Braid Claith
Ye wha are fain to hae your name
Wrote in the bonny book of fame,
Let merit nae pretension claim
To laurel'd wreath,
But hap ye weel, baith back and wame,
In gude Braid Claith.
He that some ells o' this may fa,
An' slae-black hat on pow like snaw,
Bids bauld to bear the gree awa',
Wi' a' this graith,
Whan bienly clad wi' shell fu' braw
O' gude Braid Claith.
Waesuck for him wha has na fek o't!
For he's a gowk they're sure to geck at,
A chiel that ne'er will be respekit
While he draws breath,
Till his four quarters are bedeckit
Wi' gude Braid Claith.
On Sabbath-days the barber spark,
When he has done wi' scrapin wark,
Wi' siller broachie in his sark,
Gangs trigly, faith!
Or to the meadow, or the park,
In gude Braid Claith.
Weel might ye trow, to see them there,
That they to shave your haffits bare,
Or curl an' sleek a pickly hair,
Wou'd be right laith,
Whan pacing wi' a gawsy air
In gude Braid Claith.
If only mettl'd stirrah green
For favour frae a lady's ein,
He maunna care for being seen
Before he sheath
His body in a scabbard clean
O' gude Braid Claith.
For, gin he come wi' coat threadbare,
A feg for him she winna care,
But crook her bonny mou' fu' sair,
And scald him baith.
Wooers shou'd ay their travel spare
Without Braid Claith.
Braid Claith lends fock an unco heese,
Makes mony kail-worms butterflies,
Gies mony a doctor his degrees
For little skaith:
In short, you may be what you please
Wi' gude Braid Claith.
For thof ye had as wise a snout on
As Shakespeare or Sir Isaac Newton,
Your judgment fouk wou'd hae a doubt on,
I'll tak my aith,
Till they cou'd see ye wi' a suit on
O' gude Braid Claith.
poem by Robert Fergusson
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Related quotes
Krishna Questions His Hair Braid Not Growing
Mother, when will my hair-braid grow?
milk you said will make it grow,
but still it remains so short.
Mother when will my hair-braid grow
you said like Bal it would be strong,
his braid has grown fat and long,
combing , braiding, bathing, drying,
to the ground like a serpent writhing.
for me you say milk is better.
never delicious bread and butter,
Sur, long live the two brothers,
the twosome of hari and haldhar.
poem by Sant Surdas
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Braes o'Yarrow
Late at e'en, drinking the wine,
And ere they paid the lawing,
They set a combat them between,
To fight it in the dawing.
'What though ye be my sister's lord
We'll cross our swords to-morrow.'
'What though my wife your sister be,
I'll meet ye then on Yarrow.'
'O stay at hame, my ain gude lord!
O stay, my ain dear marrow!
My cruel brither will you betray
On the dowie banks of Yarrow.'
'O fare ye weel, my lady dear!
And put aside your sorrow;
For if I gae, I'll sune return
Frae the bonny banks o' Yarrow.'
She kiss'd his cheek, she kaimed his hair,
As oft she'd done before, O;
She belted him with his gude brand,
And he's awa' to Yarrow.
When he gaed up the Tennies bank,
As he gaed mony a morrow,
Nine armed men lay in a den
On the dowie braes o' Yarrow.
'O come ye here to hunt or hawk
The bonny Forest thorough?
Or come ye here to wield your brand
Upon the banks o' Yarrow?'
'I come not here to hunt or hawk
As oft I've dune before, O,
But I come here to wield my brand
Upon the banks o' Yarrow.
'If ye attack me nine to ane,
That God may send ye sorrow!--
Yet will I fight while stand I may,
On the bonny banks o' Yarrow.'
Two has he hurt, and three has slain,
On the bloody braes o' Yarrow;
But the stubborn knight crept in behind,
And pierced his body thorough.
'Gae hame, gae hame, you brither John,
And tell your sister sorrow,--
To come and lift her leafu' lord
On the dowie banks o' Yarrow.'
Her brither John gaed ower the hill,
As oft he'd dune before, O;
There he met his sister dear,
Cam' rinnin' fast to Yarrow.
'I dreamt a dream last night,' she says,
'I wish it binna sorrow;
I dreamt I pu'd the heather green
Wi' my true love on Yarrow.'
'I'll read your dream, sister,' he says,
'I'll read it into sorrow;
Ye're bidden go take up your love,
He's sleeping sound on Yarrow.'
She's torn the ribbons frae her head
That were baith braid and narrow;
She's kilted up her lang claithing,
And she's awa' to Yarrow.
She's ta'en him in her arms twa,
And gi'en him kisses thorough;
She sought to bind his many wounds,
But he lay dead on Yarrow.
'O haud your tongue,' her father says,
'And let be a' your sorrow;
I'll wed you to a better lord
Than him you lost on Yarrow.'
'O haud your tongue, father,' she says,
'Far warse ye make my sorrow;
A better lord could never be
Than him that lies on Yarrow.'
She kiss'd his lips, she kaimed his hair,
As aft she'd dune before, O;
And there with grief her heart did break
Upon the banks o' Yarrow.
The Braes O' Yarrow
Late at e'en, drinking the wine,
And ere they paid the lawing,
They set a combat them between,
To fight it in the dawing.
'What though ye be my sister's lord
We'll cross our swords to-morrow.'
'What though my wife your sister be,
I'll meet ye then on Yarrow.'
'O stay at hame, my ain gude lord!
O stay, my ain dear marrow!
My cruel brither will you betray
On the dowie banks of Yarrow.'
'O fare ye weel, my lady dear!
And put aside your sorrow;
For if I gae, I'll sune return
Frae the bonny banks o' Yarrow.'
She kiss'd his cheek, she kaimed his hair,
As oft she'd done before, O;
She belted him with his gude brand,
And he's awa' to Yarrow.
When he gaed up the Tennies bank,
As he gaed mony a morrow,
Nine armed men lay in a den
On the dowie braes o' Yarrow.
'O come ye here to hunt or hawk
The bonny Forest thorough?
Or come ye here to wield your brand
Upon the banks o' Yarrow?'
'I come not here to hunt or hawk
As oft I've dune before, O,
But I come here to wield my brand
Upon the banks o' Yarrow.
'If ye attack me nine to ane,
That God may send ye sorrow!--
Yet will I fight while stand I may,
On the bonny banks o' Yarrow.'
Two has he hurt, and three has slain,
On the bloody braes o' Yarrow;
But the stubborn knight crept in behind,
And pierced his body thorough.
'Gae hame, gae hame, you brither John,
And tell your sister sorrow,--
To come and lift her leafu' lord
On the dowie banks o' Yarrow.'
Her brither John gaed ower the hill,
As oft he'd dune before, O;
There he met his sister dear,
Cam' rinnin' fast to Yarrow.
'I dreamt a dream last night,' she says,
'I wish it binna sorrow;
I dreamt I pu'd the heather green
Wi' my true love on Yarrow.'
'I'll read your dream, sister,' he says,
'I'll read it into sorrow;
Ye're bidden go take up your love,
He's sleeping sound on Yarrow.'
She's torn the ribbons frae her head
That were baith braid and narrow;
She's kilted up her lang claithing,
And she's awa' to Yarrow.
She's ta'en him in her arms twa,
And gi'en him kisses thorough;
She sought to bind his many wounds,
But he lay dead on Yarrow.
'O haud your tongue,' her father says,
'And let be a' your sorrow;
I'll wed you to a better lord
Than him you lost on Yarrow.'
'O haud your tongue, father,' she says,
'Far warse ye make my sorrow;
A better lord could never be
Than him that lies on Yarrow.'
She kiss'd his lips, she kaimed his hair,
As aft she'd dune before, O;
And there with grief her heart did break
Upon the banks o' Yarrow.
poem by Anonymous Americas
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Braes O' Yarrow
Late at e'en, drinking the wine,
And ere they paid the lawing,
They set a combat them between,
To fight it in the dawing.
'What though ye be my sister's lord
We'll cross our swords to-morrow.'
'What though my wife your sister be,
I'll meet ye then on Yarrow.'
'O stay at hame, my ain gude lord!
O stay, my ain dear marrow!
My cruel brither will you betray
On the dowie banks of Yarrow.'
'O fare ye weel, my lady dear!
And put aside your sorrow;
For if I gae, I'll sune return
Frae the bonny banks o' Yarrow.'
She kiss'd his cheek, she kaimed his hair,
As oft she'd done before, O;
She belted him with his gude brand,
And he's awa' to Yarrow.
When he gaed up the Tennies bank,
As he gaed mony a morrow,
Nine armed men lay in a den
On the dowie braes o' Yarrow.
'O come ye here to hunt or hawk
The bonny Forest thorough?
Or come ye here to wield your brand
Upon the banks o' Yarrow?'
'I come not here to hunt or hawk
As oft I've dune before, O,
But I come here to wield my brand
Upon the banks o' Yarrow.
'If ye attack me nine to ane,
That God may send ye sorrow!-
Yet will I fight while stand I may,
On the bonny banks o' Yarrow.'
Two has he hurt, and three has slain,
On the bloody braes o' Yarrow;
But the stubborn knight crept in behind,
And pierced his body thorough.
'Gae hame, gae hame, you brither John,
And tell your sister sorrow,-
To come and lift her leafu' lord
On the dowie banks o' Yarrow.'
Her brither John gaed ower the hill,
As oft he'd dune before, O;
There he met his sister dear,
Cam' rinnin' fast to Yarrow.
'I dreamt a dream last night,' she says,
'I wish it binna sorrow;
I dreamt I pu'd the heather green
Wi' my true love on Yarrow.'
'I'll read your dream, sister,' he says,
'I'll read it into sorrow;
Ye're bidden go take up your love,
He's sleeping sound on Yarrow.'
She's torn the ribbons frae her head
That were baith braid and narrow;
She's kilted up her lang claithing,
And she's awa' to Yarrow.
She's ta'en him in her arms twa,
And gi'en him kisses thorough;
She sought to bind his many wounds,
But he lay dead on Yarrow.
'O haud your tongue,' her father says,
'And let be a' your sorrow;
I'll wed you to a better lord
Than him you lost on Yarrow.'
'O haud your tongue, father,' she says,
'Far warse ye make my sorrow;
A better lord could never be
Than him that lies on Yarrow.'
She kiss'd his lips, she kaimed his hair,
As aft she'd dune before, O;
And there with grief her heart did break
Upon the banks o' Yarrow.
poem by Anonymous Olde English
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Sir Patrick Spens
The king sits in Dunfermline town
Drinking the blude-red wine;
'O whare will I get a skeely skipper
To sail this new ship o' mine?'
O up and spak an eldern knight,
Sat at the king's right knee;
'Sir Patrick Spens is the best sailor
That ever sail'd the sea.'
Our king has written a braid letter,
And seal'd it with his hand,
And sent it to Sir Patrick Spens,
Was walking on the strand.
The first word that Sir Patrick read
So loud, loud laugh'd he;
The neist word that Sir Patrick read
The tear blinded his e'e.
'O wha is this has done this deed
And tauld the king o' me,
To send us out, at this time o' year,
To sail upon the sea?
'Mak ready, mak ready, my merry men a'!
Our gude ship sails the morn.'
'Now ever alack, my master dear,
I fear a deadly storm.
'I saw the new moon late yestreen
Wi' the auld moon in her arm;
And if we gang to sea, master,
I fear we'll come to harm.'
O laith, laith were our gude Scots lords
To wet their cork-heel'd shoon;
But lang or a' the play was play'd
They wat their hats aboon.
O lang, lang may the ladies sit,
Wi' their fans into their hand,
Before they see Sir Patrick Spens
Come sailing to the strand!
And lang, lang may the maidens sit
Wi' their gowd kames in their hair,
A-waiting for their ain dear loves!
For them they'll see nae mair.
Half-owre, half-owre to Aberdour,
'Tis fifty fathoms deep;
And there lies gude Sir Patrick Spens,
Wi' the Scots lords at his feet!
poem by by unknown author
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Auld Lang Syne
Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
and never brought to mind ?
Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
and auld lang syne ?
CHORUS
For auld lang syne, my dear,
for auld lang syne,
we’ll tak a cup o’ kindness yet,
for auld lang syne.
And surely ye’ll be your pint-stoup !
and surely I’ll be mine !
And we’ll tak a cup o’ kindness yet,
for auld lang syne.
CHORUS
We twa hae run about the braes,
and pou’d the gowans fine ;
But we’ve wander’d mony a weary fit,
sin’ auld lang syne.
CHORUS
We twa hae paidl’d in the burn,
frae morning sun till dine ;
But seas between us braid hae roar’d
sin’ auld lang syne.
CHORUS
And there’s a hand my trusty fiere !
and gies a hand o’ thine !
And we’ll tak a right gude-willie waught,
for auld lang syne.
CHORUS
poem by Robert Burns
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Jamie Telfer
It fell about the Martinmas tyde,
When our Border steeds get corn and hay
The captain of Bewcastle hath bound him to ryde,
And he's ower to Tividale to drive a prey.
The first ae guide that they met wi',
It was high up Hardhaughswire;
The second guide that we met wi',
It was laigh down in Borthwick water.
'What tidings, what tidings, my trusty guide?'
'Nae tidings, nae tidings, I hae to thee;
But, gin ye'll gae to the fair Dodhead,
Mony a cow's cauf I'll let thee see.'
And whan they cam to the fair Dodhead,
Right hastily they clam the peel;
They loosed the kye out, ane and a',
And ranshackled the house right weel.
Now Jamie Telfer's heart was sair,
The tear aye rowing in his e'e;
He pled wi' the captain to hae his gear,
Or else revenged he wad be.
The captain turned him round and leugh;
Said--'Man, there's naething in thy house,
But ae auld sword without a sheath,
That hardly now wad fell a mouse!'
The sun was na up, but the moon was down,
It was the gryming o' a new fa'n snaw,
Jamie Telfer has run three myles a-foot,
Between the Dodhead and the Stobs's Ha'
And whan he cam to the fair tower yate,
He shouted loud, and cried weel hie,
Till out bespak auld Gibby Elliot--
'Wha's this that brings the fraye to me?'
'It's I, Jamie Telfer o' the fair Dodhead,
And a harried man I think I be!
There's naething left at the fair Dodhead,
But a waefu' wife and bairnies three.
'Gae seek your succour at Branksome Ha'.
For succour ye'se get nane frae me!
Gae seek your succour where ye paid black-mail,
For, man! ye ne'er paid money to me.'
Jamie has turned him round about,
I wat the tear blinded his e'e--
'I'll ne'er pay mail to Elliot again,
And the fair Dodhead I'll never see!
'My hounds may a' rin masterless,
My hawks may fly frae tree to tree;
My lord may grip my vassal lands,
For there again maun I never be.'
He has turned him to the Tiviot side,
E'en as fast as he could drie,
Till he came to the Coultart Cleugh
And there he shouted baith loud and hie.
Then up bespak him auld Jock Grieve--
'Wha's this that brings the fray to me?'
'It's I, Jamie Telfer o' the fair Dodhead,
A harried man I trow I be.
'There's naething left in the fair Dodhead,
But a greeting wife and bairnies three,
And sax poor ca's stand in the sta',
A' routing loud for their minnie.'
'Alack a wae!' quo' auld Jock Grieve,
'Alack! my heart is sair for thee!
For I was married on the elder sister,
And you on the youngest of a' the three.'
Then he has ta'en out a bonny black,
Was right weel fed wi' corn and hay,
And he's set Jamie Telfer on his back,
To the Catslockhill to tak' the fray.
And whan he cam to the Catslockhill,
He shouted loud and weel cried he,
Till out and spak him William's Wat--
'O wha's this brings the fraye to me?'
'It's I, Jamie Telfer o' the fair Dodhead,
A harried man I think I be!
The captain of Bewcastle has driven my gear;
For God's sake rise, and succour me!'
'Alas for wae!' quo' William's Wat,
'Alack, for thee my heart is sair!
I never cam by the fair Dodhead,
That ever I fand thy basket bare.'
He's set his twa sons on coal-black steeds,
Himsel' upon a freckled gray,
And they are on wi, Jamie Telfer,
To Branksome Ha to tak the fray.
And whan they cam to Branksome Ha',
They shouted a' baith loud and hie,
Till up and spak him auld Buccleuch,
Said--'Wha's this brings the fray to me?
'It's I, Jamie Telfer o' the fair Dodhead,
And a harried man I think I be!
There's nought left in the fair Dodhead,
But a greeting wife and bairnies three.'
'Alack for wae!' quoth the gude auld lord,
'And ever my heart is wae for thee!
But fye gar cry on Willie, my son,
And see that he come to me speedilie!
'Gar warn the water, braid and wide,
Gar warn it soon and hastily!
They that winna ride for Telfer's kye,
Let them never look in the face o' me!
'Warn Wat o' Harden, and his sons,
Wi' them will Borthwick water ride;
Warn Gaudilands, and Allanhaugh,
And Gilmanscleugh, and Commonside.
'Ride by the gate at Priesthaughswire,
And warn the Currors o' the Lee;
As ye come down the Hermitage Slack,
Warn doughty Willie o' Gorrinbery.'
The Scots they rade, the Scots they ran,
Sae starkly and sae steadilie!
And aye the ower-word o' the thrang,
Was--'Rise for Branksome readilie!'
The gear was driven the Frostylee up,
Frae the Frostylee unto the plain,
Whan Willie has looked his men before,
And saw the kye right fast driving.
'Wha drives thir kye?' 'gan Willie say,
'To mak an outspeckle o' me?'
'It's I, the captain o' Bewcastle, Willie;
I winna layne my name for thee.'
'O will ye let Telfer's kye gae back,
Or will ye do aught for regard o' me?
Or, by the faith o' my body,' quo' Willie Scott,
'I se ware my dame's cauf's-skin on thee!'
'I winna let the kye gae back,
Neither for thy love, nor yet thy fear,
But I will drive Jamie Telfer's kye,
In spite of every Scot that's here.'
'Set on them, lads!' quo' Willie than,
'Fye, lads, set on them cruellie!
For ere they win to the Ritterford,
Mony a toom saddle there sall be!
But Willie was stricken ower the head,
And through the knapscap the sword has gane;
And Harden grat for very rage,
Whan Willie on the ground lay slain.
But he's ta'en aff his gude steel-cap,
And thrice he's waved it in the air--
The Dinlay snaw was ne'er mair white,
Nor the lyart locks of Harden's hair.
'Revenge! revenge!' auld Wat 'gan cry;
'Fye, lads, lay on them cruellie!
We'll ne'er see Tiviotside again,
Or Willie's death revenged shall be.'
O mony a horse ran masterless,
The splintered lances flew on hie;
But or they wan to the Kershope ford,
The Scots had gotten the victory.
John o' Brigham there was slain,
And John o' Barlow, as I hear say;
And thirty mae o' the captain's men,
Lay bleeding on the grund that day.
The captain was run thro' the thick of the thigh--
And broken was his right leg bane;
If he had lived this hundred year,
He had never been loved by woman again.
'Hae back thy kye!' the captain said;
'Dear kye, I trow, to some they be!
For gin I suld live a hundred years,
There will ne'er fair lady smile on me.'
Then word is gane to the captain's bride,
Even in the bower where that she lay,
That her lord was prisoner in enemy's land,
Since into Tividale he had led the way.
'I wad lourd have had a winding-sheet,
And helped to put it ower his head,
Ere he had been disgraced by the Border Scot,
When he ower Liddel his men did lead!'
There was a wild gallant amang us a',
His name was Watty wi' the Wudspurs,
Cried--'On for his house in Stanegirthside,
If ony man will ride with us!'
When they cam to the Stanegirthside,
They dang wi' trees, and burst the door;
They loosed out a' the captain's kye,
And set them forth our lads before.
There was an auld wife ayont the fire,
A wee bit o' the captain's kin--
'Wha daur loose out the captain's kye,
Or answer to him and his men?'
'It's I, Watty Wudspurs, loose the kye,
I winna layne my name frae thee!
And I will loose out the captain's kye,
In scorn of a' his men and he.'
When they cam to the fair Dodhead,
They were a wellcum sight to see!
For instead of his ain ten milk-kye,
Jamie Telfer has gotten thirty and three.
And he has paid the rescue shot,
Baith wi' goud, and white monie;
And at the burial o' Willie Scott,
I wot was mony a weeping e'e.
poem by Andrew Lang
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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I Gather Motley Flowers
I gather motley flowers
And braid, braid a garland,
Sharp spears fall
At your victorious feet.
The sisters turn spindles
And spin, spin yarn.
Wild hops creep
Over fallen banners.
The cavalry flew by and vanished,
The storm thundered and hushed.
Lawlessness bore down, bore down -
Silence and light all around.
I stand in the middle of a mown field.
You stand beside me in shining armor.
I have found myself a Leader -
He is glorious and winged.
You will advance with a bold step,
Lead me into a new battle.
I will do whatever you want:
I am inseparable from you.
poem by Mikhail Alekseevich Kuzmin
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Douglas Tragedy
'Rise up, rise up now, Lord Douglas,' she says,
'And put on your armour so bright;
Let it never be said that a daughter of thine
Was married to a lord under night.
'Rise up, rise up, my seven bold sons,
And put on your armour so bright,
And take better care of your youngest sister,
For your eldest's awa the last night.'--
He's mounted her on a milk-white steed,
And himself on a dapple grey,
With a bugelet horn hung down by his side,
And lightly they rode away.
Lord William lookit o'er his left shoulder,
To see what he could see,
And there be spy'd her seven brethren bold,
Come riding o'er the lee.
'Light down, light down, Lady Marg'ret,' he said,
'And hold my steed in your hand,
Until that against your seven brothers bold,
And your father I make a stand.'--
She held his steed in her milk white hand,
And never shed one tear,
Until that she saw her seven brethren fa',
And her father hard fighting, who loved her so dear.
'O hold your hand, Lord William!' she said,
'For your strokes they are wondrous sair;
True lovers I can get many a ane,
But a father I can never get mair.'--
O she's ta'en out her handkerchief,
It was o' the holland sae fine,
And aye she dighted her father's bloody wounds,
That were redder than the wine.
'O chuse, O chuse, Lady Marg'ret,' he said,
'O whether will ye gang or bide?'
'I'll gang, I'll gang, Lord William,' she said,
'For ye have left me no other guide.'--
He's lifted her on a milk-white steed,
And himself on a dapple grey.
With a bugelet horn hung down by his side,
And slowly they baith rade away.
O they rade on, and on they rade,
And a' by the light of the moon,
Until they came to yon wan water,
And there they lighted down.
They lighted down to tak a drink
Of the spring that ran sae clear:
And down the stream ran his gude heart's blood,
And sair she 'gan to fear.
'Hold up, hold up, Lord William,' she says,
'For I fear that you are slain!'
''Tis naething but the shadow of my scarlet cloak
That shines in the water sae plain.'
O they rade on, and on they rade,
And a' by the light of the moon,
Until they cam to his mother's ha' door,
And there they lighted down.
'Get up, get up, lady mother,' he says,
'Get up, and let me in!--
Get up, get up, lady mother,' he says,
'For this night my fair ladye I've win.
'O mak my bed, lady mother,' he says,
'O mak it braid and deep!
And lay Lady Marg'ret close at my back,
And the sounder I will sleep.'--
Lord William was dead lang ere midnight,
Lady Marg'ret lang ere day--
And all true lovers that go thegither,
May they have mair luck than they!
Lord William was buried in St. Marie's kirk,
Lady Margaret in Marie's quire;
Out o' the lady's grave grew a bonny red rose,
And out o' the knight's a brier.
And they twa met, and they twa plat,
And fain they wad be near;
And a' the warld might ken right weel,
They were twa lovers dear.
But by and rade the Black Douglas,
And wow but he was rough!
For he pull'd up the bonny brier,
An flang't in St. Marie's Loch.
poem by Andrew Lang
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An Aboriginal Mothers's Lament
An Aboriginal Mother’s Lament
Charles Harpur
------------------------------------- -------------------------------------------
[About the year 1842 a party of stockmen, several of whom were afterwards hanged for the crime, made a wholesale slaughter of a small tribe of defenceless blacks; one woman only, with her infant, escaped from the murderers.]
Still farther would I fly, my child,
To make thee safer yet,
From the unsparing white man,
With his dread hand murder-wet!
I’ll bear thee on as I have borne
With stealthy steps wind-fleet,
But the dark night shrouds the forest,
And thorns are in my feet.
O moan not! I would give this braid—
Thy father’s gift to me—
But for a single palmful
Of water now for thee.
Ah! Spring not to his name—no more
To glad us may he come!
He is smouldering into ashes
Beneath the blasted gum!
All charred and blasted by the fire
The white man kindled there,
And fed with our slaughtered kindred
Till heaven-high went its glare!
O moan not! I would give this braid—
Thy father’s gift to me—
For but a single palmful
Of water now for thee.
And but for thee, I would their fire
Had eaten me as fast!
Hark! Hark! I hear his death-cry
Yet lengthening up the blast!
But no—when that we should fly,
On the roaring pyre flung bleeding—
I saw thy father die!
O moan not! I would give this braid—
Thy father’s gift to me—
For but a single palmful
Of water now for thee.
No more shall his loud tomahawk
Be plied to win our cheer,
Or the shining fish-pools darken
Beneath his shadowing spear;
The fading tracks of his fleet foot
Shall guide not as before,
And the mountain-spirits mimic
His hunting call no more!
O moan not! I would give this braid—
Thy father’s gift to me—
For but a single palmful
Of water now for thee.
poem by Charles Harpur
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Johnnie Armstrang
Some speak of lords, some speak of lairds,
And sic like men of high degree;
Of a gentleman I sing a sang,
Some time call'd Laird of Gilnockie.
The king he writes a loving letter,
With his ain hand sae tenderlie,
And he hath sent it to Johnnie Armstrang,
To come and speak with him speedilie.
The Elliots and Armstrangs did convene,
They were a gallant companie:
'We'll ride and meet our lawful king,
And bring him safe to Gilnockie.
'Make kinnen and capon ready, then,
And venison in great plentie;
We'll welcome here our royal king;
I hope he'll dine at Gilnockie!'
They ran their horse on the Langholm howm,
And brake their spears with meikle main;
The ladies lookit frae their loft windows--
'God bring our men weel hame again!'
When Johnnie came before the king,
With all his men sae brave to see,
The king he moved his bonnet to him;
He ween'd he was a king as well as he.
'May I find grace, my sovereign liege,
Grace for my loyal men and me?
For my name it is Johnnie Armstrang,
And a subject of yours, my liege,' said he.
'Away, away, thou traitor strang!
Out of my sight soon may'st thou be!
I granted never a traitor's life,
And now I'll not begin with thee.'
'Grant me my life, my liege, my king!
And a bonnie gift I'll gi'e to thee;
Full four-and-twenty milk-white steeds,
Were all foal'd in ae year to me.
'I'll gi'e thee all these milk-white steeds,
That prance and nicher at a spear;
And as meikle gude Inglish gilt,
As four of their braid backs dow bear.'
'Away, away, thou traitor strang!
Out of my sight soon may'st thou be!
I granted never a traitor's life,
And now I'll not begin with thee.'
'Grant me my life, my liege, my king!
And a bonnie gift I'll gi'e to thee:
Gude four-and-twenty ganging mills,
That gang thro' all the year to me.
'These four-and-twenty mills complete,
Shall gang for thee thro' all the year;
And as meikle of gude red wheat,
As all their happers dow to bear.'
'Away, away, thou traitor strang!
Out of my sight soon may'st thou be!
I granted never a traitor's life,
And now I'll not begin with thee.'
'Grant me my life, my liege, my king!
And a great gift I'll gi'e to thee:
Bauld four-and-twenty sisters' sons
Shall for thee fecht, tho' all shou'd flee.'
'Away, away, thou traitor strang!
Out of my sight soon may'st thou be!
I granted never a traitor's life,
And now I'll not begin with thee.'
'Grant me my life, my liege, my king!
And a brave gift I'll gi'e to thee:
All between here and Newcastle town
Shall pay their yearly rent to thee.'
'Away, away, thou traitor strang!
Out of my sight soon may'st thou be!
I granted never a traitor's life,
And now I'll not begin with thee.'
'Ye lied, ye lied, now, king,' he says,
'Altho' a king and prince ye be!
For I've loved naething in my life,
I weel dare say it, but honestie.
'Save a fat horse, and a fair woman,
Twa bonnie dogs to kill a deer;
But England shou'd have found me meal and mault,
Gif I had lived this hundred year.
'She shou'd have found me meal and mault,
And beef and mutton in all plentie;
But never a Scots wife cou'd have said,
That e'er I skaith'd her a puir flee.
'To seek het water beneath cauld ice,
Surely it is a great follie:
I have ask'd grace at a graceless face,
But there is nane for my men and me.
'But had I kenn'd, ere I came frae hame,
How unkind thou wou'dst been to me,
I wou'd ha'e keepit the Border side,
In spite of all thy force and thee.
'Wist England's king that I was ta'en,
Oh, gin a blythe man he wou'd be!
For ance I slew his sister's son,
And on his breast-bane brak a tree.'
John wore a girdle about his middle,
Embroider'd o'er with burning gold,
Bespangled with the same metal,
Maist beautiful was to behold.
There hang nine targats at Johnnie's hat,
An ilk ane worth three hundred pound:
'What wants that knave that a king shou'd have,
But the sword of honour and the crown?
'Oh, where got thee these targats, Johnnie.
That blink sae brawly aboon thy brie?'
'I gat them in the field fechting,
Where, cruel king, thou durst not be.
'Had I my horse and harness gude,
And riding as I wont to be,
It shou'd have been tauld this hundred year,
The meeting of my king and me!
'God be with thee, Kirsty, my brother,
Lang live thou laird of Mangertoun!
Lang may'st thou live on the Border side,
Ere thou see thy brother ride up and down!
'And God he with thee, Kirsty, my son,
Where thou sits on thy nurse's knee!
But an thou live this hundred year,
Thy father's better thou'lt never be.
'Farewell, my bonnie Gilnock hall,
Where on Esk side thou standest stout!
Gif I had lived but seven years mair,
I wou'd ha'e gilt thee round about.'
John murder'd was at Carlinrigg,
And all his gallant companie;
But Scotland's heart was ne'er sae wae,
To see sae mony brave men die;
Because they saved their country dear
Frae Englishmen! Nane were sae bauld
While Johnnie lived on the Border side,
Nane of them durst come near his hauld.
poem by Andrew Lang
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If it winna be a gude shoe we'll mak a bauchel o't.
Death and Doctor Hornbook
SOME books are lies frae end to end,
And some great lies were never penn’d:
Ev’n Ministers they hae been kenn’d,
In holy rapture,
A rousing whid, at times, to vend,
And nail’t wi’ Scripture.
But this that I am gaun to tell,
Which lately on a night befel,
Is just as true ’s the Deil’s in hell,
Or Dublin city:
That e’er he nearer comes oursel
’S a muckle pity.
The Clachan yill had made me canty,
I was na fou, but just had plenty;
I stacher’d whyles, but yet took tent ay
To free the ditches;
An’ hillocks, stanes, an’ bushes kenn’d ay
Frae ghaists an’ witches.
The rising Moon began to glowr
The distant Cumnock hills out-owre;
To count her horns, wi’ a’ my pow’r,
I set mysel,
But whether she had three or four,
I cou’d na tell.
I was come round about the hill,
And todlin down on Willie’s mill,
Setting my staff wi’ a’ my skill,
To keep me sicker;
Tho’ leeward whyles, against my will,
I took a bicker.
I there wi’ Something does forgather,
That pat me in an eerie swither;
An awfu’ scythe, out-owre ae shouther,
Clear-dangling, hang;
A three-tae’d leister on the ither
Lay, large an’ lang.
Its stature seem’d lang Scotch ells twa,
The queerest shape that e’er I saw,
For fient a wame it had ava,
And then its shanks,
They were as thin, as sharp an’ sma’
As cheeks o’ branks.
»Guid-een«, quo I; »Friend! hae ye been mawin,
When ither folk are busy sawin?«
It seem’d to mak a kind o’ stan’,
But naething spak;
At length, says I, »Friend, whare ye gaun,
Will ye go back?«
It spak right howe – »My name is Death,
But be na’ fley’d.« – Quoth I, »Guid faith,
Ye’re maybe come to stap my breath;
But tent me, billie;
I red ye weel, tak care o’ skaith,
See, there’s a gully!«
»Gudeman«, quo’ he, »put up your whittle,
I’m no design’d to try its mettle;
But if I did, I wad be kittle
To be mislear’d,
I wad na’ mind it, no that spittle
Out-owre my beard.«
»Weel, weel!« says I, »a bargain be’t;
Come, gies your hand, an’ sae we’re gree’t;
We’ll ease our shanks an’ tak a seat,
Come, gies your news!
This while ye hae been mony a gate,
At mony a house.«
»Ay, ay!« quo’ he, an’ shook his head,
»It’s e’en a lang, lang time indeed
Sin’ I began to nick the thread,
An’ choke the breath:
Folk maun do something for their bread,
An’ sae maun Death.
Sax thousand years are near hand fled
Sin’ I was to the butching bred,
And mony a scheme in vain’s been laid,
To stap or scar me;
Till ane Hornbook’s ta’en up the trade,
And faith, he’ll waur me.
Ye ken Jock Hornbook i’ the Clachan,
Deil mak his king’s-hood in a spleuchan!
He’s grown sae weel acquaint wi’ Buchan
And ither chaps,
The weans haud out their fingers laughin,
And pouk my hips.
See, here’s a scythe, and there’s a dart,
They hae pierc’d monie a gallant heart;
But Doctor Hornbook, wi’ his art
And cursed skill,
Has made them baith no worth a fart,
Damn’d haet they’ll kill!
Twas but yestreen, nae farther gaen,
I threw a noble throw at ane;
Wi’ less, I’m sure, I’ve hundreds slain;
But deil-ma-care!
It just play’d dirl on the bane,
But did nae mair.
Hornbook was by, wi’ ready art,
And had sae fortify’d the part,
That when I looked to my dart,
It was sae blunt,
Fient haet o’t wad hae pierc’d the heart
Of a kail-runt.
I drew my scythe in sic a fury,
I nearhand cowpit wi’ my hurry,
But yet the bauld Apothecary
Withstood the shock;
I might as weel hae try’d a quarry
O’ hard whin-rock.
Ev’n them he canna get attended,
Altho’ their face he ne’er had kend it,
Just shit in a kail-blade an send it,
As soon’s he smells ’t,
Baith their disease, and what will mend it,
At once he tells’t.
And then a’ doctor’s saws and whittles,
Of a’ dimensions, shapes, an’ mettles,
A’ kinds o’ boxes, mugs, an’ bottles,
He’s shure to hae;
Their Latin names as fast he rattles
As A B C.
Calces o’ fossils, earths, and trees;
True Sal-marinum o’ the seas;
The Farina of beans and pease,
He has’t in plenty;
Aqua-fontis, what you please,
He can content ye.
Forbye some new, uncommon weapons,
Urinus Spiritus of capons;
Or Mite-horn shavings, filings, scrapings,
Distill’d per se;
Sal-alkali o’ Midge-tail clippings,
And monie mae.«
»Waes me for Johnny Ged’s-Hole now«,
Quoth I, »if that thae news be true!
His braw calf-ward whare gowans grew,
Sae white an’ bonie,
Nae doubt they’ll rive it wi’ the plew;
They’ll ruin Johnie!«
The creature grain’d an eldritch laugh,
And says, »Ye needna yoke the pleugh,
Kirk-yards will soon be till’d eneugh,
Tak ye nae fear:
They’ll a’ be trench’d wi’ monie a sheugh,
In twa-three year.
Whare I kill’d ane, a fair strae-death,
By loss o’ blood, or want o’ breath,
This night I’m free to tak my aith,
That Hornbook’s skill
Has clad a score i’ their last claith,
By drap and pill.
An honest Wabster to his trade,
Whase wife’s twa nieves were scarce weel-bred,
Gat tippence-worth to mend her head,
When it was sair;
The wife slade cannie to her bed,
But ne’er spak mair.
A countra Laird had ta’en the batts,
Or some curmurring in his guts,
His only son for Hornbook sets,
And pays him well,
The lad, for twa guid gimmer-pets,
Was Laird himsel.
An bonie lass, ye kend her name,
Some ill-brewn drink had hov’d her wame,
She trusts hersel, to hide the shame,
In Hornbook’s care;
Horn sent her off to her lang hame,
To hide it there.
That’s just a swatch o’ Hornbook’s way,
Thus goes he on from day to day,
Thus does he poison, kill an’ slay,
An’s weel pay’d for’t;
Yet stops me o’ my lawfu’ prey,
Wi’ his damn’d dirt!
But hark! I’ll tell you of a plot,
Tho’ dinna ye be speakin o’t;
I’ll nail the self-conceited Sot,
As dead’s herrin:
Niest time we meet, I’ll wad a groat,
He gets his fairin!«
But just as he began to tell,
The auld kirk-hammer strak the bell
Some wee, short hour ayont the twal,
Which rais’d us baith:
I took the way that pleas’d mysel,
And sae did Death.
poem by Robert Burns
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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A' are gude lasses, but where do the ill wives come frae?
The Gardener LV: It Was Mid-Day
It was mid-day when you went
away .
The sun was strong in the sky.
I had done my work and sat alone
on my balcony when you went away.
Fitful gusts came winnowing
through the smells of may distant
fields.
The doves cooed tireless in the shade,
and a bee strayed in my room hum-
ming the news of many distant fields.
The village slept in the noonday
heat. The road lay deserted.
In sudden fits the rustling of the
leaves rose and died.
I gazed at the sky and wove in the
blue the letters of a name I had known,
while the village slept in the noonday
heat.
I had forgotten to braid my hair.
The languid breeze played with it upon
my cheek.
The river ran unruffled under the
shady bank.
The lazy white clouds did not move.
I had forgotten to braid my hair.
It was mid-day when you went
away.
The dust of the road was hot and
the fields panting.
The doves cooed among the dense
leaves.
I was alone in my balcony when you
went away.
poem by Rabindranath Tagore
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Gil Morrice. A Scottish Ballad
Gil Morrice was an erles son,
His name it waxed wide:
It was nae for his great riches,
Nor zet was mickle pride;
Bot it was for a lady gay,
That livd on Carron side.
'Quhair sall I get a bonny boy,
That will win hose and shoen;
That will gae to Lord Barnard's ha',
And bid his lady cum?
And ze maun rin my errand, Willie,
And ze may rin wi' pride;
Quhen other boys gae on their foot,
On horse-back ze sall ride.'
'O no! O no! my master dear!
I dare nae for my life;
I'll no gae to the bauld barons,
For to triest furth his wife.'
'My bird Willie, my boy Willie,
My dear Willie,' he sayd:
'How can ze strive against the stream?
For I shall be obeyd.'
'Bot, O my master dear!' he cry'd,
'In grene wod ze're zour lain;
Gi owre sic thochts, I walde ze rede,
For fear ze should be tain.'
'Haste, haste, I say, gae to the ha',
Bid hir cum here wi speid:
If ze refuse my heigh command,
Ill gar zour body bleid.
'Gae bid hir take this gay mantel,
'Tis a gowd bot the hem;
Bid hir cum to the gude grene wode,
And bring nane bot hir lain:
And there it is, a silken sarke,
Hir ain hand sewd the sleive;
And bid hir cum to Gill Morice,
Speir nae bauld barons leave.'
'Yes, I will gae zour blacke errand,
Though it be to zour cost;
Sen ze by me well nae be warn'd,
In it ze sall find frost.
The baron he is a man of might,
He neir could bide to taunt;
As ze will see before it's nicht,
How sma' ze hae to vaunt.
'And sen I maun zour errand rin
Sae sair against my will,
I'se make a vow and keip it trow,
It sall be done for ill.'
And quhen he came to broken brigue,
He bent his bow and swam;
And quhen he came to grass growing,
Set down his feet and ran.
And quhen he came to Barnards ha',
Would neither chap nor ca';
Bot set his bent bow to his breist,
And lichtly lap the wa'.
He wauld nae tell the man his errand,
Bot straiht into the ha' he cam,
Quhair they were set at meit.
'Hail! hail! my gentle sire and dame!
My message winna waite;
Dame, ze maun to the gude grene wod,
Before that it be late.
'Ze're bidden tak this gay mantel,
Tis a' gowd bot the hem:
Zou maun gae to the gude grene wode,
Ev'n by your sel alane.
'And there it is, a silken sarke,
Your ain hand sewd the sleive:
Ze maun gae speik to Gill Morice;
Speir nae bauld barons leave.'
The lady stamped wi' hir foot,
And winked wi' her ee;
Bot a' that she coud say or do,
Forbidden he wad nae bee.
'Its surely to my bow'r-woman;
It neir could be to me.'
'I brocht it to Lord Barnards lady;
I trow that ze be she.'
Then up and spack the wylie nurse,
(The bairn upon hir knee):
'If it be cum frae Gill Morice,
It' deir welcum to mee.'
'Ze leid, ze leid, ze filthy nurse,
Sae loud I heird ze lee;
I brocht it to Lord Barnards lady;
I trow ze be nae shee.'
Then up and spack the bauld baron,
An angry man was hee;
He's tain the table wi' his foot,
Sae has he wi' his knee,
Till siller cup and 'mazer' dish
In flinders he gard flee.
'Gae bring a robe of zour cliding
That hings upon the pin;
And I'll gae to the gude grene wode,
And speik wi' zour lemman.
'O bide at hame, now, Lord Barnard,
I warde ze bide at hame;
Neir wyte a man for violence,
That neir wate ze wi' nane.'
Gil Morice sate in gude grene wode,
He whistled and he sang:
'O what mean a' the folk coming?
His hair was like the threeds of gold,
Drawne frae Minerva's loome;
His lipps like roses drapping dew;
His breath was a' perfume.
His browe was like the mountains snae
Gilt by the morning beam;
His cheeks like living roses glow;
His een like azure stream.
The boy was clad in robes of grene,
Sweete as the infant spring;
And like the mavis on the bush,
He gart the vallies ring.
The baron came to the grene wode,
Wi' mickle dule and care,
And there he first spied Gill Morice
Kameing his zellow hair
That sweetly wavd around his face,
That face beyond compare;
He sang sae sweet, it might dispel
A' rage but fell despair.
'Nae wonder, nae wonder, Gill Morice,
My lady loed thee weel;
The fairest part of my bodie
Is blacker than thy heel.
Zet neir the less now, Gill Morice,
For al' thy great beautie,
Ze's rew the day ze eir was born;
That head sall gae wi' me.'
Now he was drawn his trusty brand,
And slaited on the strae;
And thro' Gill Morice' fair body
He's gar cauld iron gae.
And he has tain Gill Morice' head
And set it on a speir:
The meanest man in a' his train
Has gotten that head to bear.
And he has tain Gill Morice up,
Laid him across his steid,
And brocht him to his painted bowr,
And laid him on a bed.
The lady sat on castil wa',
Beheld baith dale and doun;
And there she saw Gill Morice' head
Cum trailing to the toun.
'Far better I loe that bluidy head,
Both and that zellow hair,
Than Lord Barnard, and a' his lands,
As they lig here and thair.'
And she has tain her Gill Morice,
And kissd baith mouth and chin:
'I was once as fow of Gill Morice,
As the hip is o' the stean.
'I got ze in my father's house,
Wi' mickle sin and shame;
I brocht thee up in gude grene wode,
Under the heavy rain.
Oft have I by thy cradle sitten
And fondly seen thee sleip;
But now I gae about thy grave,
The saut tears for to weip.'
And syne she kissd his bluidy cheik,
And syne his bluidy chin:
'O better I loe my Gill Morice
Than a' my kith and kin!'
'Away, away, ze ill woman,
And an il deith mait ze dee:
Gin I had kend he'd bin zour son,
He'd neir bin slain for mee.'
'Obraid me not, my Lord Barnard!
Obraid me not for shame!
Wi' that saim speir, O pierce my heart!
And put me out o' pain.
Since nothing bot Gill Morice' head
Thy jealous rage could quell,
Let that saim hand now tak hir life
That neir to thee did ill.
'To me nae after days nor nichts
Will eir be saft or kind;
I'll fill the air with heavy sighs,
And greet till I am blind.'
'Enouch of blood by me's bin spilt,
Seek not zour death frae me;
I rather lourd it had been my sel
Than eather him or thee.
'With waefo wae I hear zour plaint;
Sair, sair I rew the deid,
That eir this cursed hand of mine
Had gard his body bleid.
Dry up zour tears, my winsome dame,
Ze neir can heal the wound;
Ze see his head upon the speir,
His heart's blude on the ground.
'I curse the hand that did the deid,
The heart that thocht the ill;
The feet that bore me wi' sik speid,
The comely zouth to kill.
I'll ay lament for Gill Morice,
As gin he were mine ain;
I'll neir forget the dreiry day
On which the zouth was slain.'
poem by Anonymous Olde English
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