Songs of Angus and More Songs of Angus Part 8

A CHANGE O' DEILS

"A change o' deils is lichtsome."-- _Scots Proverb_.

My Grannie spent a merry youth, She niver want.i.t for a joe, An gin she tell't me aye the truth, Richt little was't she kent na o'.

An' whiles afore she gae'd awa'

To bed her doon below the gra.s.s, Says she, "Guidmen I've kist.i.t[6] twa, But a change o' deils is lichtsome, la.s.s!"

Sae dinna think to maister me, For Scotland's fu' o' brawlike chiels, And aiblins[7] ither folk ye'll see Are fine an' pleased to change their deils.

Aye, set yer bonnet on yer heid, An' c.o.c.k it up upon yer bree, O' a' yer tricks ye'll hae some need Afore ye get the best o' me!

Sma' wark to fill yer place I'd hae, I'll seek a sweethe'rt i' the toon, Or cast my he'rt across the Spey An' tak' some pridefu' Hieland loon.

I ken a man has hoose an' land, His airm is stoot, his een are blue, A ring o' gowd is on his hand, An' he's a bonnier man nor you!

But hoose an' gear an' land an' mair, He'd gie them a' to get the preen That preened the flowers in till my hair Beside the may-bush yestre'en.

Jist tak' you tent, an' mind forbye, The braw guid sense my Grannie had, _My Grannie's dochter's bairn am I,_ _And a change o' deils is lichtsome, lad!_

[6] Coffined.

[7] Sometimes.

REJECTED

I'm fairly disjaskit, Christina, The warld an' its glories are toom; I'm laid like a stane whaur ye left me, To greet wi' my heid i' the broom.

A' day has the lav'rock been singin'

Up yont, far awa' i' the blue, I thocht that his sang was sae bonnie, Bit it disna' seem bonnie the noo!

A' day has the cushie been courtin'

His joe i' the boughs o' the ash, But gin Love was wheeped frae the pairish, It isn't mysel' that wad fash!

For losh! what a wark I've had wi' ye!

At mairkit, at kirk, an' at fair, I've ne'er let anither lad near ye-- An' what can a la.s.sie need mair?

An' oh! but I've socht ye an' watched ye, Whauriver yer fitsteps was set, Gin ye had but yer neb i' the gairden I was aye glowerin' in at the yett!

Ye'll mind when ye sat at the windy, Dressed oot in yer fine Sawbath black, Richt brawly I kent that ye saw me, But ye just slippit oot at the back.

Christina, 'twas shamefu'--aye was it!

Affrontin' a man like mysel', I'm thinkin' ye're daft, for what ails ye Is past comprehension to tell.

Guid stuff's no sae common, Christina, And whiles it's no easy to see; Ye micht tryst wi' the Laird or the Provost, But ye'll no find the marrows[8] o' me!

[8] Match.

THE LAST O' THE TINKLER

Lay me in yon place, lad, The gloamin's thick wi' nicht; I canna' see yer face, lad, For my een's no richt, But it's owre late for leein', An' I ken fine I'm deein', Like an auld craw fleein'

To the last o' the licht.

The kye gang to the byre, lad, An' the sheep to the fauld, Ye'll mak' a s.p.u.n.k o' fire, lad, For my he'rt's turned cauld; An' whaur the trees are meetin', There's a sound like waters beatin', An' the bird seems near to greetin', That was aye singin' bauld.

There's jist the tent to leave, lad, I've gaithered little gear, There's jist yersel' to grieve, lad, An' the auld dug here; An' when the morn comes creepin', An' the waukw'nin' birds are cheipin', It'll find me lyin' sleepin'

As I've slept saxty year.

Ye'll rise to meet the sun, lad, An' baith be traiv'lin west, But me that's auld an' done, lad, I'll bide an' tak' my rest; For the grey heid is bendin', An' the auld shune's needin' mendin', But the traiv'lin's near its endin', And the end's aye the best.

IN ENGLISH

FRINGFORD BROOK

The willows stand by Fringford brook, From Fringford up to Hethe, Sun on their cloudy silver heads, And shadow underneath.

They ripple to the silent airs That stir the lazy day, Now whitened by their pa.s.sing hands, Now turned again to grey.

The slim marsh-thistle's purple plume Droops ta.s.selled on the stem, The golden hawkweeds pierce like flame The gra.s.s that harbours them;

Long drowning tresses of the weeds Trail where the stream is slow, The vapoured mauves of water-mint Melt in the pools below;

Serenely soft September sheds On earth her slumberous look, The heartbreak of an anguished world Throbs not by Fringford brook.

All peace is here. Beyond our range, Yet 'neath the selfsame sky, The boys that knew these fields of home By Flemish willows lie.

They waded in the sun-shot flow, They loitered in the shade, Who trod the heavy road of death, Jesting and unafraid.

Peace! What of peace? This glimpse of peace Lies at the heart of pain, For respite, ere the spirit's load We stoop to lift again.

O load of grief, of faith, of wrath, Of patient, quenchless will, Till G.o.d shall ease us of your weight We'll bear you higher still!