Violet Jacob

"A change o' deils is lichtsome." -
Scots Proverb.


My Grannie spent a merry youth,
    She niver wantit for a joe,
An gin she tell't me aye the truth,
    Richt little was't she kent na o'.

An' whiles afore she gae'd awa'
    To bed her doon below the grass,
Says she, "Guidmen I've kistit[1] twa,
    But a change o' deils is lichtsome, lass!"

Sae dinna think to maister me,
    For Scotland's fu' o' brawlike chiels,
And aiblins[2] ither folk ye'll see
    Are fine an' pleased to change their deils.

Aye, set yer bonnet on yer heid,
    An' cock it up upon yer bree,
O' a' yer tricks ye'll hae some need
    Afore ye get the best o' me!

Sma' wark to fill yer place I'd hae,
    I'll seek...

Give me to-night to hide me in the shade,
    That neither moon nor star
May see the secret place where I am laid,
    Nor watch me from afar.

Let not the dark its prying ghosts employ
    To peer on my retreat,
And see the fragments of my broken toy
    Lie scattered at my feet.

I fashioned it, that idol of my own,
    Of metal strange and bright;
I made my toy a god - I raised a throne
    To honour my delight.

This haunted byway of the grove was lit
    With lamps my hand had trimmed,
Before the altar in the midst of it
    I kept their flame undimmed.

My steps turned ever to the hidden shrine;
    Aware or unaware,
My soul dwelt only in that spot divine,
    And now a wreck lies there.

Give me to-night to w...

Out in the upland places,
    I see both dale and down,
And the ploughed earth with open scores
    Turning the green to brown.

The bare bones of the country
    Lie gaunt in winter days,
Grim fastnesses of rock and scaur,
    Sure, while the year decays.

And, as the autumn withers,
    And the winds strip the tree,
The companies of buried folk
    Rise up and speak with me; -

From homesteads long forgotten,
    From graves by church and yew,
They come to walk with noiseless tread
    Upon the land they knew; -

Men who have tilled the pasture
    The writhen thorn beside,
Women within grey vanished walls
    Who bore and loved and died.

And when the great town closes
    Upon me like a sea,
Daylong, a...

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...

The willows stand by Fringford brook,
    From Fringford up to Hethe,
Sun on their cloudy silver heads,
    And shadow underneath.

They ripple to the silent airs
    That stir the lazy day,
Now whitened by their passing hands,
    Now turned again to grey.

The slim marsh-thistle's purple plume
    Droops tasselled on the stem,
The golden hawkweeds pierce like flame
    The grass that harbours them;

Long drowning tresses of the weeds
    Trail where the stream is slow,
The vapoured mauves of water-mint
    Melt in the pools below;

Serenely soft September sheds
    On earth her slumberous look,
The heartbreak of an anguished world
    Throbs not by Fringford brook.

All peace is here. Beyond our range,
    Ye...

When winter's pulse seems dead beneath the snow,
    And has no throb to give,
Warm your cold heart at mine, beloved, and so
    Shall your heart live.

For mine is fire - a furnace strong and red;
    Look up into my eyes,
There shall you see a flame to make the dead
    Take life and rise.

My eyes are brown, and yours are still and grey,
    Still as the frostbound lake
Whose depths are sleeping in the icy sway,
    And will not wake.

Soundless they are below the leaden sky,
    Bound with that silent chain;
Yet chains may fall, and those that fettered lie
    May live again.

Yes, turn away, grey eyes, you dare not face
    In mine the flame of life;
When frost meets fire, 'tis but a little space
    That ends the strife...

I canna' see ye, lad, I canna' see ye,
    For a' yon glory that's aboot yer heid,
Yon licht that haps ye, an' the hosts that's wi' ye,
    Aye, but ye live, an' it's mysel' that's deid!

They gae'd frae mill and mart; frae wind-blawn places,
    And grey toon-closes; i' the empty street
Nae mair the bairns ken their steps, their faces,
    Nor stand to listen to the trampin' feet.

Beside the brae, and soughin' through the rashes,
    Yer voice comes back to me at ilka turn,
Amang the whins, an' whaur the water washes
    The arn-tree[1] wi' its feet amangst the burn.

Whiles ye come back to me when day is fleein',
    And a' the road oot-by is dim wi' nicht,
But weary een like mine is no for seein',
    An', gin they saw, they wad be bli...

(To A Pipe Tune)


O, it's fine when the New and the Auld Year meet,
An' the lads gang roarin' i' the lichtit street,
An' there's me and there's Alick an' the miller's loon,
An' Geordie that's the piper oot o' Forfar toon.
        Geordie Faa! Geordie Faa!
Up wi' the chanter, lad, an' gie's a blaw!
For we'll step to the tune while we've feet in till oor shune,
Tho' the bailies an' the provost be to sort us a'!

We've three bonnie bottles, but the third ane's toom,
Gin' the road ran whisky, it's mysel' wad soom!
But we'll stan' while we can, an' be dancin' while we may,
For there's twa we hae to finish, an' it's Hogmanay.
        Geordie Faa! Geordie Faa!
There's an auld carle glow'rin' oot ahint yon wa',
But we'll sune gar him loup to the pipin' till...

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...

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 ...

Fine div I ken what ails yon puddock, Janet,
    That aince would hae her neb set up sae hie;
There's them that disna' seem to understan' it,
    I'se warrant ye it's plain eneuch to me!

Maybe ye'll mind her man - a fine wee cratur,
    Owre blate to speak (puir thing, he didna' daur);
What gar'd him fecht was jist his douce-like natur';
    Gairmans is bad, but Janet's tongue was waur.

But noo he's hame again, ye wadna ken her,
    He isna' feared to contradic' her flat;
He smokes a' day, comes late to get his denner,
    (I mind the time she'd sort him weel for that!)

What's gar'd her turn an' tak' a road divairgint?
    Ye think she's wae[1] because he wants a limb?
Ach! haud yer tongue, ye fule - the man's a sairgint,
    An'...

O Logie Kirk amang the braes,
    I'm thinkin' o' the merry days
Afore I trod thae weary ways
    That led me far frae Logie!

Fine do I mind when I was young
    Abune thy graves the mavis sung
An' ilka birdie had a tongue
    To ca' me back to Logie.

O Logie Kirk, tho' aye the same
    The burn sings ae remembered name,
There's ne'er a voice to cry "Come hame
    To bonnie Bess at Logie!"

Far, far awa' the years decline
    That took the lassie wha was mine
An' laid her sleepin' lang, lang syne
    Amang the braes at Logie.

Maggie, I ken that ye are happ'd in glory
    And nane can gar ye greet;
The joys o' Heaven are evermair afore ye,
    It's licht about yer feet.

I ken nae waefu' thochts can e'er be near ye
    Nor sorrow fash yer mind,
In yon braw place they winna let ye weary
    For him ye left behind.

Thae nichts an' days when dule seems mair nor double
    I'll need to dae my best,
For aye ye took the half o' ilka trouble,
    And noo I'd hae ye rest.

Yer he'rt'll be the same he'rt since yer flittin',
    Gin auld love doesna tire,
Sae dinna look an' see yer lad that's sittin'
    His lane aside the fire.

The sky is keen wi' dancin' stars in plenty,
    The New Year frost is strang;
But, O my lass! because the Auld Year kent ye
    ...

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,

The year declines, and yet there is
    A clearness, as of hinted spring;
And chilly, like a virgin's kiss,
    The cold light touches everything.

The world seems dazed with purity,
    There hangs, this spell-bound afternoon,
Beyond the naked cherry tree
    The new-wrought sickle of the moon.

What is this thraldom, pale and still,
    That holds so passionless a sway?
Lies death in this ethereal chill,
    New life, or prelude of decay?

In the frail rapture of the sky
    There bodes, transfigured, far aloof,
The veil that hides eternity,
    With life for warp and death for woof.

We see the presage - not with eyes,
    But dimly, with the shrinking soul -
Scarce guessing, in this fateful guise,
    The glory that enwra...

In the prison-house of the dark
    I lay with open eyes,
And pale beyond the pale windows
    I saw the dawn rise.
From past the bounds of space
    Where earthly vapours climb,
There stirred the voice I shall not hear
    On this side Time.
There is one death for the body,
    And one death for the heart,
And one prayer for the hope of the end,
    When some links part.
Christ, from uncounted leagues,
Beyond the sun and moon,
Strike with the sword of Thine own pity -
    Bring the dawn soon.

I'm fairly disjaskit, Christina,
    The warld an' its glories are toom;
I'm laid like a stane whaur ye left me,
    To greet wi' my heid i' the broom.

A' day has the lav'rock been singin'
    Up yont, far awa' i' the blue,
I thocht that his sang was sae bonnie,
    Bit it disna' seem bonnie the noo!

A' day has the cushie been courtin'
    His joe i' the boughs o' the ash,
But gin Love was wheeped frae the pairish,
    It isn't mysel' that wad fash!

For losh! what a wark I've had wi' ye!
    At mairkit, at kirk, an' at fair,
I've ne'er let anither lad near ye -
    An' what can a lassie need mair?

An' oh! but I've socht ye an' watched ye,
    Whauriver yer fitsteps was set,
Gin ye had but yer neb i' the gairden
    I was ...

O Jean, my Jean, when the bell ca's the congregation
Owre valley an' hill wi' the ding frae its iron mou',
When a'body's thochts is set on his ain salvation,
    Mine's set on you.

There's a reid rose lies on the Buik o' the Word 'afore ye
That was growin' braw on its bush at the keek o' day,
But the lad that pu'd yon flower i' the mornin's glory,
    He canna pray.

He canna pray; but there's nane i' the kirk will heed him
Whaur he sits sae still his lane at the side o' the wa,
For nane but the reid rose kens what my lassie gie'd him -
    It an' us twa!

He canna sing for the sang that his ain he'rt raises,
He canna see for the mist that's 'afore his een,
An a voice drouns the hale o' the psalms an' the paraphrases,
    Cryin' "Jean, Jean, Jean!"