 | Annie Weir and Other Poems |  |
61
AULD ARCHIE BELL.
Auld Archie Bell has his hame in Rockneuk,
He's honest, and douce, and a wabster o' pluck;
And, born a' the rest o' the world to excel,
Unmatched wi' his shuttle was auld Archie Bell.
He's honest, and douce, and a wabster o' pluck;
And, born a' the rest o' the world to excel,
Unmatched wi' his shuttle was auld Archie Bell.
But Archie, wha has in the parish a name,
To weavin' alone wasnae bound for his fame;
No ae thing, nor twa things, could Archie do weel,
For a' bodies owned him a gey clever chiel.
And mony a braw lassie, though ne'er ownin' why,
For Archie would sigh, and her supper lay by—
Na, ladies, 'twas said, frae the Duke's and Dalziel,
Glanced love frae their carriage on auld Archie Bell.
To weavin' alone wasnae bound for his fame;
No ae thing, nor twa things, could Archie do weel,
For a' bodies owned him a gey clever chiel.
And mony a braw lassie, though ne'er ownin' why,
For Archie would sigh, and her supper lay by—
Na, ladies, 'twas said, frae the Duke's and Dalziel,
Glanced love frae their carriage on auld Archie Bell.
There wasnae a loon in the hale country roun',
But in a lang race Archie Bell could rin doun;
And if he at sports ne'er a prize could display,
'Twas only because he was pleased to hae't sae—
On's fours he could rin wi' the speed o' a grew,
Owre hurdles, yard high, like a lintie he flew:
And whether restricted to gallop or trot,
'Twas a' ane to Archie, he cared nae a grot.
But in a lang race Archie Bell could rin doun;
62
'Twas only because he was pleased to hae't sae—
On's fours he could rin wi' the speed o' a grew,
Owre hurdles, yard high, like a lintie he flew:
And whether restricted to gallop or trot,
'Twas a' ane to Archie, he cared nae a grot.
When Reynard was roused frae the glen o' Dalziel,
Wi' the barkin' o' hounds and a wild human yell,
Where'er the chase led them, be't foul day or fair,
Wi' his shoon in his oxter auld Archie was there—
The chief dread o' Reynard, the soul o' the hunt,
Owre hedges and ditches he spankit in front:
The horses might fag—dogs lie doun oot o' breath—
But Archie ne'er failed to be in at the death.
Wi' the barkin' o' hounds and a wild human yell,
Where'er the chase led them, be't foul day or fair,
Wi' his shoon in his oxter auld Archie was there—
The chief dread o' Reynard, the soul o' the hunt,
Owre hedges and ditches he spankit in front:
The horses might fag—dogs lie doun oot o' breath—
But Archie ne'er failed to be in at the death.
In Archie's lithe bouk there was nae needless length,
And the bend at his knees was a token o' strength;
He could spin like a peerie through lang Highland reels,
And dump like a black on the floor wi' his heels.
Wi' Archie's wild “hooch!” and his still wilder screigh,
E'en bridegrooms at weddings ne'er thought the hours dreigh;
And the fiercest o' waps wi' ae cry he could quell,
For the lungs o' a lion had auld Archie Bell.
And the bend at his knees was a token o' strength;
He could spin like a peerie through lang Highland reels,
And dump like a black on the floor wi' his heels.
63
E'en bridegrooms at weddings ne'er thought the hours dreigh;
And the fiercest o' waps wi' ae cry he could quell,
For the lungs o' a lion had auld Archie Bell.
But wha a' the feats o' his youth could rehearse?—
E'en the meed o' his eild soars aboon my poor verse:
How he wooed, how he won, though the battle was hard,
The bonniest lass in the whole Middle Ward;
How in hard times he turned owre the green orchard sod;
How he wrocht wi' the masons and carried the hod;
How the mortar he mixed, spite o' frosts and wet thaws,
Will bind and haud fast till the last trumpet blaws.
E'en the meed o' his eild soars aboon my poor verse:
How he wooed, how he won, though the battle was hard,
The bonniest lass in the whole Middle Ward;
How in hard times he turned owre the green orchard sod;
How he wrocht wi' the masons and carried the hod;
How the mortar he mixed, spite o' frosts and wet thaws,
Will bind and haud fast till the last trumpet blaws.
Nae mortal wi' Archie can fettle bee-skeps,
And wide is the fame o' his windlestrae caps;
The bees as he shears them wi' music him cheer,
And the bee-farmers after them come far and near.
There ne'er was a tinkler that e'er wandered by,
Wi' him heather-besoms or house-brooms could tie;
And Dalziel's famous curlers to own think nae shame
That Archie's braw cowes are the half o' their game.
And wide is the fame o' his windlestrae caps;
The bees as he shears them wi' music him cheer,
And the bee-farmers after them come far and near.
There ne'er was a tinkler that e'er wandered by,
Wi' him heather-besoms or house-brooms could tie;
64
That Archie's braw cowes are the half o' their game.
Ae fondness has Archie:—In sunshine and mirk
He longs to be bedral o's ain parish-kirk.
To him that's sae honoured he wishes nae ill,
But just he would like sic a station to fill.
To ken every bane in the mools o' Dalziel,
And every Lord's mornin' to ring the kirk-bell,
And bear the Guid Books up the auld pu'pit stair—
Ye powers! grant him that, and he'll fash ye nae mair!
He longs to be bedral o's ain parish-kirk.
To him that's sae honoured he wishes nae ill,
But just he would like sic a station to fill.
To ken every bane in the mools o' Dalziel,
And every Lord's mornin' to ring the kirk-bell,
And bear the Guid Books up the auld pu'pit stair—
Ye powers! grant him that, and he'll fash ye nae mair!
He every heigh grave would smooth down by degrees,
And plant a' the borders wi' flowers and wee trees;
And wi' an e'e hameward—there's nae sin in that—
Hae cabbage and kail here and there for the pat.
A pattern to a' future bedrals 'twould be:
Auld folk to be laid in't would weary to dee;
And the saunts that frae't rise at the great day o' grace,
Would swither ere wanderin' frae sic a braw place.
And plant a' the borders wi' flowers and wee trees;
And wi' an e'e hameward—there's nae sin in that—
Hae cabbage and kail here and there for the pat.
A pattern to a' future bedrals 'twould be:
Auld folk to be laid in't would weary to dee;
And the saunts that frae't rise at the great day o' grace,
Would swither ere wanderin' frae sic a braw place.
65
Lang life to ye, Archie! may sorrow nor care
Ne'er alter the tint o' your ever snod hair:
Secure may ye sit, 'mid the world's din and strife,
Wi' a pension to brighten the gloamin' o' life.
If, ere ye're a bedral, ye're laid in your grave,
For guidsake lie still till ye're roused wi' the lave;
And dinna, wi' openin' auld graves in the nicht,
Or ringin' the bell, kill the parish wi' fricht.
Ne'er alter the tint o' your ever snod hair:
Secure may ye sit, 'mid the world's din and strife,
Wi' a pension to brighten the gloamin' o' life.
If, ere ye're a bedral, ye're laid in your grave,
For guidsake lie still till ye're roused wi' the lave;
And dinna, wi' openin' auld graves in the nicht,
Or ringin' the bell, kill the parish wi' fricht.
| Annie Weir and Other Poems | |