Jock, To The First Army

O Rab an' Dave an' rantin' Jim,
    The geans were turnin' reid
When Scotland saw yer line grow dim,
    Wi' the pipers at its heid;
Noo, i' yon warld we dinna ken,
    Like strangers ye maun gang -
"We've sic a wale^[1] o' Angus men
    That we canna weary lang."

An' little Wat - my brither Wat -
    Man, are ye aye the same?
Or is yon sma' white hoose forgot
    Doon by the strath at hame?
An' div' ye mind foo aft we trod
    The Isla's banks before? -
- "My place is wi' the Hosts o' God,
    But I mind me o' Strathmore."

It's daith comes skirling through the sky,
    Below there's naucht but pain,
We canna see whaur deid men lie
    For the drivin' o' the rain;
Ye a' hae passed frae fear an' doot.
    Ye're far frae airthly ill -
- "We're near, we're here, my wee recruit,
    An' we fecht for Scotland still."

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

Craigo Woods

Violet Jacob, Simple Poetry

Rejected

Violet Jacob, Simple Poetry

The Philosophy Of The Ditch

Violet Jacob, Simple Poetry

A Change O' Deils

Violet Jacob, Simple Poetry

English

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The Twa Weelums

I'm Sairgeant Weelum Henderson frae Pairth,
        That's wha I am!
There's jist ae bluidy regiment on airth
        That's worth a damn;
An' gin the bonniest fechter o' the lot
        Ye seek to see,
Him that's the best - whaur ilka man's a Scot -
        Speir you at me!

Gin there's a hash o' Gairmans pitten oot
        By aichts an' tens,
That Wully Henderson's been thereaboot
        A'body kens.
Fegs-aye! Yon Weelum that's in Gairmanie,
        He hadna reckoned
Wi' Sairgeant Weelum Henderson, an' wi'
        The Forty-Second!

Yon day we lichtit on the shores o' France,
        The lassies standin'
Trod ilk on ither's taes to get the chance
        To see us landin';
The besoms! O they smiled to me - an' yet
 ...

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

The Twa Jocks

Says Bauldy MacGreegor frae Gleska tae Hecky MacCrimmon frae Skye:
"That's whit I hate maist aboot fechtin' - it makes ye sae deevilish dry;
Noo jist hae a keek at yon ferm-hoose them Gairmans are poundin' sae fine,
Weel, think o' it, doon in the dunnie there's bottles and bottles o' wine.
A' hell's fairly belchin' oot yonner, but oh, lad, I'm ettlin' tae try. . . ."
"If it's poose she'll be with ye whateffer," says Hecky MacCrimmon frae Skye.

Says Bauldy MacGreegor frae Gleska: "Whit price fur a funeral wreath?
We're dodgin' a' kinds o' destruction, an' jist by the skin o' oor teeth.
Here, spread yersel oot on yer belly, and slither along in the glaur;
Confoond ye, ye big Hielan' deevil! Ye don't realize there's a war.
Ye think that ye're back in Dunvegan, and herdin' the wee...

Robert William Service

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 Kirk Beside The Sands

It was faur-ye-weel, my dear, that the gulls were cryin'
    At the kirk beside the sands,
Whaur the saumon-nets lay oot on the bents for dryin',
    Wi' the tar upon their strands;

A roofless kirk i' the bield o' the cliff-fit bidin',
    And the deid laid near the wa';
A wheen auld coupit stanes i' the sea-grass hidin',
    Wi' the sea-sound ower them a'.

But it's mair nor daith that's here on the hauchs o' Flanders,
    And the deid lie closer in;
It's no the gull, but the hoodit craw that wanders
    When the lang, lang nichts begin.

It's ill to dee, but there's waur things yet nor deein';
    And the warst o' a's disgrace;
For there's nae grave deep eneuch 'mang the graves in bein'
    To cover a coward's face.

Syne, a' is weel, th...

Violet Jacob

The Jacobite Lass

My love stood at the loanin' side
    An' held me by the hand,
The bonniest lad that e'er did bide
    In a' this waefu' land -
There's but ae bonnier to be seen
    Frae Pentland to the sea,
And for his sake but yestre'en
    I sent my love frae me.

I gi'ed my love the white white rose
    That's at my feyther's wa',
It is the bonniest flower that grows
    Whaur ilka flower is braw;
There's but ae bonnier that I ken
    Frae Perth unto the main,
An' that's the flower o' Scotland's men
    That's fechtin' for his ain.

Gin I had kept whate'er was mine
    As I hae gie'd my best,
My he'rt were licht by day, and syne
    The nicht wad bring me rest;
There is nae heavier he'rt to find
    Frae Forfar toon to Ayr,
As aye I...

Violet Jacob