A Change O' Deils

"A change o' deils is lichtsome." -
Scots Proverb.


My Grannie spent a merry youth,
    She niver wantit 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 grass,
Says she, "Guidmen I've kistit^[1] twa,
    But a change o' deils is lichtsome, lass!"

Sae dinna think to maister me,
    For Scotland's fu' o' brawlike chiels,
And aiblins^[2] ither folk ye'll see
    Are fine an' pleased to change their deils.

Aye, set yer bonnet on yer heid,
    An' cock 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!

Violet Jacob

Violet Jacob was a Scottish writer celebrated for her poetry and historical novels. Writing in both English and Scots, she is best known for her collection of poems 'Songs of Angus' published in 1915. Jacob's work captures the essence of rural Scotland and its people, with a strong emphasis on local dialects and traditions. In addition to her poetry, she also wrote several novels, short stories, and a memoir. Her legacy remains significant in Scottish literature.

Violet Jacob

Presage

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The Bird In The Valley

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The Happy Warrior

Violet Jacob, Simple Poetry

Frostbound

Violet Jacob, Simple Poetry

English

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The Doo'ucot Up The Braes

Beside the doo'cot up the braes
    The fields slope doon frae me,
An fine's the glint on blawin' days
    O' the bonnie plains o' sea.

Below's my mither's hoosie sma',
    The smiddy by the byre
Whaur aye my feyther dings awa'
    And my brither blaws the fire.

For Lachlan lo'es the smiddy's reek,
    An' Geordie's but a fule
Wha' drives the plough his breid to seek,
    And Rob's to teach the schule;

He'll haver roond the schulehoose wa's,
    And ring the schulehoose bell,
He'll skelp the scholars wi' the tawse
    (I'd like that fine mysel'!)

They're easy pleased, my brithers three -
    I hate the smiddy's lowe,
A weary dominie I'd be,
    An' I canna thole the plough.

But by the doo'cot up the braes
...

Violet Jacob

The Lad I' The Mune

I

O gin I lived i' the gowden mune
    Like the mannie that smiles at me,
I'd sit a' nicht in my hoose abune
An the wee-bit stars they wad ken me sune,
For I'd sup my brose wi' a gowden spune
    And they wad come out to see!

II

For weel I ken that the mune's his ain
    And he is the maister there;
A' nicht he's lauchin', for, fegs, there's nane
To draw the blind on his windy-pane
And tak' an' bed him, to lie his lane
    And pleasure himsel' nae mair.

III

Says I to Grannie, "Keek up the glen
    Abune by the rodden tree,
There's a braw lad 'yont i' the mune, ye ken."
Says she, "Awa' wi' ye, bairn, gang ben,
For noo it's little I fash wi' men
    An' it's less that they fash wi' me!"

IV

W...

Violet Jacob

The Heid Horseman

O Alec, up at Soutar's fairm,
    You, that's sae licht o' he'rt,
I ken ye passin' by the tune
    Ye whustle i' the cairt;

I hear the rowin' o' the wheels,
    The clink o' haims an' chain,
And set abune yer stampin' team
    I see ye sit yer lane.

Ilk morn, agin' the kindlin' sky
    Yer liftit heid is black,
Ilk nicht I watch ye hameward ride
    Wi' the sunset at yer back.

For wark's yer meat and wark's yer play,
    Heid horseman tho' ye be,
Ye've ne'er a glance for wife nor maid,
    Ye tak nae tent o' me.

An' man, ye'll no suspec' the truth,
    Tho' weel I ken it's true,
There's mony ane that trails in silk
    Wha fain wad gang wi' you.

But I am just a serving lass,
    Wha toils to get her breid,...

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The Tod

There's a tod aye blinkin' when the nicht comes doon,
Blinkin' wi' his lang een an' keekin' roond an' roon',
Creepin' by the fairmyaird when gloamin' is to fa',
And syne there'll be a chicken or a deuk awa' -
Aye, when the guidwife rises, there's a deuk awa'!

There's a lass sits greetin' ben the hoose at hame,
For when the guidwife's cankered she gie's her aye the blame,
An' sair the lassie's sabbin' an' fast the tears fa',
For the guidwife's tint her bonnie hen an' it's awa' -
Aye, she's no sae easy dealt wi' when her gear's awa'!

There's a lad aye roamin' when the day gets late,
A lang-leggit deevil wi' his hand upon the gate,
And aye the guidwife cries to him to gar the toddie fa',
For she canna thole to let her deuks an' hens awa' -
Aye, the muckle bubbl...

Violet Jacob

The Lost Licht (A Perthshire Legend)

The weary, weary days gang by,
    The weary nichts they fa',
I mauna rest, I canna lie
    Since my ain bairn's awa'.

The soughing o' the springtide breeze
    Abune her heid blaws sweet,
There's nests amang the kirkyaird trees
    And gowans at her feet.

She gae'd awa' when winds were hie,
    When the deein' year was cauld,
An noo the young year seems to me
    A waur ane nor the auld.

And, bedded, 'twixt the nicht an' day,
    Yest're'en, I couldna bide
For thinkin', thinkin' as I lay
    O' the wean that lies outside.

O, mickle licht to me was gie'n
    To reach my bairn's abode,
But heaven micht blast a mither's een
    And her feet wad find the road.

The kirkyaird loan alang the brae
    Was choked ...

Violet Jacob

The Howe O' The Mearns

Laddie, my lad, when ye gang at the tail o' the plough
    An' the days draw in,
When the burnin' yellow's awa' that was aince a-lowe
    On the braes o' whin,
Do ye mind o' me that's deaved wi' the wearyfu' south
    An' it's puir concairns
While the weepies fade on the knowes at the river's mouth
    In the Howe o' the Mearns?

There was nae twa lads frae the Grampians doon to the Tay
    That could best us twa;
At bothie or dance, or the field on a fitba' day,
    We could sort them a';
An' at courtin'-time when the stars keeked doon on the glen
    An' its theek o' fairns,
It was you an' me got the pick o' the basket then
    In the Howe o' the Mearns.

London is fine, an' for ilk o' the lasses at hame
    There'll be saxty here,
But th...

Violet Jacob