The Brig

I whiles gang to the brig-side
    That's past the briar tree,
Alang the road when the licht is wide
    Owre Angus an' the sea.

In by the dyke yon briar grows
    Wi' leaf an' thorn, it's lane
Whaur the spunk o' flame o' the briar rose
    Burns saft agin the stane.

An' whiles a step treids on by me,
    I mauna hear its fa';
And atween the brig an' the briar tree
    Ther gangs na' ane, but twa.

Oot owre yon sea, through dule an' strife,
    Ye tak' yer road nae mair,
For ye've crossed the brig to the fields o' life,
    An' ye walk for iver there.

I traivel on to the brig-side,
    Whaur ilka road maun cease,
My weary war may be lang to bide,
    An' you hae won to peace.

There's ne'er a nicht but turns to day,
    Nor a load that's niver cast;
An' there's nae wind cries on the winter brae,
    But it spends itsel' at last.

O you that niver failed me yet,
    Gin aince my step ye hear,
Come to yon brig atween us set,
    An' bide till I win near!

O weel, aye, weel, ye'll ken my treid,
    Ye'll seek nae word nor sign,
An' I'll no can fail at the Brig o' Dreid,
    For yer hand will be in mine.

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

The Blind Shepherd

Violet Jacob, Simple Poetry

The Wild Geese

Violet Jacob, Simple Poetry

The Gean-Trees

Violet Jacob, Simple Poetry

English

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The Lang Road

Below the braes o' heather, and far alang the glen,
The road rins southward, southward, that grips the souls o' men,
That draws their fitsteps aye awa' frae hearth and frae fauld,
That pairts ilk freen' frae ither, and the young frae the auld.
And whiles I stand at mornin' and whiles I stand at nicht,
To see it through the gaisty gloom, gang slippin oot o sicht;
There's mony a lad will ne'er come back amang his ain to lie,
An' its lang, lang waitin' till the time gangs by.

An far ayont the bit o' sky that lies abune the hills,
There is the black toon standin' mid the roarin' o' the mills.
Whaur the reek frae mony engines hangs 'atween it and the sun
An the lives are weary, weary, that are just begun.
Doon yon lang road that winds awa' my ain three sons they went,
They ...

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

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

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 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