The Wild Geese

"O tell me what was on yer road, ye roarin' norlan' Wind,
As ye cam' blawin' frae the land that's niver frae my mind?
My feet they traivel England, but I'm dee'in for the north."
"My man, I heard the siller tides rin up the Firth o' Forth."

"Aye, Wind, I ken them weel eneuch, and fine they fa' an' rise,
And fain I'd feel the creepin' mist on yonder shore that lies,
But tell me, ere ye passed them by, what saw ye on the way?"
"My man, I rocked the rovin' gulls that sail abune the Tay."

"But saw ye naething, leein' Wind, afore ye cam' to Fife?
There's muckle lyin' 'yont the Tay that's mair to me nor life."
"My man, I swept the Angus braes ye hae'na trod for years."
"O Wind, forgi'e a hameless loon that canna see for tears!"

"And far abune the Angus straths I saw the wild geese flee,
A lang, lang skein o' beatin' wings, wi' their heids towards the sea,
And aye their cryin' voices trailed ahint them on the air - "
"O Wind, hae maircy, haud yer whisht, for I daurna listen 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 Gowk

Violet Jacob, Simple Poetry

The Doo'ucot Up The Braes

Violet Jacob, Simple Poetry

Jeemsie Miller

Violet Jacob, Simple Poetry

Armed

Violet Jacob, Simple Poetry

English

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The Water-Hen

As I gae'd doon by the twa mill dams i' the mornin'
The water-hen cam' oot like a passin' wraith
And her voice cam' through the reeds wi' a sound of warnin',
        "Faith - keep faith!"
"Aye, bird, tho' ye see but ane ye may cry on baith!"

As I gae'd doon the field when the dew was lyin',
My ain love stood whaur the road an' the mill-lade met,
An it seemed to me that the rowin' wheel was cryin',
        "Forgi'e - forget,
An turn, man, turn, for ye ken that ye lo'e her yet!"

As I gae'd doon the road 'twas a weary meetin',
For the ill words said yest're'en they were aye the same,
And my het he'rt drouned the wheel wi' its heavy beatin'.
        "Lass, think shame,
It's no for me to speak, for it's you to blame!"

As I gae'd doon by the toon when t...

Violet Jacob

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 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 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...

Violet Jacob

The Gean-Trees

I mind, when I dream at nicht,
Whaur the bonnie Sidlaws stand
Wi' their feet on the dark'nin' land
An their heids i' the licht;
An the thochts o' youth roll back
Like wreaths frae the hillside track
In the Vale o' Strathmore;
And the autumn leaves are turnin'
And the flame o' the gean-trees burnin'
Roond the white hoose door.

Aye me, when spring cam' green
And May-month decked the shaws
There was scarce a blink o' the wa's
For the flower o' the gean;
But when the hills were blue
Ye could see them glintin' through
An the sun i' the lift;
An the flower o' the gean-trees fa'in'
Was like pairls frae the branches snawin'
In a lang white drift.

Thae trees are fair and gay
When May-month's in her prime,
But I'm thrawn wi' the...

Violet Jacob

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 ...

Violet Jacob