Airt, point (of compass). Billies, cronies. Braws, finery. Bubbly-jock, turkey-cock. Cankered, cross-grained. Causey, paved edge of a street. Chanter, mouth-piece of a bag-pipe. Clour, a blow. Coup, to fall. Deaved, deafened, bewildered. Droukit, soaked. Dunt, a blow. Fit, foot. Fleggit, frightened. Gean-tree, a wild cheerry-tree. Girnin’, groaning. Gowk, a cuckoo. Grapes, gropes. Hairst, harvest. Happit, happ’d, wrapped. Haughs, low-lying lands. Keek, peer. Kep, meet. Laigh, low. Lane, his lane, alone. Loan, disused, overgrown road, a waste place. Loon, a fellow. Lowe, flame. Lum, chimney. Mear, mare. Mill-lade, mill-race. Neep, turnip. Poke, pocket. Puddock-stules, toadstools. Rodden-tree, rowan-tree. Rug, to pull. Sark, shift, smock. Shaws, small woods. Sheltie, pony. Skailed, split, dispersed. Smoors, smothers. Sneck, latch. Soom, swim. Sort them, deal with them. Speels, climbs. Speir, to inquire. Steerin’, stirring. Sweir, loth. Syne, since, ago, then. Tawse, a leather strap used for correcting children. Thole, to endure. Thrawn, twisted. Tint, lost. Tod, fox. Toom, empty. Toorie, a knob, a topknot. Traivel, to go afoot; literally, to go at a foot’s pace. Warslin’, wrestling. Wauks, wakes. Waur, worse. Wean, infant. Weepies, rag-wort. Whaup, curlew. Wildfire, summer lightning. Writer, attorney. Yett, gate.

MORE SONGS
OF ANGUS
AND OTHERS

By
VIOLET JACOB

Published at the offices of “Country Life,” 20 Tavistock Street, Covent Garden, London, W.C. 2, and by George Newnes, LTD., 8-11, Southampton Street, Strand, W.C. 2.  New York:  Charles Scribner’s Sons MCMXVIII

To A. H. J.

Past life, past tears, far past the grave,
  The tryst is set for me,
Since, for our all, your all you gave
  On the slopes of Picardy.

On Angus, in the autumn nights,
  The ice-green light shall lie,
Beyond the trees the Northern Lights
  Slant on the belts of sky.

But miles on miles from Scottish soil
  You sleep, past war and scaith,
Your country’s freedman, loosed from toil,
  In honour and in faith.

For Angus held you in her spell,
  Her Grampians, faint and blue,
Her ways, the speech you knew so well,
  Were half the world to you.

Yet rest, my son; our souls are those
  Nor time nor death can part,
And lie you proudly, folded close
  To France’s deathless heart.

The whole of the poems under the heading In Scots appeared in Country Life.  Of the others, one or two have appeared in The Cornhill or The Outlook.  They are all reprinted by kind permission of the respective editors.