The Whustlin' Lad

There's a wind comes doon frae the braes when the licht is spreadin'
    Chilly an' grey,
An' the auld cock craws at the yett o' the muirland steadin'
    Cryin' on day;
The hoose lies sound an' the sma' mune's deein' an' weary
    Watchin' her lane,
The shadows creep by the dyke an' the time seems eerie,
But the lad i' the fields he is whustlin' cheery, cheery,
    'Yont i' the rain.

My mither stirs as she wauks wi' her twa een blinkin',
    Bedded she'll bide,
For foo can an auld wife ken what a lassie's thinkin'
    Close at her side?
Mither, lie still, for ye're needin' a rest fu' sairly,
    Weary an' worn,
Mither, I'll rise, an' ye ken I'll be warkin' fairly -
An' I dinna ken wha can be whustlin', whustlin', aerly,
    Lang or it's morn!

Gin ye hear a sound like the sneck o' the backdoor turnin',
    Fash na for it;
It's just the crack i' the lum o' the green wood burnin',
    Ill to be lit;
Gin ye hear a step, it's the auld mear loose i' the stable
    Stampin' the strae,
Or mysel' that's settin' the parritch-spunes on the table,
Sae turn ye aboot an' sleep, mither, sleep while ye're able,
    Rest while ye may.

Up at the steadin' the trail o' the mist has liftit
    Clear frae the grund,
Mither breathes saft an' her face to the wa' she's shiftit -
    Aye, but she's sound!
Lad, ye may come, for there's nane but mysel' will hear ye
    Oot by the stair,
But whustle you on an' I winna hae need to fear ye,
For, laddie, the lips that keep whustlin', whustlin' cheery
    Canna dae mair!

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 Heid Horseman

Violet Jacob, Simple Poetry

Back To The Land

Violet Jacob, Simple Poetry

Rejected

Violet Jacob, Simple Poetry

Hogmanay

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 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 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

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

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

Craigo Woods

Craigo Woods, wi' the splash o' the cauld rain beatin'
    I' the back end o' the year,
When the clouds hang laigh wi' the weicht o' their load o' greetin'
    And the autumn wind's asteer;
Ye may stand like gaists, ye may fa' i' the blast that's cleft ye
    To rot i' the chilly dew,
But when will I mind on aucht since the day I left ye
    Like I mind on you - on you?

Craigo Woods, i' the licht o' September sleepin'
    And the saft mist o' the morn,
When the hairst climbs to yer feet, an' the sound o' reapin'
    Comes up frae the stookit corn,
And the braw reid puddock-stules are like jewels blinkin'
    And the bramble happs ye baith,
O what do I see, i' the lang nicht, lyin' an' thinkin'
    As I see yer wraith - yer wraith?

There's a road to...

Violet Jacob