Below the braes o’ heather, and far alang the
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
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 turned their faces southward frae the glens they aye had kent,
And twa will never see the hills wi’ livin’ een again,
An’ it’s lang, lang waitin’ while I sit my lane.
For ane lies whaur the grass is hiech abune the gallant
An ane whaur England’s michty ships sail proud abune his heid,
They couldna’ sleep mair saft at hame, the twa that sairved their king,
Were they laid aside their ain kirk yett, i’ the flower o’ the ling.
But whaur the road is twistin’ through yon streets o’ care an’ sin,
My third braw son toils nicht and day for the gowd he fain would win,
Whaur ilka man grapes i’ the dark to get his neebour’s share,
An’ it’s lang, lang strivin’ i’ the mirk that’s there.
The een o’ love can pierce the mools that hide
a sodger’s grave,
An’ love that doesna’ heed the sod will naither hear the wave,
But it canna’ see ’ayont the cloud that hauds my youngest doon
Wi’ its mist o’ greed an’ sorrow i’ the smokin’ toon.
An whiles, when through the open door there fades the deein’ licht,
I think I hear my ain twa men come up the road at nicht,
But him that bides the nearest seems the furthest aye frae me—
And it’s lang, lang listenin’ till I hear the three!
THE BEADLE O’ DRUMLEE
Them that’s as highly placed as me
(Wha am the beadle o’ Drumlee)
Should na be prood, nor yet owre free.
Me an’ the meenister, ye ken,
Are no the same as a’ thae men
We hae for neebours i’ the glen.
The Lord gie’d him some lairnin’ sma’
An me guid sense abune them a’,
An them nae wuts to ken wha’s wha.
Ye’d think, to hear the lees they tell,
The Sawbath day could mind itsel’
Withoot a hand to rug the bell,
Ye’d think the Reverend Paitrick Broun
Could ca’ the Bible up an’ doon
An’ loup his lane in till his goon.
Whiles, gin he didna get frae me
The wicelike wird I weel can gie,
Whaur wad the puir bit callant be?
The elders, Ross an’ Weellum Aird,
An’ fowk like Alexander Caird,
That think they’re cocks o’ ilka yaird,