Ochil Idylls and Other Poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

Ochil Idylls and Other Poems

by Hugh Haliburton [i.e. J. L. Robertson]

Robertson, J. Logie (1846-1922)

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132

Here in the dinsome city pent,
I think upon the days I spent,
The peacefu' days o' deep content,
Up on the Wicks o' Baiglie.

It wasna that the sun shone thro'
Sky-deeps o' saft, divinest blue,
It wasna for the famous view
Up on the Wicks o' Baiglie.

It wasna that the hills were green,
The winds an' watters clear an' clean—
Baith bath an' balm to lungs an' een,
Up on the Wicks o' Baiglie.

It wasna that the fare was gude,
A hamely, healthfu' change o' fude,
A benefit to brain an' blude,
Up on the Wicks o' Baiglie.

133

For there was brose, an' milk, an' kail,
Bannocks o' bere, an' hervest ale,
An' curly cakes o' roastit meal,
Up on the Wicks o' Baiglie.

An' eggs, an' fools baith wild an' tame,
Haggis, an' crowdie made wi' cream,
An' honey dreepin' fra the kame,
Up on the Wicks o' Baiglie.

An' links o' puddin's, black to see,
An' yowe-milk kebbuck, sweet to pree,
An' cogiefu's o' barley-bree,
Up on the Wicks o' Baiglie.

It wasna that the folk were kind,
Baith laird an' tenant, herd an' hind,
An' no' a cratur' ill-design'd
Up on the Wicks o' Baiglie.

The lasses bonnie, blithe, an' clean,
Douce i' the mornin', daft at e'en,
An' saxty souple as saxteen,
Up on the Wicks o' Baiglie.

134

The grannie's een as gleg as fowre,
The haflin wi' his stirk-like glowre,
The fermer lauchin' oot a' owre,
Up on the Wicks o' Baiglie.

It wasna for the social noise
O' stack-yaird jinks, an' fireside joys,
An' rantin' wanton plays an' ploys,
Up on the Wicks o' Baiglie.

It wasna for the hervest wark,
The music o' the mornin' lark,
An' gloamin' late but never dark
Up on the Wicks o' Baiglie.

It wasna jist the want o' care,
The change o' jacket, change o' air,
An' westlan' winds amang your hair,
Up on the Wicks o' Baiglie.

It wasna ane—it was them a',
Up-gaither'd in a kind o' ba',
That gars me aye the days reca'
Up on the Wicks o' Baiglie.

135

Toon's bairns an' bodies! I could greet
To think ye sin an' never see't,
A very paradise complete
Up on the Wicks o' Baiglie.

O gie the student his degree,
The advocat' his hansel fee,
But keep the joys that are for me
Up on the Wicks o' Baiglie.

Come round again, ye simmer suns,
An' burn wi' fragrant flame the whuns
That nod sae sweetly to the wun's
Up on the Wicks o' Baiglie.

An' set me on the hilly road
That leads to Uncle Rab's abode,
An' I will flourish like a tod
Up on the Wicks o' Baiglie.