One for Hallowe’en: a moving poem by Violet Jacob (1863–1946; see also week 16) inspired by the loss of her only son Harry, who died of wounds sustained at the Battle of the Somme in 1916.

Although about her son, I have seen it plausibly suggested that the words are to be imagined as spoken not by his mother but by a ploughman, lamenting the loss of his ‘bothy companion’, his ‘head horseman’, and taking no pleasure in the Hallowe’en festivities – the lights, the apple-bobbing, the costumes, the children going from house to house – that once they enjoyed together, as he sees only a new head horseman’s clothes chest next to the fire.

The poem has been set to music by Jim Reid and can be heard on YouTube covered by various artists, notably Karine Polwart/Sheena Wellington and Jean Ridpath.

The poem is written in the local vernacular of the Mearns of Fife; I have added a gloss of the less obvious words.

Hallowe’en

The tattie-liftin’s nearly through,                                  tattie: potato   
They’re ploughin’ whaur the barley grew,
  And aifter dark, roond ilka stack,                               ilka: every
  Ye’ll see the horsemen stand an’ crack                     crack: talk, gossip
O Lachlan, but I mind o’ you!

I mind foo often we hae seen                                      foo: full
Ten thoosand stars keek doon atween                        keek: peep
  The nakit branches, an’ below
  Baith fairm an’ bothie hae their show,
Alowe wi’ lichts o’ Hallowe’en.                                     alowe: alight

There’s bairns wi’ guizards at their tail                        guizards: people in costumes
Cloorin’ the doors wi’ runts o’ kail,                              runts o’ kail: cabbage-stalks
  And fine ye’ll hear the screichs an’ skirls
  O’ lassies wi’ their droukit curls                                 droukit: drenched
Bobbin’ for aipples i’ the pail.

The bothie fire is loupin’ het,                                       loupin’ het: leaping hot
A new heid horseman’s kist is set                               heid: head; kist: chest
  Richt’s o’ the lum; whaur by the blaze                      richt: right; lum: chimney
  The auld ane stude that kept yer claes—                 stude: stood
I canna thole to see it yet!                                          thole: bear, endure

But gin the auld fowks’ tales are richt
An ghaists come hame on Hallow nicht,                     ghaists: ghosts
  O freend o’ friends! what wad I gie
  To feel ye rax yer hand to me                                    rax: reach out
Atween the dark an’ caun’le licht?

Awa’ in France, across the wave,
The wee lichts burn on ilka grave,                              ilka: every
  An’ you an’ me their lowe hae seen—                       lowe: glow, gleam
  Ye’ll mebbe hae yer Hallowe’en
Yont, whaur ye’re lyin’ wi’ the lave.                             yont: yonder; lave: the others

There’s drink an’ daffin’, sang an’ dance                     daffing: playing the fool, frolicking
And ploys and kisses get their chance,                      ploys: courtship stratagems
  But Lachlan, man, the place I see
  Is whaur the auld kist used tae be
And the lichts o’ Hallowe’en in France!

Violet Jacob

The Wild Geese
 
“O tell me what was on yer road, ye roarin’ norlan’ Wind,
   As ye cam’ blawin’ frae the land that’s niver frae my mind?
My feet they trayvel England, but I’m deein’ for the north­—'”
   “My man, I heard the siller tides rin up the Firth o’ Forth.”

“Aye, Wind, I ken them weel eneuch, and fine they fa’ an’ rise,
   And fain I’d feel the creepin’ mist on yonder shore that lies,
But tell me, ere ye passed them by, what saw ye on the way?”
   “My man, I rocked the rovin’ gulls that sail abune the Tay.”

“But saw ye naethin’, leein’ Wind, afore ye cam’ to Fife?
   There’s muckle lyin’ yont the Tay that’s mair to me nor life.”
“My man, I swept the Angus braes ye hae’na trod for years—”
   “O Wind, forgi’e a hameless loon that canna see for tears!—”

“And far abune the Angus straths I saw the wild geese flee,
   A lang, lang skein o’ beatin’ wings wi’ their heids towards the sea,
And aye their cryin’ voices trailed ahint them on the air—”
   “O Wind, hae maircy, haud yer whisht, for I daurna listen mair!”

Violet Jacob

A poem capturing the desolation of exile that is at the heart of so much of the Celtic experience: one thinks of Irish songs like ‘Spancil Hill’, and Welsh poems of ‘hiraeth’. It has been set to music under the title ‘Norlan‘ Wind’ and performed by, among others, the great Scots ballad-singers Jean Redpath and Archie Fisher; it has a good tune but the words stand well enough on their own.