The Beadle O' Drumlee

Them that's as highly placed as me
(Wha am the beadle o' Drumlee)
Should na be prood, nor yet owre free.

Me an' the meenister, ye ken,
Are no the same as a' thae men
We hae for neebours i' the glen.

The Lord gie'd him some lairnin' sma'
An me guid sense abune them a',
An them nae wuts to ken wha's wha.

Ye'd think, to hear the lees they tell,
The Sawbath day could mind itsel'
Withoot a hand to rug the bell,

Ye'd think the Reverend Paitrick Broun
Could ca' the Bible up an' doon
An' loup his lane in till his goon.

Whiles, gin he didna get frae me
The wicelike wird I weel can gie,
Whaur wad the puir bit callant be?

The elders, Ross an' Weellum Aird,
An' fowk like Alexander Caird,
That think they're cocks o' ilka yaird,

Fegs aye! they'd na be sweir to rule
A lad sae newly frae the schule
Gin my auld bonnet crooned a fule!

But oh! Jehovah's unco' kind!
Whaur wad this doited pairish find
A man wi' sic a powerfu' mind?

Sae, let the pairish sleep at nicht
Blind wi' the elders' shinin' licht,
Nor ken wha's hand keeps a' things richt.

It's what they canna understan'
That brains hae ruled since time began,
An' that the beadle is the man!

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

Back To The Land

Violet Jacob, Simple Poetry

The Howe O' The Mearns

Violet Jacob, Simple Poetry

The Gean-Trees

Violet Jacob, Simple Poetry

Tam I' The Kirk

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 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

Jeemsie Miller

There's some that mak' themsels a name
Wi' preachin', business, or a game,
There's some wi' drink hae gotten fame
    And some wi' siller:
I kent a man got glory cheap,
For nane frae him their een could keep,
Losh! he was shapit like a neep,
    Was Jeemsie Miller!

When he gaed drivin' doon the street
Wi' cairt an' sheltie, a' complete,
The plankie whaur he had his seat
    Was bent near double;
And gin yon wood had na been strang
It hadna held oor Jeemsie lang,
He had been landit wi' a bang,
    And there'd been trouble.

Ye could but mind, to see his face,
The reid mune glowerin' on the place,
Nae man had e'er sic muckle space
    To haud his bonnet:
An owre yon bonnet on his brow,
Set cockit up owre Jeemsie's pow,
Th...

Violet Jacob

The Philosophy Of The Ditch

Aweel, I'm couped. But wha' could tell
    The road wad rin sae sair?
I couldna gang yon pace mysel',
    An' I winna try nae mair!

There's them wad coonsel me to stan',
    But this is what I say:
When Natur's forces fecht wi' man,
    Dod, he maun just give way!

If man's nae framed to lift his fit
    Agin' a nat'ral law,
I winna' lift my heid, for it
    Wad dae nae guid ava'.

Puir worms are we; the poo'pit rings
    Ilk Sawbath wi' the same,
Gin airth's the place for sic-like things,
    I'm no sae far frae hame!

Yon's guid plain raes'nin'; an' forby,
    This pairish has nae sense,
There's mony traiv'lin wad deny
    Natur and Providence;

For loud an' bauld the leears wage
    On men lik...

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,...

Violet Jacob