Complete Fictional Works of John Buchan (Illustrated), page 813
A collar and dicky and black cravat.
If the weather’s wat I’ll no stir ootbye
Wi’oot an umbrella to keep me dry.
I think I’d better no tak a wife —
I’ve had a’the adventure I want in life. —
But at nicht, when the doors are steeked, I’ll sit,
While the bleeze loups high frae the aiken ruit,
And smoke my pipe aside the crook.
And read in some douce auld-farrant book;
Or crack wi’ Davie and mix a rummer,
While the auld wife’s pow nid-nods in slum’er;
And hark to the winds gaun tearin’ bye
And thank the Lord I’m sae warm and dry.
When simmer brings the lang bricht e’en,
I’ll dauner doun to the bowling-green,
Or delve my yaird and my roses tend
For the big floo’er-show in the next back-end.
Whiles, when the sun blinks aifter rain,
I’ll tak my rod and gang up the glen;
Me and Davie, we ken the pules
Whaur the troot grow great in the hows o’ the hills;
And, wanderin’ back when the gloamin’ fa’s
And the midges dance in the hazel shaws,
We’ll stop at the yett ayont the hicht
And drink great wauchts o’ the scented nicht,
While the hoose lamps kin’le raw by raw
And a yellow star hings ower the law.
Davie will lauch like a wean at a fair
And nip my airm to mak certain shure
That we’re back frae yon place o’ dule and dreid,
To oor ain kind warld —
But Davie’s deid!
Nae mair gude nor ill can betide him.
We happit him doun by Beaumont toun,
And the half o’my hert’s in the mools aside him.
Fragment of an Ode in Praise
of the Royal Scots Fusiliers (1917)
Ye’ll a’hae heard tell o’the Fusilier Jocks,
The famous auld Fusilier Jocks!
They’re as stieve as a stane,
And as teuch as a bane
And as gleg as a pack o’ muircocks.
They’re maistly as braid as they’re lang,
And the Gairman’s a pump off the fang
When he faces the fire in their ee.
They’re no verra bonny,
I question if ony
Mair terrible sicht ye could see
Than a chairge o’ the Fusilier Jocks.
It gars Hindenburg swear
“Gott in Himmel, nae mair
O’thae sudden and scan’alous shocks!”
And the cannon o’ Krupp
Ane and a’ they shut up
Like a pentit bit jaick-in-the-box,
At the rush o’ the Fusilier Jocks.
The Kaiser he says to his son
(The auld ane that looks like a fox) —
“I went ower far
When I stertit this war,
Forgettin’ the Fusilier Jocks.
I could manage the French and Italians and Poles,
The Russians and Tartars and yellow Mongols,
The Serbs and the Belgians, the English and Greeks,
And even the lads that gang wantin’ the breeks;
But what o’ thae Fusilier Jocks,
That stopna for duntin’and knocks?
They’d rin wi’ a yell
Ower the plainstanes o’ Hell;
They’re no men ava — they are rocks!
They’d gang barefit
Through the Bottomless Pit,
And they’ll tak Berlin in their socks, —
Will the terrible Fusilier Jocks!”....
The Return
1918
Haud up your heid, auld Scotland, ance again, an’tune your voice,
An’ owre your heather hills an’ dales wi’ ilka ane rejoice,
For news hae jist been sent aroond, tae say that war will cease;
An’ ance again, wi’ a’ the warld, we’ll settle doon in peace.
Fowre years, ay, nearly five, since first oor laddies gaed awa’,
Fine gallant youths, wha gaed in answer tae their country’s ca’,
An’ oh, the wistfu’ yearnings in oor he’rts for them doth burn,
As they across the seas frae bloody warfare noo return.
Wi’ fond embrace an’ wi’ a kindly welcome let us greet
Thae worn an’bloodstained battered sons, wha mairch alang the street,
For nicht an’ day, thro’ muckle strife, they’ve feuchin’ tae be free,
An’ noo deserve a’ due respeck frae sic as you an’ me.
The ruthless han’ o’ war on maist o’ them has left its trace,
An’ as we gaze upon each wasted form an’ haggard face,
The pallid cheeks, the sunken een, are sichts that mak’ us grieve,
As weel as yon auld tattered tunic wi’the empty sleeve.
Hail to thee! Scotland’s noblest sons, we’ll revel ower your deeds,
An’ noo confer the highest honours aye upon your heids,
For a’the eerie ‘oors upon the battlefield ye’ve spent,
An’ a’ the bitter hardships which at hame we’ve never kent.
Beside the bleezin’ ingle-nook o’ ilka Scottish vale,
Wi’eagerness we’ll gether roond an’ listen tae your tale,
An’, maybe, ye’ll forgie us, if we chance tae drap a tear,
When ower-cam’ wi’ emotion at the bitter news we hear.
Jist tell us hoo, before the merc’less, brutal, bloody Huns,
Each comrade an’ each brither stood sae bravely tae the guns?
Hoo Tam an’Jamie, Wull an’Geordie, chairged an’chairged again,
Until that fatal bullet left them dead upon the plain?
Then, let us bide a wee until oor thochts jist wan’er back,
Whaur cauld an’ lifeless noo there lies on wild war’s beaten track
Thae gallant laddies wha hae gien their wee bit span o’ life,
In order tae preserve auld Scotland in the time o’ strife.
See hoo yon aged mither, wha is burdened ower wi’ care,
Sae eagerly expecks the son that will return nae mair;
The dark-e’ed lassie by yon stile an’ secret trystin’-place
Whaur ne’er again she’ll look upon that weel-remembered face.
No monumental tablet marks the spot where they are laid,
No murmer breaks the silence as they slumber in the shade,
For solitude reigns around each rudely fashioned bed,
While evening shadows spread their mantles o’er the fallen dead.
Close by the lonely mountain pass, where vultures love to soar,
Left on the dreary wilderness, where jackals nightly roar,
No beck’ning call can ever stir them from that peaceful sleep,
Since thro’ the night God’s angels silently their vigil keep.
But, weep not, gentle mothers, tho’ they’re parted from your side,
And o’er the barren wilds of Flanders scattered far and wide;
For now to all the World they are recorded with the brave
Who gain their reward behind the curtain of the grave.
To Vernon Watney
1923
We two confess twin loyalties —
Wychwood beneath the April skies
Is yours, and many a scented road
That winds in June by Evenlode.
Not less when autumn fires the brake,
Yours the deep heath by Fannich’s lake,
The corries where the dun deer roar
And eagles wheel above Sgurr M6r.
So I, who love with equal mind
The southern sun, the northern wind,
The lilied lowland water-mead
And the grey hills that cradle Tweed,
Bring you this tale which haply tries
To intertwine our loyalties.
Sandy to Alasdair
1927
My faither cam frae Sanquhar ways,
My mither’s folk frae Loudon hill,
I played as a wean on the Caimsmuir braes,
And got my lear at the Deuchrae schule.
Weel I mind, when at ilk ran-dan
I’d tak the muir like a young pees weep,
My faither sighed, and said he, ‘My man,
Ye’re far ower Hieland to wark wi’ sheep.”
But the herding wasna the fate for me:
Wi’ the Fusil Jocks I went to war;
Sune we were flitted ayont the sea,
Jinkin’ death in the stour and the glaur.
There was lads frae the West and lads frae the North,
Frae mill and muirland and pleugh and pit,
And the youngest callant frae ‘yont the Forth
Was far ower Hieland to yield a fit.
Yon day when, smoored wi’ the deil’s ain reeks,
We broke ower Loos like a wave o’ the sea,
Anither Sandy wi’oot the breeks
Keepit me company knee to knee;
Roarin’ words that nae man could ken,
Through trench and wire we gae’d side by side,
And when I drapped like a shot greyhen
He was far ower Hieland to let me bide.
Here’s to ye, freend, whaure’er ye be!
Atween us two we hae couped the dyke;
Gaelic for you and Lallan for me,
But the back o’ our heids is unco like.
Scotland’s braid, and the differ’s big,
Lorn and Carrick are no the same;
But sune as the pipes play up their sprig
We’re a’ ower Hieland to hunker at hame.
Ferris Greenslet
1929
The trout that haunts the Beaverkill
Will flick the same sarcastic tail,
When badly struck, as him my skill
Would vainly lure from Tweed or Kale.
The same old tremor of the spring
Assails the heart of you and me;
Nor does the reel less blithely ring
By Willowemoc than by Dee.
As bright the Ammonoosuc streams
Dance through their silent scented woods
As those that fill my waking dreams
In Hebridean solitudes.
Your land, old friend, is one with mine,
Whate’re may hap from time or tide,
While, with St Izaak the Divine,
We worship at the waterside.
Oxford Prologizes
1930
Welcome I give you, gentles all,
Who honour this, my carnival;
For mine the prose and mine the rhymes,
Mine the choragus and the mimes,
And not a word that’s said or sung
But springs from Oxford pen or tongue.
From that first day when men descried
The double path o’er Isis’ tide
And set a city by the fords,
Through the dark wars of books and swords,
I fenced a little citadel
Where might the gentler Muses dwell.
And not alone Athene reigned
Among my towers; Artemis deigned
To lead her dance; my youthful quire
Has heard Apollo tune his lyre;
Through tributary hamlets ran
The piping of the rustic Pan;
By Fyfield elm and Bampton plain
The morris-dancers wove their chain,
And masques with lute and virginal
Have greeted kings in Christ Church hall.
Though changed the times, the comic boot
Yet treads my boards; Euterpe’s flute
Sounds still for chosen lass and lad;
And, when the bonfire lights the quad,
With flying hair the orgiast raves,
The cymbals clash, the thyrsus waves.
This day a graver purpose runs
Through these the revels of my sons.
‘Tis not to grace some holy day,
Or band my young in summer play,
Or loose from Cardinal’s purse the string,
Or win a smile from wandering King,
But ye my children, far and wide,
To call confederate to my side,
For the old love, for the old pride.
Where once the modest pilgrim strode,
Immodest myriads throng my road,
Not borne on horse or foot, but such
As nurse the inviolable clutch,
Devour the steep and scour the lea
With onward impulse all too free.
The rawest rufous cabins rise
Above my shy fritillaries;
My secret hills are cloven and scarred,
And narrower grows my zone of sward.
Wherefore, despoiled, I make my prayer
For succour to my children ere
Some dunce, not Scotus, fling his net
Of drab o’er my green coronet.
For centuries seven my questing sons
I drew by every road that runs.
Rough were the paths they paced of old,
The miry track by heath and wold.
By forest wilds and swollen streams,
In winter snows and April gleams.
They begged their bread and paid their score
With trifles from the Muses’ store,
In many a wayside hostelry
With Peter Turph and Stephen Sly.
But, whether on weary feet they came,
By laggard coach, by rail or car,
From fields of home, from lands afar,
My guerdon was for each the same.
I gave them youth’s divine surmise
Mirrored in my eternal eyes;
I gave them for a sanctuary
My cloisters, where enchantments lie
Unbroken since the Golden Age;
And, for an ampler heritage,
Green neighbour fields and quiet rills
Cradled by soft, deep-bosomed hills.
I gave them spell of antique arts,
And ancient dreams of seeking hearts.
And, as a panoply for strife,
Whate’er the sages taught of life.
But most I gave them loyalties,
The soul to dare, the wing to rise,
The dear companionships of youth,
And the clear eye that welcomes truth.
They came from far; farther they fared.
Whate’er man’s venturous heart has dared,
So dared my sons; in toil and dearth
They blazed the untrodden trails of earth,
Harnessed the flood and tilled the sands,
Set gardens in the desert lands.
They freed the slave, and raised the mean.
And curbed the lawless, and made clean
The heart of darkness.
On the grave
Of such no English grasses wave;
Ganges and Nile, not Isis keep
A vigil o’er their timeless sleep.
But in their toils they kept apart,
Deep in the treasury of the heart,
The thought of me, a charm to bless,
A palm-tree in the wilderness.
They saw beyond the sand dunes gleam
The summer deeps of Hinksey stream.
And breathed, when swamps lay dank and still,
An April wind on Cumnor hill.
Es to perpetual This my plea
To all whose hearts are vowed to me.
My sons out of the world I draw,
And mould them to my gentle law,
And send them back to play their part
In court and senate, field and mart,
For ever mine, if once they hear
My secret whispered in their ear.
But for such task I needs must dwell
Out of the strife, a citadel
With warders at the outer gate,
A place enclosed, inviolate.
So may I in its purity
Preserve the truth that maketh free
From taint of narrow loss and gain;
So may my children still be fain
To hallow with their dreams my town,
The Tripled as the Violet Crown;
And, like the wise of old, to see
Some bloom of immortality
In the dear ways their youth has trod —
City of Cecrops — City of God.
The Magic Walking Stick
1932
“Magic,” gasped the dull mind,
When the harnessed earth and skies
Drew the nomads of their kind
To uncharted emperies —
Whispers round the globe were sped,
Construed was the planets’ song.
But the little boy playing in the orchard said,
Conning his tale in the orchard said,
“I knew it all along.”
Power deduced from powerless dust,
Nurture from the infertile grave;
Much the years may hold in trust,
Space a thrall and Time a slave.
Hark the boasting of the wise:
“First are we of those that know!”
But the little boy playing by the roadside cries,
Trundling his hoop by the roadside cries,
“I said it long ago.”
The Blessed Isles
1941
The air is quiet as the grave,
With never a wandering breeze
Or the fall of a breaking wave
In the hollow shell of the seas.
Ocean and heavens are a maze
Of hues like a peacock’s breast,
And far in the rainbow haze
Lie the Isles of the West.
Uist and Barra and Lews —
Honey-sweet are the words —
They set my heart in a muse
And give me wings like a bird’s.
Darlings, soon will I fly
