Hogmanay

(To A Pipe Tune)


O, it's fine when the New and the Auld Year meet,
An' the lads gang roarin' i' the lichtit street,
An' there's me and there's Alick an' the miller's loon,
An' Geordie that's the piper oot o' Forfar toon.
        Geordie Faa! Geordie Faa!
Up wi' the chanter, lad, an' gie's a blaw!
For we'll step to the tune while we've feet in till oor shune,
Tho' the bailies an' the provost be to sort us a'!

We've three bonnie bottles, but the third ane's toom,
Gin' the road ran whisky, it's mysel' wad soom!
But we'll stan' while we can, an' be dancin' while we may,
For there's twa we hae to finish, an' it's Hogmanay.
        Geordie Faa! Geordie Faa!
There's an auld carle glow'rin' oot ahint yon wa',
But we'll sune gar him loup to the pipin' till he coup,
For we'll gi'e him just a drappie, an' he'll no say na!

My heid's dementit an' my feet's the same,
When they'll no wark thegither it's a lang road hame;
An' we've twa mile to traivel or it's mair like three,
But I've got a grip o' Alick, an' ye'd best grip me.
        Geordie Faa! Geordie Faa!
The morn's near brakin' an' we'll need awa',
Gin ye're aye blawin' strang, then we'll maybe get alang,
An' the deevil tak' the laddie that's the first to fa'!

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

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The Tod

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The Jacobite Lass

Violet Jacob, Simple Poetry

English

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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 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

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;^[1]
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,

Violet Jacob

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

Maggie

Maggie, I ken that ye are happ'd in glory
    And nane can gar ye greet;
The joys o' Heaven are evermair afore ye,
    It's licht about yer feet.

I ken nae waefu' thochts can e'er be near ye
    Nor sorrow fash yer mind,
In yon braw place they winna let ye weary
    For him ye left behind.

Thae nichts an' days when dule seems mair nor double
    I'll need to dae my best,
For aye ye took the half o' ilka trouble,
    And noo I'd hae ye rest.

Yer he'rt'll be the same he'rt since yer flittin',
    Gin auld love doesna tire,
Sae dinna look an' see yer lad that's sittin'
    His lane aside the fire.

The sky is keen wi' dancin' stars in plenty,
    The New Year frost is strang;
But, O my lass! because the Auld Year kent ye
    ...

Violet Jacob

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 spunk 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' slee...

Violet Jacob