 | The Poetical Works of Walter C. Smith |  |
MISS PENELOPE LEITH
Last heiress she of many a rood,
Where Ugie winds through Buchan braes—
A treeless land, where beeves are good,
And men have quaint old-fashioned ways,
And every burn has ballad-lore,
And every hamlet has its song,
And on its surf-beat rocky shore
The eerie legend lingers long.
Old customs live there, unaware
That they are garments cast away,
And what of light is shining there
Is lingering light of yesterday.
Where Ugie winds through Buchan braes—
A treeless land, where beeves are good,
And men have quaint old-fashioned ways,
And every burn has ballad-lore,
And every hamlet has its song,
And on its surf-beat rocky shore
The eerie legend lingers long.
Old customs live there, unaware
That they are garments cast away,
And what of light is shining there
Is lingering light of yesterday.
Never to her the new day came,
Or if it came she would not see;
This world of change was still the same
To our old-world Penelope:
New fashions rose, old fashions went,
But still she wore the same brocade,
With lace of Valenciennes or Ghent
More dainty by her darning made;
A little patch upon her face,
A tinge of colour on her cheek,
A frost of powder, just to grace
The locks that time began to streak.
Or if it came she would not see;
This world of change was still the same
To our old-world Penelope:
New fashions rose, old fashions went,
But still she wore the same brocade,
With lace of Valenciennes or Ghent
More dainty by her darning made;
A little patch upon her face,
A tinge of colour on her cheek,
A frost of powder, just to grace
The locks that time began to streak.
A stately lady; to the poor
Her manner was with out reproach;
But from the causeway she was sure
To snub the Provost in his coach:
In pride of birth she did not seek
Her scorn of upstarts to conceal,
But of a Bailie's wife would speak
As if she bore the fisher's creel.
She said it kept them in their place,
Their fathers were of low degree;
She said the only saving grace
Of upstarts was humility.
Her manner was with out reproach;
But from the causeway she was sure
To snub the Provost in his coach:
In pride of birth she did not seek
Her scorn of upstarts to conceal,
But of a Bailie's wife would speak
As if she bore the fisher's creel.
She said it kept them in their place,
Their fathers were of low degree;
She said the only saving grace
Of upstarts was humility.
The quaint, old Doric still she used,
And it came kindly from her tongue;
And oft the “mim-folk” she abused,
Who mincing English said or sung:
She took her claret, nothing loath,
Her snuff that one small nostril curled;
She might rap out a good round oath,
But would not mince it for the world:
And yet the wild word sounded less
In that Scotch tongue of other days;
'Twas just like her old-fashioned dress,
And part of her old-fashioned ways.
And it came kindly from her tongue;
And oft the “mim-folk” she abused,
Who mincing English said or sung:
She took her claret, nothing loath,
Her snuff that one small nostril curled;
She might rap out a good round oath,
But would not mince it for the world:
And yet the wild word sounded less
In that Scotch tongue of other days;
'Twas just like her old-fashioned dress,
And part of her old-fashioned ways.
At every fair her face was known,
Well-skilled in kyloes and in queys:
And well she led the fiddler on
To “wale” the best of his strathspeys;
Lightly she held the man who rose
While the toast-hammer still could rap,
And brought her gossip to a close,
Or spoilt her after-dinner nap;
Tea was for women, wine for men,
And if they quarrelled o'er their cups,
They might go to the peat-moss then,
And fight it out like stags or tups.
Well-skilled in kyloes and in queys:
273
To “wale” the best of his strathspeys;
Lightly she held the man who rose
While the toast-hammer still could rap,
And brought her gossip to a close,
Or spoilt her after-dinner nap;
Tea was for women, wine for men,
And if they quarrelled o'er their cups,
They might go to the peat-moss then,
And fight it out like stags or tups.
She loved a bishop or a dean,
A surplice or a rochet well,
At all the Church's feasts was seen,
And called the Kirk, Conventicle;
Was civil to the minister,
But stiff and frigid to his wife,
And looked askance, and sniffed at her,
As if she lived a dubious life.
But yet his sick her cellars knew,
Well stored from Portugal or France,
And many a savoury soup and stew
Her game-bags furnished to the Manse.
A surplice or a rochet well,
At all the Church's feasts was seen,
And called the Kirk, Conventicle;
Was civil to the minister,
But stiff and frigid to his wife,
And looked askance, and sniffed at her,
As if she lived a dubious life.
But yet his sick her cellars knew,
Well stored from Portugal or France,
And many a savoury soup and stew
Her game-bags furnished to the Manse.
But if there was a choicer boon
Above all else she would have missed,
It was on Sunday afternoon
To have her quiet game at whist
Close to the window, when the Whigs
Were gravely passing from the Kirk,
And some on foot, and some in gigs,
Would stare at her unhallowed work:
She gloried in her “devil's books”
That cut their sour hearts to the quick;
Rather than miss their wrathful looks
She would have almost lost the trick.
Above all else she would have missed,
It was on Sunday afternoon
To have her quiet game at whist
Close to the window, when the Whigs
Were gravely passing from the Kirk,
And some on foot, and some in gigs,
Would stare at her unhallowed work:
She gloried in her “devil's books”
That cut their sour hearts to the quick;
Rather than miss their wrathful looks
She would have almost lost the trick.
Her politics were of the age
Of Claverhouse or Bolingbroke;
Still at the Dutchman she would rage,
And still of gallant Grahame she spoke.
She swore 'twas right that Whigs should die
Psalm-snivelling in the wind and rain,
Though she would ne'er have harmed a fly
For buzzing on the window pane.
And she had many a plaintive rhyme
Of noble Charlie and his men:
For her there was no later time,
All history had ended then.
Of Claverhouse or Bolingbroke;
Still at the Dutchman she would rage,
And still of gallant Grahame she spoke.
She swore 'twas right that Whigs should die
Psalm-snivelling in the wind and rain,
Though she would ne'er have harmed a fly
For buzzing on the window pane.
And she had many a plaintive rhyme
Of noble Charlie and his men:
For her there was no later time,
All history had ended then.
The dear old sinner! yet she had
A kindly human heart, I wot,
And many a sorrow she made glad,
And many a tender mercy wrought:
And though her way was somewhat odd,
Yet in her way she feared the Lord,
And thought she best could worship God
By holding Pharisees abhorred,
By being honest, fearless, true,
And thorough both in word and deed,
And by despising what is new,
And clinging to her old-world creed.
A kindly human heart, I wot,
And many a sorrow she made glad,
And many a tender mercy wrought:
And though her way was somewhat odd,
Yet in her way she feared the Lord,
And thought she best could worship God
By holding Pharisees abhorred,
By being honest, fearless, true,
And thorough both in word and deed,
And by despising what is new,
And clinging to her old-world creed.
| The Poetical Works of Walter C. Smith | |