Hamewith [Homeward]

The Alien

IN Afric's fabled fountains I have panned the golden sand--

Caught crocodile with baviaan for bait--

I've fished, with blasting gelatine for hook an' gaff' and wand,

An' lured the bearded barbel to his fate:

But take your Southern rivers that meander to the sea,

And set me where the Leochel joins the Don.

With eighteen feet of greenheart an' the tackle running free--

        I want to have a clean fish on.

The eland and the tsessebe I've tracked from early dawn,

I've heard the road of lions shake the night,

I've fed the lonely bush-veld camp on dik-kop an' korhaan,

An' watched the soaring vulture in his flight;

For horn an' head I've hunted, yet the spoil of gin an' spear,

My trophies, I would freely give them all,

To creep through mist an' heather on the great red deer--

        I want to hear the black cock call

In hot December weather when the grass is caddie high

I've driven clean an' lost the ball an' game,

When winter veld is burned an' bare I've cursed the cuppy lie--

The language is the one thing still the same;

For dongas, rocks, an' scuffled greens give me the links up North,

The whins, the broom, the thunder of the surf,

The three old fellows waiting where I used to make a fourth--

        I want to play a round on turf.

I've faced the fremt, its strain an' toil, in market an' in mine,         [fremt=foreign land]

Seen Fortune ebb an' flow between the "Chains,"

Sat late o'er starlit banquets where the danger spiced the wine,

But bitter are the lees the alien drains;

For all the time the heather blooms on distant Benachie,

An' wrapt in peace the shelterd valley lies,

I want to wade through bracken in a glen across the sea--

        I want to see the peat reek rise.

Charles Murray

Hame [Home]

Spring

Winter

Love and Laughter

Tho' I Be Aul' [Though I Be Old]

YE needa think tho' I be aul',

An' a' my bonnet haps is grey,

My heart is grizzen, crined or caul'             [crined or caul'=grown small or cold]

An' never kens a dirl the day.             [kens a dirl=knows a tingle]

A bonny lass can stirr me still,

As deep her mither did when young,

An' aul' Scots sang my saul can fill

As fu's when first I heard it sung.

Gin throu' the muir ahin' the dogs

I dinna lift my feet sae cleen

As swacker lads that loup the bogs,             [swacker=nimbler]

I'll wear them doon afore we're deen.

I ken some differ wi' the dram,

Ae mutchkin starts me singin' noo,             [mutchkin=measure of ale]

But winds are tempered to the lamb,

An' I get a' the cheaper fu'.

An open lug, a gyangin' fit,

Altho' they've never filled my kist,             [filled my kist=put me in my coffin]

Hae brocht me wisdom, whiles an' wit

Worth mair than a' the siller miss't.

An', faith, the ferlies I hae seen,             [ferlies=wonders]

The ploys I've shared an' daurna tell

Cheer mony a lanely winter's e'en,

Just kecklin' ower them to mysel'.

            [keklin'=laughing]

There's some hae looks, there's mair hae claes,             [claes=class]

That's but the brods, the beulk's the thing,

The heart that keeps for dreary days

Some weel-remembered merry spring.

The ca' me fey or ca' me feel,

Clean draft or dotit, deil may care,

Aye faur there's fun, at Pase or Yeel,

Gin I be livin' I'll be there.

Charles Murray

Gin I Was God

GIN I was God, sittin up there abeen,

Weariet nae doot noo a' my drag was deen,

Deaved wi' the harps an' hymns oonendin' ringin',

Tired o' the flockin' angels hairse wi' singin',

To some clood-edge I'd daunder furth an', feth,

Look ower an' watch hoo were gyaun aneth.

Syne, gin I saw hoo men I'd made mysel'             [syne=since]

Had startit into pooshan, sheet an' fell,             [pooshan=poison]

To reive an' rape, an' fairly mak' a hell

O' my braw birlin' Earth,--a hale week's wark--             [birlin'=whirling]

I'd cast my coat again, rowe up my sark,             [rowe up my sark=roll up my sleeves]

An' or they'd time to aench a second ark,             [aench=launch]

Tak' back my word an' sen' anither spate,

Droon oot the hale hypothec, dicht the sklate,             [dicht the sklate=clean the slate]

Own my mistak', an, aince I cleered the brod,

Start a'thing ower again, gin I was God.

Charles Murray

Still, Man, Still

HE'S nae to ride the water on,

For fear he coup the creel;             [coup the creel=change the basket]

He's never mowse to meddle wi',

I ken't ower weel;

He's aften deen a neiper doon             [neiper=neighbor]

That never did him ill,

He may get grey but never gweed,--             [gweed=good]

An' still, man, still,

I've kent him lift anither's birn             [kent=known, birn=burden]]

When better men were laith,             [laith=hesitant]

An' wi' a nicht-boun' beggar share

Biel an' brose baith.

When stirks were doon an' rents were due

I've kent him back a bill

That kept a peer man in his craft,--

But still, man, still,

I dinna doot the story's true,

Ae Sabbath he was heard

Gyaun whustlin doon the larick belt             [larick=larch tree]

Like some roch caird;             [roch caird=rough travelling fix-it man]

He's never ta'ena token yet--

Suspicious an ye will

Whaur a' gang forrit aince a year,--

An' still, man, still,

Nae winter but a starvin wife

Comes for the bow o' meal,

His onwal wauger laid an' won             [onwal=annual]

At some bonspiel;

To bleeze the burn an' spear a fish

Therre's few that hae his skill,

An' nane like him can busk a heuck,--

But still, man, still,

Nich after nicht till a' the oors

At catch-the-ten he'll sit,

At singin' orra strouds o' sangs             [stroud=nonsense song]

There's few mair fit.

I've heard him fae the laird himsel'

Refuse an offered gill,             [gill=measure of ale]

Nae honest man but tak's his dram,--

An still, man, still,

When ye uphaud or I misca'

There's aye the tither side,

An' whiles the very best o' us

Would some things hide;

We're maistly a' a mixture, man,

Like pasture on the hill,

Whaur tufts o' girse an' scrogs o' breem             [girse=grass]

Raise stoot tups still.

Charles Murray

Furth Again

YE'RE hardly hame till furth again'

It's buckle the brogues an' fare

To the wearimost ends o' the earth again,

An' the wark that is waitin' there.

Ye are keen to gang, but it's lane an' lang

Lies ever the ootwith track,

An' its guid to mind there are frien's behind

Aye wishin ye well,--an back.

Charles Murray

At the Loanin Mou' [At the edge of the yard]

THE tears were drappin' frae baith her een,

When I was sayin' "Goodbye" the streen,

An' we baith were wae as we weel micht be,

The wife at the mou' o' the loan an' me.

Yet what could I do at a tie like this

But lift her chin for a pairtin' kiss,

An' leave her to look to the bairns an' kye,             [kye=cows]

An' warsle her lane till the war was bye?

            [warsle=struggle]

Wi' the country cryin' for mair to come,

What man could bide at the lug o' the lum,             [lug...lum=base of chimney, i.e. by the fireside]

Or sleep upon feathers or caff for shame             [caff=chafe]

To think he was lyin' sae saft at hame?

What scaith may come man canna foresee,

But naething waur can a mortal dree

Than leavin' a wife at a time like noo,

Greetin' her lane at the loanin' mou'.

Charles Murray

When Will the War Be By?

"THIS year, neist year, sometime, never,"

A lanely lass, bringing hame the kye,             [kye=cows]

Pu's at a floo'er wi' a weary sigh,

An' laich, laich, she is coontin' ever             [laich=low, coontin'=counting]

"This year, neist year, sometime, never,

When will the war be by?"

"Weel, wounded, missin', deid,"

Is there nae news o' oor lads ava?

Are they hale an' fere that are hine awa'?             [hine awa'=far away]

A lass raxed oot for the list, to read--             [raxed=stretched]

"Weel, wounded, missin', deid";

An' the war was by for twa.

Charles Murray

A Sough o' War [A sigh of war]

THE corn was turnin', hairst was near,             [hairst=harvest]

But lang afore the scythes could start

A sough o' war gaed through the land

An' stirred it to its benmost heart.

Nae ours the blame, but whrn it came

We couldna pass the challenge by,

For credit o' our honest name

There could be but one reply.

   An' buirdly men, fae strath an' glen             [buirdly=stalwart]

      An' shepherds fae the bucht an' hill,             [bucht=sheep pastures]

   Will show them a', whate'er befa',

      Auld Scotland counts for something still.

Half-mast the castle banner droops,

The Laird's lament was played yestreen,

An' mony a widowed cottar wife

Is greetin' at her shank aleen.             [shank=knitting]

In Freedom's cause, for ane that fa's,

We'll gleen the glens a' send them three

To clip the reivin' eagle's claws,

An' drook his feathers i' the sea.             [drook=drown]

   For gallant loons, in broochs an' toons,

      Are leavin' shop an' yard an' mill,

   A keen to show baith friend an' foe

      Auld Scotland counts for something still.

The grim, grey fathers, bent wi' years,

Come stridin' through the muirland mist,

Wi' beardless lads scarce by wi' school

But eager as the lave to list.             [lave=the rest]

We've fleshed o' yore the brave claymore             [claymore=broadsword]

On mony a bloody field afar,

But ne'er did skirlin' pipes afore

Cry on sae udgently tae war.

   Gin danger's there, we'll thole our share,

      Gie's but the weapons, we've the will,

   Ayont the main, to prove again

      Auld Scotland counts for something still.

Charles Murray

The Maid o' the Mill

THE cushie doos are cooin' in the birk,             [cushie doos=wood pigeons]

The pee-weets are cryin' on the lea,

The starlings in the belfty o' the kirk

Are layin' plans as merry as can be.

The mavis in the plantin' has a mate,

The blackbird is busy wi' his nest,

Then why until the summer should we wait

When spring could see us happy as the rest.

There's leaves upon the bourtree on the haugh,             [haugh=riverbank]

The blossom is drappin ' fae the gean,

There's buds upon the rantree an' the saugh,             [saugh=willow]

The ferns about the Lady's Well are green.

A' day the herd is liltin' on the hill,

The o'ercome o' ilka sang's the same:

"There are ower mony maidens at the Mill,

It's time the one I trysted wi' cam' hame!

Charles Murray

The Witch o' the Golden Hair

AULD carlins ride on their brooms astride

Awa' thro' the midnight air,

But they cast nae spell on a man sae fell

As the Witch o' the Golden Hair.

Nay a fairy free 'neath the hazel tree

That dances upon the green

Ever kent a charm that could heal or harm

Like the glint o' her two blue een.

Fae the earth she's reived, fae the Heav'n she's thieved,

For her cauldron's deadly brew;

She laughs at the sounds o' the hearts she wounds,

For what recks the Witch o' rue?

Lang, lang may the vine in its envy twine

To compass a bower sae rare,

As will peer, I trow, wi' her broad low brow

An' her wavin' golden hair.

The bloom fae the peach that we ne'er could reach,

The red that the apple missed,

You'll find if you seek on the Witch's cheek,

Left there when the summer kissed.

The blue drappit doon fae the lift aboon

To shine in her dancin een;

An' the honey-bee sips fae her red, red lips,

Syne brags o' the sweets between.

Wi' a magic wile she has won the smile

That the mornin' used to wear,

An' the gold the sun in his splendor spun

Lies tangled amang her hair.

The soft south wind cam' to her to find

A haven to sink an' die,

An' the breath o' myrrh it bequeathed to her

You'll find in the Witch's sigh.

The dimples there that you still can see

Are a' she can claim her ain,

For in Nature fair naught can compare

Wi' them; they are hers alane.

Charles Murray

The Remonstrance

NOO man, hoo can ye think it richt

To waste your time, nicht after nicht,

An' hunker in the fallin' licht

          Wi' moody broo,

Like some puir dwinin' thewless wicht             [dwinin'=pining]

          Wi' death in view?

I've taul' ye aft aneuch i's nae

As if ye'd aught 'at's new to say,

Or said auld things some better way,

          Or like some callants

Gat fouk to praise your songs an' pay

          Ye for your ballants.

Instead o' vreetin' like a clerk             [vreetin'=writing]

Till bed-time brings alang the dark,

Ye should be sportin' in the park

          An' hear the clamour

Wad greet ye, should ye pass my mark

          Wi' stane or hammer.

Or tak' a daunder roon' the braes             [daunder=stroll]

An' hear the blackies pipe the lays,

The liftward laverock's sang o' praise,

          An' syne, my billie,

Mak' nae mair verses a' your days--

          Shut doonyour millie.

Charles Murray

The Reply

THO' loud the mavis whistles now

An' blackbirds pipe fae ilka bough

An' laverocks set the heart alowe--

          Mid a' the plenty

You'd miss upon the wayside cowe

          The twitt'rin' lintie

An' think you, when the simmer's gane,

When the sleet blaws thro' the leafless plane,

An' bieldless birds sit mute an' lane,

          The woods a' cheerless,

The hamely robin on the stane

          Sings sweet an' fearless.

So tho' my sangs be as you say

Nae marrow for the blackbird's lay

They may hae cheered somebody's way

          Wha wanted better,

An' sent him happier up the brae

          My welcome debtor.

Nae care hae I, nor wish to speel

Parnassus' knowe, for mony a chiel

Has tint his time, his life as weel,

          To claim a bit o't:

I only crave a wee bit biel'

          Near han' the fit o't.

Charles Murray

Horace in Scots

Persicos odi

FOREIGN fashions, lad, allure you,

Hamespun happit I would be;

Bring nae mair, for I assure you

Ferlies only scunner me.

Fancy tartens, clanless, gaudy,

Mention them nae mair, I say;

Best it suits your service, laddie,

An' my drinkin', hodden-grey.

Charles Murray

Charon's Song

ANOTHER boat-load for the Further Shore,

Heap them up high in the stern;

Nae ano o' them ever has crossed before

An' never a ane 'll return.

    Heavy it rides, sae full, sae full,

        Deep, deep is the River,

    But light, light is the backward pull,

        The River flows silently on.

A cargo o' corps that are cauld I trow--

They're grippy that grudge the fare--

An' the antrin quick wi' his golden bough

That's swappin the Here for There.

    Heavy it rides, sae full, sae full,

        Slow, slow is the River,

    But light, light is the backward pull,

        The River flows silently on.

In vain will they look wha seek for a ford,

Where the reeds grow lank an' lang:

This is the ferry, an' I am the lord

An' king o' the boat an' stang.

    Heavy it rides, sae full, sae full,

        Black, black is the River,

    But light, light is the backward pull,

        The River, my River, flows on.

Charles Murray

Burns' Centenary

"MY fame is sure; when I am dead

A century," the Poet said,

"They'll heap the honours on my head

        They grudge me noo";

To-day the hundred years have sped

        That prove it true.

Whiles as the featherd ages flee,

Time sets the sand-glass on his knee,

An' ilka name baith great an' wee

        Shak's thro' his seive;

Syne sadly wags his pow to see

        The few that live.

An' still the quickest o' the lot

Is his wha made the lovely cot

A shrine, whaur ilka reverent Scot

        Bareheadit' turns.

Our mither's psalms we may forgot,

        But never Burns.

This nicht, auld Scotland, dry your tears,

An' let nae sough o' grief come near's;

We'll speak o' Rab 's gin he could hear's;

        Life's but a fivver,

And he's been healed this hundred years

        To live for ever.

Charles Murray