Dear Jock, – Like some aul’ cairter’s mear I’m foonert i’ the feet,
An’ oxter-staffs are feckless things fan a’ the furth’s sae weet,
Sae, till the wee reid-heidit nurse comes roon’ to sort my bed,
I’ll leave my readin’ for a fyle, an’ vreet to you instead.
Ye hard the claik hoo Germany gied France the coordy lick,
An’ Scotland’ preen’t her wincey up an’ intill’t geyan quick —
But fouk wi’ better thooms than me can redd the raivell’t snorl,
An’ tell ye fa begood the ploy that sae upset the worl’.
I ken that I cam’ here awa’ some aucht days aifter Yeel,
An’ never toon nor fee afore has shootit me sae weel;
They gie me maet, an’ beets an’ claes, wi’ fyles an antrin dram —
Come term-time lat them flit ‘at likes, I’m bidin’ faur I am.
Tho’ noo an’ than, wi’ dreepin’ sark, we’ve biggit dykes an’ dell’t —
That’s orra wark; oor daily darg is fechtin’ fan we’re tell’t.
I full my pipe wi’ bogie-rowe, an’ birze the dottle doon,
Syne snicher, as I crack the spunk, to think hoo things come roon’;
There’s me, fan but a bairn in cotts, nae big aneuch to herd,
Would seener steek my nieves an’ fecht, than dook or ca’ my gird,
An’ mony a yark an’ ruggit lug I got to gar me gree,
But here, oonless I’m layin’ on, I’m seldom latten be.
As I grew up an’ filled my breeks, fyow market days we saw
But me an’ some stoot halflin chiel would swap a skelp or twa;
It’s three year by come Can’lemas, as I’ve gweed cause to min’,
That Mains’s man an’ me fell oot, an’ focht about a queyn.
We left the inn an’ cuist oor quytes ahin’ the village crafts,
An’ tho’ I barely fell’t him twice wi’ wallops roon’ the chafts,
I had to face the Shirra for’t. ‘Twas byous hard on me,
For fat wi’ lawyers, drinks, an’ fine, it took a sax months’ fee.
I would a had to sell’t my verge, or smoke a raith on tick,
But for the fleein’ merchant’s cairt, my ferrets an’ the bick.
Ay, sang! the Shirra had the gift, an’ tongued me up an’ doon;
But he’s a dummy till his sin, fan han’lin’ oor platoon;
Gin’s fader saw his birkie noo, an’ hard the wye he bans,
He michtna be sae sair on some that fyles comes throu’ his han’s.
Ae mochie nicht he creepit ben the trench — it’s just a drain —
An’ kickit me aneth the quyte an’ cursed me braw an’ plain —
‘Ye eesless, idle, poachin’ hurb, ye’re lyin’ snorin’ there,
An’ Germans cryin’ to be killed, but deil a’ hair ye care.
Fatever comes ye’re for the lythe, to scrat, an’ gant an’ drink,
An’ dream aboot the raffy days fan ye was i’ the clink;
Ye’re dubbit to the een, ye slype, he hinna focht the day,
Come on wi’ me’ an’ see, for eence gin ye are worth yer pay.’
Man, fan he spak’ sae kindly like, fat was there left for me
But jist to answer back as frank, as furth-the-gait an’ free —
‘Lead on, my Shirra’s offisher, gin summons ye’ve to ser’
Upon thae billies ower the loan, I’ll beet ye I’ll be there!’
Syne laden wi’ a birn o’ bombs we slippit throu’ the dark,
An’ left upo’ the barbit weer gey taits o’ breek an’ sark;
They bummed an’ droned some unco tune as we crap up; it raise
Like fae the laft I’ve hard the quire lift up some paraphrase.
Ae creeshy gurk that led the lave was bessin’ lood an’ strang,
Fan something hat him i’ the kyte that fairly changed his sang;
We henched an’ flang, an’ killed a cum, an’ soosh’t them front an’flank,
Like loons that’s trued the squeel to stane young puddocks i’ the stank.
The rippit spread, the rockets raise; ’twas time for hiz to skice,
An’ tho’ we joukit as we ran, an’ flappit eence or twice,
Ower aft oor pig gaed to the wall, for noo we strack the day —
Oor brow Lieutenant onywye — fan a’ in lames it lay;
A bullet bored him throu’ the hochs, it took him like a stane,
An’ heelster-gowdie doon he cam’ an’ brak his shackle-bane:
To hyste him up an’ on my back nott a’ my pith an’ skeel,
For aye he bad’ me lat him lie, an’ cursed me for a feel.
‘Ging on an’ leave me here, ye gype, an’ mak’ yer feet yer freen.’
‘Na, na,’ says I; ‘ye brocht me here, I’m nae gyaun hame my leen.’
He’s little boukit, ay an’ licht, an’ I’m baith stoot an swak,
Yet I was pechin’ sair aneuch afore I got him back.
They thocht him fairly throu’ at first, an’ threepit he was deid,
But it was naething but a dwaam, brocht on by loss o’ bleed.
‘Twas months afore he cower’d fae that, an’ he was missed a lot.
For fan ye meet a hearty breet ye’re sorry gin he’s shot.
His mither sent a letter till’s, a great lang blottit screed.
It wasna easy makin’t oot, her vreetin’s coorse to read;
She speir’t could she dae ocht for me, sae I sent back a line —
‘Jist bid yer man, fan neist I’m up, ca’ canny wi’ the fine.’
But noo to tell hoo I wan afffae dreelin’, dubs, an’ din,
An’ landit here wi’ nocht to dae but fite the idle pin.
Ae foraneen my neiper chap cried — ‘Loshtie-goshtie guide’s!
The foumarts maun be caul the day, they’ve startit burnin’ wydes.’
The reek at first was like ye’ve seen, fan at the fairmer’s biddin,
Some frosty mornin’ wi’ the graip, the baillie turns the midden.
But it grew thick, an’ doon the win’ straucht for oor lines it bore,
Till shortly we were pyoch’rin’ sair an’ fleyed that we would smore;
An’ as ye never ken wi’ cyaurds faur ye’ll be herried neist,
We fixed oor baignets, speel’t the trench, and chairged them in a breist.
‘Twas than I got the skirp o’ shell that nail’t me i’ the queets,
An’ here I’m hirplin’ roon’ the doors, an’ canna thole my beets.
Some nichts fan I’ve been sleepin’ ill, an’ stouns gyuan doon my taes,
Aul’ times come reamin’ throu’ my heid, I’m back amo’ the braes;
Wi’ wirms an’ wan’ I’m throu’ the breem, an’ castin’ up the burn,
Land aye the tither yallow troot, fae ilka rush an’ turn:
I hash the neeps an’ full the scull, an’ bin’ the lowin’ nowt,
Lythe in the barn lat oot for rapes, or track a fashious cowt;
I watch the leevers o’ the mull swing roon for ‘oors an’ ‘oors,
An’ see the paps o’ Bennachie stan’ up atween the shooers;
Lead fae a roup a reistin’ stirk, that’s like to brak the branks,
Or hearken to the cottar wives lyaug-lyaugin’ ower their shanks;
I join the dancers on the buird schottischin’ at the games,
An’ scutter in the lang fbrenichts wi’ britchin, bit, an’ haims;
Or maybe, cockit on the shaft, fan cairtin’ corn or bear,
Cry ‘Hie’ an’ ‘Wo’ an’ ‘Weesh’ again to guide the steppin’ mear.
An’ in the daylicht tee, at times, fan lyin’ here sae saft,
I’ve dream’t gin eence the war was by, o’ takin’ on a craft.
Fan a’thing’s settled for the nicht in stable an’ in byre,
It’s fine to hae yer ain bow-cheer drawn up anent the fire,
An’ hear a roch reid-heidit bairn, wi’ ferny-tickled nose,
Tired oot an’ hungry fae the doss, come yaummerin’ for his brose;
An’ syne a wife – but, weesht! for here’s my nurse, the couthy ted,
Come cryin’ I maun dicht my pen, an’ hirsle to my bed.
Gweed nicht! – but bide, or I forget; there’s jist ae little thing —
Man, could ye sen’ me oot a trumpe? I’m weariet for a spring.
For, Jock, ye winna grudge the stamp to cheer a dweeble frien’,
An’ dinna back it ‘Sandy’ noo, but ‘Sergeant’ Aberdein.
(Charles Murray)
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