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Hamewith
Language: en525 downloads on Project Gutenberg
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In: Poetry
Public-domain ebook sourced from Project Gutenberg #51412.
The opening · free to read
Whence arose the popular belief that some persons impart luck to the books of other persons? The answer, if it were not a question of books but of other projectiles, would be (in savage society) that one man has more maya or wakan or orenda than another; has more of a subtle, imponderable, potent, innermost, all-pervading something than another, and that he can communicate this gift, by luck or otherwise, to others. Thus in Rutuya a medicine man communicated his maya to Colonel Gudgeon, to Lieutenant Grant, and other gentlemen, who then walked barefoot but unsinged over a floor of red-hot stones. Obviously our civilized faith in prefaces by other hands than the author's (usually the better man), is part of the orenda or maya superstition or belief.
Were I conscious of possessing maya or luck, I would gladly impart it to all men, if all men were equally virtuous, like the teacher of the art of flying in "Rasselas," by Dr. Samuel Johnson. But I am so far from being conscious of possessing maya that I only wish, if there be indeed a quantity of this transcendental ether, that some one who had plenty of it would write introductions for my books, which stand greatly in need of a supernormal "send off." Still they are not in quite such evil case as they would be were I a poet, for many a man and most women most justly disesteem their own capacity for reading verses. Indeed that art is now almost lost, and it is strange to think that there are probably to-day more persons who write verse than who read it. Poetry, like Christmas cards, is bought, not to keep, but to give away at Christmas, on birthdays, and, by economical friends of the bride, at weddings. There is always plenty of poetry in small volumes, in flabby leather covers, among the array of wedding presents. This offering is a survival: the idea of love is still connected with the writings of Tennyson and Browning, though experience tells us that the poetry-reading days of the pair end at the altar.
The child of an earlier generation, I was capable of reading verses in my youth, and even now can do so, retaining at least that faculty of a dead world, just as the last Pict held the secret of "brewing the ale from the heather bell." Mr. Charles Murray's ale (which is excellent) is all brewed from the heather bell, is pure Scots; and he sings the songs of our national Zion on "a distant and a deadly shore," that of the Transvaal--though this is a mere figure of speech, the Transvaal, like Bohemia, possessing at present no sea-coast.
To the patriotic Scot there is somewhat affecting in the echoes of very rich Scots which reach us across the African continent and "seas that row between." To speak for myself, I am never so happy as when I cross the Tweed at Berwick from the South, or go on the links at Wimbledon Common, and hear the accents (for there are several, including that peculiar to Gourock) of my native tongue. These observes are quite genuine, and come from a Scot whose critics in England banter him on his patriotism, while his critics in Scotland revile him as rather more unpatriotic than the infamous Sir John Menteith, who whummled the bannock. The Scots of Mr. Murray is so pure and so rich that it may puzzle some patriots whose sentiments are stronger than their linguistic acquirements. The imitations of Horace are among the best extant, and Mr. Murray might take Professor Blackie's advice, trying how far the most rustic idylls of Theocritus, say the "Oaristus," can be converted into the Doric of the Lowlands. If one may have favourites, among these is "The Packman," "The Howe of Alford," "The Hint o' Hairst," "The Antiquary," and "The Lettergae." Does any Lettergae survive in this age of guilt when the harmonium pervades the kirks which our fathers purified from the Romish organ? Indeed, the poems beget a certain melancholy. "I am never merry when I hear sweet music" from a world that is dead or dying, the world of Scott and Hogg, the world that knew not polluted streams, and railways, and motor cars, and, worst of abominations, the gramophone.
In a far-off land Mr. Murray retains the sentiment of that forgotten time, and is haunted by the scent of peat and bog myrtle, the sound of old words that now are strange, the poverty that was not the mate of discontent. Enfin he has the secret of the last of the Picts, if indeed he was the last, if they do not dwell with "The Secret Commonwealth of Elves, Fauns, and Fairies" in the secret places of the hills. Poetry more truly Scots than that of Mr. Murray is no longer written--was not written even by Mr. Stevenson, about "a' the bonny U. P. Kirks," for in his verses there was a faint twinkle of the spirit of mockery.
ANDREW LANG.
Hamewith
Hot youth ever is a ranger, New scenes ever its desire; Cauld Eild, doubtfu' o' the stranger, Thinks but o' haudin' in the fire.
Midway, the wanderer is weary, Fain he'd be turnin' in his prime Hamewith--the road that's never dreary, Back where his heart is a' the time.
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 an' 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 an' the tsessebe I've tracked from early dawn, I've heard the roar 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 gun and 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, 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 sheltered valley lies, I want to wade through bracken in a glen across the sea-- I want to see the peat reek rise.
The Whistle
He cut a sappy sucker from the muckle rodden-tree, He trimmed it, an' he wet it, an' he thumped it on his knee; He never heard the teuchat when the harrow broke her eggs, He missed the craggit heron nabbin' puddocks in the seggs, He forgot to hound the collie at the cattle when they strayed, But you should hae seen the whistle that the wee herd made!
He wheepled on't at mornin' an' he tweetled on't at nicht, He puffed his freckled cheeks until his nose sank oot o' sicht, The kye were late for milkin' when he piped them up the closs, The kitlins got his supper syne, an' he was beddit boss; But he cared na doit nor docken what they did or thocht or said, There was comfort in the whistle that the wee herd made.
For lyin' lang o' mornin's he had clawed the caup for weeks, But noo he had his bonnet on afore the lave had breeks; He was whistlin' to the porridge that were hott'rin' on the fire, He was whistlin' ower the travise to the baillie in the byre; Nae a blackbird nor a mavis, that hae pipin' for their trade, Was a marrow for the whistle that the wee herd made.
He played a march to battle, it cam' dirlin' through the mist, Till the halflin' squared his shou'ders an' made up his mind to 'list; He tried a spring for wooers, though he wistna what it meant, But the kitchen-lass was lauchin' an' he thocht she maybe kent; He got ream an' buttered bannocks for the lovin' lilt he played. Wasna that a cheery whistle that the wee herd made?
He blew them rants sae lively, schottisches, reels, an' jigs, The foalie flang his muckle legs an' capered ower the rigs, The grey-tailed futt'rat bobbit oot to hear his ain strathspey, The bawd cam' loupin' through the corn to "Clean Pease Strae"; The feet o' ilka man an' beast gat youkie when he played-- Hae ye ever heard o' whistle like the wee herd made?
But the snaw it stopped the herdin' an' the winter brocht him dool, When in spite o' hacks an' chilblains he was shod again for school; He couldna sough the catechis nor pipe the rule o' three, He was keepit in an' lickit when the ither loons got free; But he aften played the truant--'twas the only thing he played, For the maister brunt the whistle that the wee herd made!
Skeely Kirsty
A stane-cast fae the clachan heid An auld feal dyke enclosed a reed O' garden grun', where flower an' weed In spring grew first aye; An' there the humble hauddin' steed O' Skeely Kirsty.
Upon the easin' sods a fou Thick-leaved an' sappy yearly grew, Which, for a scrat or scabbit mou', Beat aught in "Buchan"; An' draughts fae herbs she used to brew That drank like brochan.
To heal a heid, or scob a bane, To ease a neebour's grippit wean, Or thoom a thraw, there wasna ane Could e'er come near her; Nae income, fivver, hoast, nor nane Would ever steer her.
She cured for pleasure, nae for fees; Healed man an' beast wi' equal ease: She gae a lotion for the grease To Spence the carrier, That cured his mear, when the disease Gaed ower the farrier.
Was there a corp to streck or kist, She aye was foremost to assist; She grat to think "how he'd be miss't, Sae good and gifted"! Syne handed roon' anither taste Afore they lifted.
Ae morn grim Death--that poacher fell-- Gat Kirsty in his girn hersel'; Nae epitaph her virtues tell, It needs nae vreetin': On ae thing maistly Fame will dwell-- Her gift o' greetin'.
The Antiquary
A little mannie, nae ower five feet three, Sae bent wi' eild he lookit less than that, His cleadin' fashioned wi' his tastes to 'gree, Fae hose an' cuitikins to plaid an' hat.
His cot stob-thackit, wi' twa timmer lums, A box-bed closet 'tween the but an' ben, A low peat fire, where bauldrins span her thrums, Wat dried his beets, an' smoked, an' read his lane.
The horn-en' fu' o' craggins, quaichs, an' caups, Mulls, whorls, an' cruisies left bare room to stir; Wi' routh o' swourds an' dirks a' nicks an' slaps, An' peer-men, used langsyne for haudin' fir.
He'd skulls in cases, lest the mouldy guff Should scunner frien's, or gather muckle flees; He'd querns for grindin' either meal or snuft, An' flints an' fleerishes to raise a bleeze,
Rowed in a cloutie, to preserve the glint; He had a saxpence that had shot a witch, Sae stark, she hadna left her like ahint For killin' kye or giein' fouk the itch.
He kent auld spells, could trail the rape an' spae, He'd wallets fu' o' queer oonchancie leems, Could dress a mart, prob hoven nowt, an' flay; Fell spavined horse, an' deftly use the fleems.
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