Poems for Armistice Day

[tree_and_leaf]

Two Buchan poems.

The first starts off like Kailyaird sentimentality, until you get to the end and it all reads totally differently... Home Thoughts from Abroad.

Aifter the war, says the papers, they’ll no be content at hame,
The lads that hae feucht wi’ death twae year i’ the mud and the rain and the snaw:
For aifter a sodger’s life the shop will be unco tame:
They’ll ettle at fortune and freedom in the new lands far awa’.

No me!
By God! No me!
Aince we hae lickit oor faes
And aince I get oot o’ this hell
For the rest o’ my leevin’ days
I’ll mak a pet o’ mysel’.
I’ll haste me back wi’ an eident fit
And settle again in the same auld bit.
And oh! The comfort to snowk again
The reek o’ my mither’s but-and-ben,
The wee box-bed and the ingle neuk
And the kail-pat hung frae the chimley-heuk!
I’ll gang back to the shop like a laddie to play,
Tak doun the shutters at skreigh o’ day,
And weigh oot floor wi’ a carefu’ pride,
And hear the clash o’ the contraside.
I’ll wear for ordinar’ a roond hard hat,
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 a 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 yet 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 make 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.


There aren't all that many poems about coming home on leave, as far as I can recall; one of the things I like about this is the implicit acknowledgment that the war touched home and those left behind, too, and not just when their men were killed. Linguistically speaking, I think this one is easier.

"On Leave"
I had auchteen months o' the war,
Steel and pouther and reek,
Fitsore, weary and wauf, -
Syne I got hame for a week.

Daft-like I entered the toun,
I scarcely kenned for my ain.
I sleepit twae days in my bed,
The third I buried my wean.

The wife sat greetin' at hame,
While I wandered oot to the hill,
My hert as cauld as a stane,
But my heid gaun roond like a mill.

I wasna the man I had been, -
Juist a gangrel dozin' in fits; -
The pin had faun oot o' the warld,
And I doddered amang the bits.

I clamb to the Lammerlaw
And sat me doun on the cairn; -
The best o' my freends were deid,
And noo I had buried my bairn; -

The stink o' the gas in my nose,
The colour o' bluid in my ee,
And the biddin' o' Hell in my lug
To curse my Maker and dee.

But up in that gloamin' hour,
On the heather and thymy sod,
Wi' the sun gaun down in the Wast
I made my peace wi' God...

I saw a thoosand hills,
Green and gowd i' the licht,
Roond and backit like sheep,
Huddle into the nicht.

But I kenned they werena hills,
But the same as the mounds ye see
Doun by the back o' the line
Whaur they bury oor lads that dee.

They were juist the same as at Loos
Whaur we happit Andra and Dave. -
There was naething in life but death,
And a' the warld was a grave.

A' the hills were graves,
The graves o' the deid langsyne,
And somewhere oot in the Wast
Was the grummlin' battle-line.

But up frae the howe o' the glen
Came the waft o' the simmer een.
The stink gaed oot o' my nose,
And I sniffed it, caller and clean.

The smell o' the simmer hills,
Thyme and hinny and heather,
Jeniper, birk and fern,
Rose in the lown June weather.

It minded me o' auld days,
When I wandered barefit there,
Guddlin' troot in the burns,
Howkin' the tod frae his lair.

If a' the hills were graves
There was peace for the folk aneath
And peace for the folk abune,
And life in the hert o' death . ..

Up frae the howe o' the glen
Cam the murmur o' wells that creep
To swell the heids o' the burns,
And the kindly voices o' sheep.

And the cry o' a whaup on the wing,
And a plover seekin' its bield. -
And oot o' my crazy lugs
Went the din o' the battlefield.

I flang me doun on my knees
And I prayed as my hert wad break,
And I got my answer sune,
For oot o' the nicht God spake.

As a man that wauks frae a stound
And kens but a single thocht,
Oot o' the wind and the nicht
I got the peace that I socht.

Loos and the Lammerlaw,
The battle was feucht in baith,
Death was roond and abune,
But life in the hert o' death.

A' the warld was a grave,
But the grass on the graves was green,
And the stanes were bields for hames,
And the laddies played atween.

Kneelin' aside the cairn
On the heather and thymy sod,
The place I had kenned as a bairn,
I made my peace wi' God.

Comments

[azdak.livejournal.com]

I didn't know Buchan wrote poetry! I think I can disentangle most of it, but what are kailpats and but-and-ben? And while I assume "mools" is something to do with mud, it's such a key word that I'd like to know the meaning more precisely.

[wellinghall.livejournal.com]

Thank you for posting those :-)

[wellinghall.livejournal.com]

A but-and-ben is a small two-room farmhouse or croft - the "but" is the inbuilding, or living room etc; the "ben" is the outbuilding, barn, stable etc.

[azdak.livejournal.com]

Thank you!

[tree_and_leaf]

Other way round, actually - 'ben' means 'inside' in Scots, as in 'Come ben', which I think is used in Stevenson, or the line of a folk song 'when she cam' ben, she bobbed' (she came in and curtsied). There's a second type of (slightly posher) but-and-ben, where the 'but' is the kitchen/ parlour and the 'ben' is the bedroom.

It's cognate with Low German 'buiten un binnen' (outside and inside).

Kail-pat - is a misprint for 'kail-pot', i.e. cabbage pot; kail being a major staple of poor rural Scots diet (hence 'Kailyaird', cabbage patch, as a sardonic name for the school of sentimental Scots novels set among the rural poor).

'Mools' is just earth, cognate with 'mould' in its older sense.

[wellinghall.livejournal.com]

Apologies for the error, and thank you for the further information.

[tree_and_leaf]

Buchan was, IIRC, first published as a poet - he's very minor, but some of them are rather good in their way.

There's a few Buchan poems here. I particularly like the "Gypsy's Song", "Wood Magic" and "Avignon", even if the latter is really just an extended comment on

'Happy the craw
That biggs i' the Totten Shaw
And drinks o' the Water of Dye,
For nae mair may I.'

[tree_and_leaf]

You're welcome!

[azdak.livejournal.com]

Thank you for the link. And "mools" and "kailpat"?

[azdak.livejournal.com]

Sorry, just seen that you've already answered up-thread!

[azdak.livejournal.com]

Wonderful, thank you!

[tree_and_leaf]

No problem *g*

[lizw.livejournal.com]

Those are great! I so wish my great-grandmother hadn't taken it upon herself to stop her family speaking Scots.

[el-staplador.livejournal.com]

Thanks for posting these. I never knew Buchan wrote poetry.

[tree_and_leaf]

He also was published in "The Yellow Book", which is mildly startling.... he did have an incredibly full and varied life (the Wikipedia photo of him in full Governor General rig is quite funny; there's a twist to the mouth which suggests he's fully aware of how silly the gear is)

Glad you enjoyed, anyhow!

[tree_and_leaf]

Glad you enjoyed...

I can't really speak proper Scots either, though I my speech is Scots-inflected; I also have a pretty good vocabulary and can write it decently, as well as reading it... But thus far there seems to have been a loss inlinguistic comptetence in every generation, which is sad.

[tree_and_leaf]

I think

The pin had faun oot o' the warld,
And I doddered amang the bits.

is as good a description of the shock of grief as you could ask for, and it wouldn't work as well in English...

[lizw.livejournal.com]

Yes, I love that bit!