 | Annie Weir and Other Poems |  |
17
A DAY AMANG THE HAWS.
When the beech-nuts fast are drappin',
And the days are creepin' in,
When ilk carefu' mither's thinkin'
O' the winter's hose and shoon;
When the mornin' bells loud ringin'
To the Fast-day worship ca's,
Out comes the city callan'
For his day amang the haws.
O' the dangers that await him
Ne'er a troublous thought has he,
Nought cares he for the tearin'
He his claes is sure to gie;
But the light o' comin' pleasure
On his heart like sunshine fa's,
For dear as stolen waters
Is a day amang the haws.
Frae the mill where stourie “jennies”
Round him aye are whirrin' thrang;
Or the forge where ponderous “Condies”
Dunt and dirl the hale day lang;
Or the press-room's inky regions,
And the gaffer's cuff and ire;
Or the needle, or the lingle,
On he plods through mud and mire.
Frae the lane where Vice holds revel,
Where beneath fair Virtue's shield,
Like birds escaped the snarer,
Aye a gratefu' few find bield;
Frae the stench that kens nae sweetenin',
And the din that has nae pause,
To the freshness and the freedom
O' a day amang the haws.
And the days are creepin' in,
When ilk carefu' mither's thinkin'
O' the winter's hose and shoon;
When the mornin' bells loud ringin'
To the Fast-day worship ca's,
Out comes the city callan'
For his day amang the haws.
O' the dangers that await him
Ne'er a troublous thought has he,
Nought cares he for the tearin'
He his claes is sure to gie;
But the light o' comin' pleasure
On his heart like sunshine fa's,
For dear as stolen waters
Is a day amang the haws.
18
Round him aye are whirrin' thrang;
Or the forge where ponderous “Condies”
Dunt and dirl the hale day lang;
Or the press-room's inky regions,
And the gaffer's cuff and ire;
Or the needle, or the lingle,
On he plods through mud and mire.
Frae the lane where Vice holds revel,
Where beneath fair Virtue's shield,
Like birds escaped the snarer,
Aye a gratefu' few find bield;
Frae the stench that kens nae sweetenin',
And the din that has nae pause,
To the freshness and the freedom
O' a day amang the haws.
Think ye thus?—“The graceless callan'
To the kirk should rather gang;
Does his mither never warn him
That sic Fast-day traikin's wrang?
If her heart is for him pleadin',
Kennin' weel how sair he's wrought,
For the customs o' her faithers
Has she ne'er a reverend thought?”
Oh, rather thus excuse her:
“She was born amang the hills,
And she minds the autumn grandeur
O' the thorns beside the rills;
There are memories fresh frae girlhood
Crowdin' fast to plead his cause,
And she canna keep the callan'
Frae his day amang the haws.”
To the kirk should rather gang;
Does his mither never warn him
That sic Fast-day traikin's wrang?
19
Kennin' weel how sair he's wrought,
For the customs o' her faithers
Has she ne'er a reverend thought?”
Oh, rather thus excuse her:
“She was born amang the hills,
And she minds the autumn grandeur
O' the thorns beside the rills;
There are memories fresh frae girlhood
Crowdin' fast to plead his cause,
And she canna keep the callan'
Frae his day amang the haws.”
Like a flood the rain's been pourin',
But the sun beams through at last,
As amang a host o' ithers
Frae the town he hastens fast;
On the whinny slopes o' Cathkin,
Or on Pollock's woody knowes,
He already roams in fancy
Where he kens the haw-tree grows.
On the bitter blast that's brewin'
He looks west wi' hopefu' ee,
For he kens the woods frae keepers
In sic weather will be free.
If the bells around him ringin'
Whisper whiles o' broken laws,
“Oh!” he thinks, “there's surely pardon
For ae day amang the haws.”
But the sun beams through at last,
As amang a host o' ithers
Frae the town he hastens fast;
On the whinny slopes o' Cathkin,
Or on Pollock's woody knowes,
He already roams in fancy
Where he kens the haw-tree grows.
20
He looks west wi' hopefu' ee,
For he kens the woods frae keepers
In sic weather will be free.
If the bells around him ringin'
Whisper whiles o' broken laws,
“Oh!” he thinks, “there's surely pardon
For ae day amang the haws.”
Fu' boldly has he ventured,
And in darin' weel has thriven,
He the ripest, richest branches
Frae the sweetest trees has riven.
See his jacket hangs in tatters,
Owre his hands the bluid-draps steal;
But his mither mends fu' neatly,
And his scarts again will heal.
Frae his hair the rain is dreepin',
But he never thinks o' harm,
For Pleasure, wanderin' wi' him,
Wi' her mantle keeps him warm.
How his heart wi' pride is swellin',
As he near the city draws,
For he kens he comes joy-laden
Frae his day amang the haws.
And in darin' weel has thriven,
He the ripest, richest branches
Frae the sweetest trees has riven.
See his jacket hangs in tatters,
Owre his hands the bluid-draps steal;
But his mither mends fu' neatly,
And his scarts again will heal.
Frae his hair the rain is dreepin',
But he never thinks o' harm,
For Pleasure, wanderin' wi' him,
Wi' her mantle keeps him warm.
21
As he near the city draws,
For he kens he comes joy-laden
Frae his day amang the haws.
Wha thinks he frae his ramble
Winna better come, but worse,
Wi' its memory hangin' owre him
Like an angry father's curse?
In Nature's face what is there
That a city bairn should fear?
In the woodland's autumn whisper
Is there ought he shouldna hear?
Wha kens what heavenly music
May be stirred his breast within,
As the sapless leaf's faint rustlin'
Turns the sparklin' ee aboon,
While his fancy paints the Painter
O' the million-tinted shaws,
And the poet-spark is kindled
In his soul, amang the haws?
Oh! keepers, spare the callan'—
And sweet dreams ye shall not lack—
For the wee things' sake that weary
Wait the wanderer's coming back;
They hae shared the city's hardships,
And o' plenty little ken—
Let them taste in rich abundance
O' the spoils o' hill and glen.
Owre the priceless feast they'll linger,
Till their lips and teeth grow brown;
Or wi' the ruddy treasure
In their bosoms cuddle down.
Oh, there's nane the joy can measure,
That a boon sae sma' may cause!
Tears are dried and sorrow's lightened
Wi' a day amang the haws.
Winna better come, but worse,
Wi' its memory hangin' owre him
Like an angry father's curse?
In Nature's face what is there
That a city bairn should fear?
In the woodland's autumn whisper
Is there ought he shouldna hear?
Wha kens what heavenly music
May be stirred his breast within,
As the sapless leaf's faint rustlin'
Turns the sparklin' ee aboon,
While his fancy paints the Painter
O' the million-tinted shaws,
And the poet-spark is kindled
In his soul, amang the haws?
22
And sweet dreams ye shall not lack—
For the wee things' sake that weary
Wait the wanderer's coming back;
They hae shared the city's hardships,
And o' plenty little ken—
Let them taste in rich abundance
O' the spoils o' hill and glen.
Owre the priceless feast they'll linger,
Till their lips and teeth grow brown;
Or wi' the ruddy treasure
In their bosoms cuddle down.
Oh, there's nane the joy can measure,
That a boon sae sma' may cause!
Tears are dried and sorrow's lightened
Wi' a day amang the haws.
And ye whase lot is coosten
Aye amang the caller air,
Wha on a gift sae common
May a thought but seldom wair,
Oh! think if Heaven had placed ye
Far frae glen and mountain stream,
Where the woods are things o' fancy,
And the yorlin's sang a dream—
Oh! think how ye would weary
But to hear ae laverock sing,
And to watch the matron peesweep
Chase the hawk wi' daring wing—
How wild would be your longin'
For the breeze on hills that blaws!
How muckle would ye venture
For ae day amang the haws!
Aye amang the caller air,
Wha on a gift sae common
May a thought but seldom wair,
23
Far frae glen and mountain stream,
Where the woods are things o' fancy,
And the yorlin's sang a dream—
Oh! think how ye would weary
But to hear ae laverock sing,
And to watch the matron peesweep
Chase the hawk wi' daring wing—
How wild would be your longin'
For the breeze on hills that blaws!
How muckle would ye venture
For ae day amang the haws!
| Annie Weir and Other Poems | |