, she returned to her childhood home with her five children. She published a volume of her poetry in 1828 which was successful enough for her to produce a second volume of poem and later a novel and essays.
Initially, "The Fairy Dance" seems a light-hearted piece - but finishes with some more thoughtful words on illusions and reality.
The Fairy Dance
The fairies are dancing, how nimbly they bound! They flit o'er the grass tops, they touch not the ground;
Their kirtles of green are with diamonds bedight, All glittering and sparkling beneath the moonlight.
Hark, hark to their music! how silvery and clear 'Tis surely the flower-bells that ringing I hear,
The lazy-wing'd moth, with the grasshopper wakes, And the field-mouse peeps out, and their revels partakes.
How featly they trip it! how happy are they Who pass all their moments in frolic and play,
Who rove where they list, without sorrows or cares, And laugh at the fetters mortality wears!
But where have they vanish'd?
a cloud 's o'er the moon,
I'll hie to the spot,
they'll be seen again soon
I hasten, 'tis lighter,
and what do I view?
The fairies were grasses,
the diamonds were dew.
And thus do the sparkling illusions of youth Deceive and allure, and we take them for truth;
Too happy are they who the juggle unshroud, Ere the hint to inspect them be brought by a cloud.
Meaning of unusual words:
kirtles = dress, gown
bedight = adorned
featly = cleverly, smartly
list = choose
This song, "The Collier Laddie", is believed to be one of the oldest songs in Fife.
The Collier Laddie
I've travelled east and I've travelled west,
And I hae been tae Kirkcaldy;
But the bonniest lass tha...This song, "The Collier Laddie", is believed to be one of the oldest songs in Fife.
The Collier Laddie
I've travelled east and I've travelled west,
And I hae been tae Kirkcaldy;
But the bonniest lass that e'er I spied,
She was followin' her collier laddie.
Wi' siller slippers on her feet,
Her body neat and handsome,
And sky blue ribbons on her heid,
Whaur gowd abune was glancin'.
"O, whaur live ye, my bonnie lass?
Come tell me what they ca' ye?"
"Bonnie Jean Gordon is my name
And I'm followin' my collier laddie."
"O, would ye fancy ane that's black,
And you sae fair and gowdie?
O, fancy ane o' high degree
Than followin' a collier laddie.
"O. see ye not yon hills and dales
The sun shines on sae brawlie?
They a' are mineand they shall be thine
Gin ye leave your collier laddie."
"And ye shall gang in gay attire,
Well buskit up sae gaudie;
And ane to wait on every hand,
Gin ye leave your collier laddie."
"Though ye had a' the sun shines on,
And the earth conceals sae lowly;
I would turn my back on you and it a'
And embrace my collier laddie."
Then he has gane to her faither dear,
To her faither gane sae brawlie;
Says, "Will ye gie me your bonnie lass
That's followin' a collier laddie?
"O, would she marry a man that's black,
And me sae braw and gaudie?
I'll raise her up to a higher degree
Than followin' a collier laddie."
Her faither dear then vow'd and sware,
"Though he be black he's bonnie;
She's mair delight in him, I fear,
Than you wi' a' your money."
"I can win my five pennies a day,
And spen't at nicht fu' brawlie;
And I'll mak' my bed in the collier's neuk
And lie doon wi' my collier laddie.
"Love for love is a bargain for me,
Though the wee cot hoose should haud me;
And the world's before me to win my breid,
An' fair fa' my collier laddie."
Can ye nae feel it in yer blood...
THE RAIDERS by Will H. Ogilvie
Last night a wind from Lammermoor came roaring up the glen
With the tramp of trooping horses and the laugh of reckless men
And struck a ma...Can ye nae feel it in yer blood...
THE RAIDERS by Will H. Ogilvie
Last night a wind from Lammermoor came roaring up the glen
With the tramp of trooping horses and the laugh of reckless men
And struck a mailed hand on the gate and cried in rebel glee:
"Come forth, come forth my borderer, and ride the March with me."
I said "Oh Wind of Lammermoor, the night's too dark to ride,
And all the men that fill the glen are ghosts of men that died!
The floods are down the Bowmont Burn, the moss in fetlock deep;
Go back wild Wind of Lammermoor, to Lauderdale - and sleep."
Out spoke the Wind of Lammermoor, "We know the road right well,
The road that runs by Kale and Jed across the Carter Fell.
There is no man of all the men in this gray troop of mine
But blind might ride the Borderside from Teviothead to Tyne!"
The horses fretted on their bits and pawed the flints to fire,
The riders swung them to the South full faced to their desire;
"Come!" said the Wind of Lammermoor, and spoke full scornfully,
"Have ye no pride to mount and ride your father's road with me?"
A roan horse to the gate they led, foam-flecked and travelled far,
A snorting roan that tossed his head and flashed his forehead star;
There came the sound of clashing steel and hoof-tramp up the glen
...And two by two we cantered through, a troop of ghostly men!
I know not if the farms we fired are burned to ashes yet!
I know not if the stirks grew tired before the stars were set!
I only know that late last night when Northern winds blew free,
A troop of men rode up the glen and brought a horse for me!
The Ragman - David Reilly
1. He gave you fair warning whenever he came
though the tune he played was never the same
in a neighbouring street a bugler played
and it wasn’t the lifeboys or boys brigade
all ...The Ragman - David Reilly
1. He gave you fair warning whenever he came
though the tune he played was never the same
in a neighbouring street a bugler played
and it wasn’t the lifeboys or boys brigade
all the young mothers gripped with fear
as this dreaded bugler came ever near
tis the ragman playing a chordless tune
the bedragled Pied Piper of Glesga toon
2. Took out a Woodbine the last of his fags
then he bellowed toys for rags
last blast on the bugle and then he'd hush
lit up and waited for the expected rush
the kids in the street would all go mad
looking for rags from their mum and dad
in all the cupboards throughout the rooms
a handful of rags for a couple of balloons
3. Came into our street pushing his cart
blowing his bugle right from the start
his old brown case was full of toys
like Santa's grotto to the girls and boys
paint sets and crayons and coloured chalk
to create a design on your whipping top
spud guns and peashooters and catapult slings
the toys of war the ragman brings
4. With great anticipation they stood in line
eyes fixed on the ragman all of the time
no pounds or ounces of imperial measure
just a bundle of rags for unlimited treasure
though I could only stand and stare
we never seemed to have rags to spare
now looking back and assessing the facts
all of our rags were on our backs
From Best Scottish Poems of 2007 http://www.spl.org.uk/best-poems/006.htm
The Big Mistake by Jim Carruth
The Big Mistake
the shepherd on the train told me
is to clip hill milking ewes too soon
I put my ...From Best Scottish Poems of 2007 http://www.spl.org.uk/best-poems/006.htm
The Big Mistake by Jim Carruth
The Big Mistake
the shepherd on the train told me
is to clip hill milking ewes too soon
I put my newspaper down;
he'd got my attention.
Nothing puts the milk off them quicker
than just a day like last Wednesday.
And when it goes off at this time of year,
it never comes back.
His warning continues
They never get so rough in the backend,
and have less protection
against the storms and the winter chill.
He glances up,
checks his crook in the luggage rack
And another thing
is that the wool neither weighs so heavy
nor looks so well. It's the new growth
that brings down the scales.
A fleece from a ewe that's near
hasn't the same feel as one from a ewe
that has plenty of rise and a good strong stoan.
In the beginning of July the new wool on a thin ewe
will grow more in one week under the fleece
than it will do in three with the fleece clipped off.
He summarised his argument for me
Experienced flock masters never clip hill stocks
before the second week of July.
In terms of the sheep's sufferings
a strong sun is little less severe than a cold rain.
He stopped there
looked out the window at the passing fields
then fell asleep to Waverley
content that a stranger in a suit
had listened to his wisdom
this wisdom I now share with you.
Ploughman
by Scott Martin
The year was 1941, my father told me,
And by moonlight, as he ploughed the field,
Plough and harness a dull grey silver
The dark clouds parted, and revealed
Nazi bombers, bound for...Ploughman
by Scott Martin
The year was 1941, my father told me,
And by moonlight, as he ploughed the field,
Plough and harness a dull grey silver
The dark clouds parted, and revealed
Nazi bombers, bound for Clydebank,
High above over Abernyte,
The boy below, frozen in furrow
Reins in hand, awed by the sight.
I never thought he was the weaker,
In the face of brutality he never bowed down
And the boy, with the horse and the plough, entrusted,
Ploughed his seed into the ground.
I saw a man, just like my father,
In a field planting rice, in Vietnam.
So small he looked, against the bombers,
In the face of vain strength, a resolute man,
A ploughman, like my father
And a man of the land,
Although cultures divide them,
Together they stand.
In Bosnia, I saw the children who fled,
Their homes destroyed, their parents dead.
Their fields unploughed and the seeds unsown,
Their graves unmarked and their names unknown.
They spoke to me of the moonlight man,
Standing alone, with horse and plough,
More than speeches or politicians,
He led the way, he showed me how,
That to stand alone is no great shame
If something is taken in another's name.
And remember, always, that you are a man
And the reins are held in your own hand
And that children are seeds as yet unsown,
Who may, come the harvest, be your own.
The Piper by Robert Louis Stevenson
AGAIN I hear you piping, for I know the tune so well, -
You rouse the heart to wander and be free,
Tho' where you learned your music, not the God of song can tell,
For ...The Piper by Robert Louis Stevenson
AGAIN I hear you piping, for I know the tune so well, -
You rouse the heart to wander and be free,
Tho' where you learned your music, not the God of song can tell,
For you pipe the open highway and the sea.
O piper, lightly footing, lightly piping on your way,
Tho' your music thrills and pierces far and near,
I tell you you had better pipe to someone else to-day,
For you cannot pipe my fancy from my dear.
You sound the note of travel through the hamlet and the town;
You would lure the holy angels from on high;
And not a man can hear you, but he throws the hammer down
And is off to see the countries ere he die.
But now no more I wander, now unchanging here I stay;
By my love, you find me safely sitting here:
And pipe you ne'er so sweetly, till you pipe the hills away,
You can never pipe my fancy from my dear.
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