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John Buchan (1st Baron of Tweedsmuir) was born in Perth, Scotland in 1874 and was the oldest son of Rev. John Buchan and Helen Buchan. He studied at the University of Glasgow and Brasenose College, Ox...
John Buchan (1st Baron of Tweedsmuir) was born in Perth, Scotland in 1874 and was the oldest son of Rev. John Buchan and Helen Buchan. He studied at the University of Glasgow and Brasenose College, Oxford.
He was a Scottish diplomat, barrister, journalist, historian, poet and novelist. He wrote adventure novels, short-story collections and biographies. His passion for the Scottish countryside is reflected in much of his writing. Buchan's adventure stories are high in romance and are peopled by a large cast of characters. Alfred Hitchcock adapted his most famous book The Thirty-Nine Steps for screen.
In the spring of 1915, Buchan agreed to become one of the journalists reporting for the British Army. He was given responsibility for providing articles for The Times and the Daily News. In June 1916, Buchan was recruited by the British Army to draft communications for Sir Douglas Haig and other members of the headquarters staff. He was given the rank of Second Lieutenant in the Intelligence Corps and was also provided with the documents needed to write the Nelson's History of the War.
After the war Buchan continued to write successful adventures stories such as Huntingtower (1922), The Three Hostages (1924) and Witch Wood (1927). He also became involved in politics and in 1927 was elected Conservative MP for the Scottish Universities. John Buchan died on 12th February, 1940.
The Gipsy's Song To The Lady Cassilis
The door is open to the wall, The air is bright and free; Adown the stair, across the hall, And then-the world and me; The bare grey bent, the running stream, The fire beside the shore; And we will bid the hearth farewell, And never seek it more, My love, And never seek it more.
And you shall wear no silken gown, No maid shall bind your hair; The yellow broom shall be your gem, Your braid the heather rare. Athwart the moor, adown the hill, Across the world away; The path is long for happy hearts That sing to greet the day, My love, That sing to greet the day.
When morning cleaves the eastern grey, And the lone hills are red When sunsets light the evening way And birds are quieted; In autumn noon and springtide dawn, By hill and dale and sea, The world shall sing its ancient song Of hope and joy for thee, My love, Of hope and joy for thee.
And at the last no solemn stole Shall on thy breast be laid; No mumbling priest shall speed thy soul, No charnel vault thee shade. But by the shadowed hazel copse, Aneath the greenwood tree, Where airs are soft and waters sing, Thou'lt ever sleep by me, My love, Thou'lt ever sleep by me.