The Treasury

by Frances Watt

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There have been many wonderful tributes paid to Alex Salmond.

Our tribute is an undertaking to publish as much of Hugh MacDiarmid's 1940 The Golden Treasury of Scottish Poetry as we can.

We don't know if Alex Salmond and Hugh MacDiarmid ever met. MacDiarmid died in 1978, when Alex would've been in his mid-20s, so it does seem possible. We would love to hear from anyone who knows of any such encounter.

What is certain is that Alex Salmond would've known (and could probably quote from) many of MacDiarmid's selections.

We'll publish two or three in a regular feature. Not all will be those as published in the original Macmillan edition. We will use online versions and provide links as appropriate.

If readers have any specific works they would like to see included, whether they're in the original book or not, please email us using offtopicscotland@protonmail.com

It's worth pointing out that this feature is not about 'poetry' and is not aimed solely at those who enjoy it. Rather, the Treasury as envisaged by MacDiarmid was about much more - it's about heritage, developing a sense of just how vast Scotland's history is, and making that effort to catch a glimpse of the vision these great men shared.

RIP Alex, and thank you Hugh MacDiarmid.

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Another Song on the Same Theme

by William Ross

Oi am in anguish this tide,
I cannot drink drams with éclat,
A maggot, blown in my inside,
Has published my secret to a'.
I cannot see going around
The lass o' the blithsomest e'e,
And that sunk my heart to the ground,
Like leaves from the top of a tree.

O my most beringletted belle,
'Tis I feel the want o' thee sore,
Gin a good home thou'st chosen thysel',
My blessing wi' thee evermore.
I'm sighing because thou art gone,
Like a wounded soldier in pain
On the battle-field lying undone,
And he'll ne'er go to battle again.

Like a stray from the flock it left me,
Like a man that will ne'er court a quean,
Thy tour under sail o'er the sea
Brought a tear shower quick from my e'en.
Better should I not feel it in sooth,
Thy beauty, thy sense, thy renown,
Or the dear tender charm of thy mouth,
That's sweeter than musical sound.

Every waif, that will hear of my plight,
Belittling my gift of mind,
Alleges I'm only a bard
That will ne'er build a stanza that's fine—
My grandfather paying his rent,
My sire with a pack heretofore—
They ponies could yoke to the plough,
And I'd carve a verse o'er five score.

Long, long has my light ceased to shine,
I'll not move my mind to a stave,
In a daze like a wrack of the brine
On the crests of the misty wave.
Missing thy talk at my side
Has changed the fair face of my sky,
With no sport, or gladness, or pride,
No vigour, war song, gallantry.

I'll not wake a song of fine art,
I'll not set a part to be sung,
I'll not raise a tune on the harp,
Or hark to the laugh of the young;
I'll not climb the path of the steep
With the leap that was mine heretofore,
But I'll reach there forever to sleep,
The hall of the bards of no more.

Poem: Another Song on the Same Theme by William Ross (poetrynook.com)

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The Flowers of the Forest

by Jean Elliot

I’ve heard them lilting at our ewe-milking,
Lasses a-lilting before the dawn of day;
But now they are moaning on ilka green loaning-
The Flowers of the Forest are a’ wede away.

At bughts, in the morning, nae blythe lads are scorning,
The lasses are lonely, and dowie, and wae;
Nae daffin’, nae gabbin’, but sighing and sabbing,
Ilk ane lifts her leglin and hies her away.

In har’st, at the shearing, nae youths now are jeering,
Bandsters are lyart, and runkled, and gray;
At fair or at preaching, nae wooing nae fleeching-
The Flowers of the Forest are a’ wede away.

At e’en, in the gloaming, nae younkers are roaming
‘Bout stacks wi’ the lasses at bogle to play;
But ilk ane sits drearie, lamenting her dearie-
The Flowers of the Forest are weded away.

Dool and wae for the order sent our lads to the Border!
The English, for ance, by guile wan the day;
The Flowers of the Forest, that fought aye the foremost,
The prime of our land, are cauld in the clay.

We’ll hear nae mair lilting at our ewe-milking;
Women and bairns are heartless and wae;
Sighing and moaning on ilka green loaning-
The Flowers of the Forest are a’ wede away.

The Flowers of the Forest by Jean Elliot - Scottish Poetry Library

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A Runnable Stag

by John Davidson

When the pods went pop on the broom, green broom,
And apples began to be golden-skinn'd,
We harbour'd a stag in the Priory coomb,
And we feather'd his trail up-wind, up-wind,
We feather'd his trail up-wind-
A stag of warrant, a stag, a stag,
A runnable stag, a kingly crop,
Brow, bay and tray and three on top,
A stag, a runnable stag.

Then the huntsman's horn rang yap, yap yap,
And 'Forwards' we heard the harbourer shout;
But 'twas only a brocket that broke a gap
In the beechen underwood, driven out,
From the underwood antler'd out
By warrant and might of the stag, the stag,
The runnable stag, whose lordly mind
Was bent on sleep though beam'd and tined
He stood, a runnable stag

So we tufted the covert till afternoon
With Tinkerman's Pup and Bell- of-the-North;
And hunters were sulky and hounds out of tune
Before we tufted the right stag forth,
Before we tufted him forth,
The stag of warrant, the wily stag,
The runnable stag with his kingly crop,
Brow, bay and tray and three on top,
The royal and runnable stag.

It was Bell-of-the-North and Tinkerman's Pup
That stuck to the scent till the copse was drawn.
'Tally ho! tally ho!' and the hunt was up,
The tufters whipp'd and the pack laid on,
The resolute pack laid on,
And the stag of warrant away at last,
The runnable stag, the same, the same,
His hoofs on fire, his horns like flame,
A stag, a runnable stag.

'Let your gelding be: if you check or chide
He stumbles at once and you're out of the hunt
For three hundred gentlemen, able to ride,
On hunters accustom'd to bear the brunt,
Accustom'd to bear the brunt,
Are after the runnable stag, the stag,
The runnable stag with his kingly crop,
Brow, bay and tray and three on top,
The right, the runnable stag.

By perilous paths in coomb and dell,
The heather, the rocks, and the river-bed,
The pace grew hot, for the scent lay well,
And a runnable stag goes right ahead,
The quarry went right ahead--
Ahead, ahead, and fast and far;
His antler'd crest, his cloven hoof,
Brow, bay and tray and three aloof,
The stag, the runnable stag.

For a matter of twenty miles and more,
By the densest hedge and the highest wall,
Through herds of bullocks lie baffled the lore
Of harbourer, huntsman, hounds and all,
Of harbourer, hounds and all
The stag of warrant, the wily stag,
For twenty miles, and five and five,
He ran, and he never was caught alive,
This stag, this runnable stag.

When he turn'd at bay in the leafy gloom,
In the emerald gloom where the brook ran deep
He heard in the distance the rollers boom,
And he saw In a vision of peaceful sleep
In a wonderful vision of sleep,
A stag of warrant, a stag, a stag,
A runnable stag in a jewell'd bed,
Under the sheltering ocean dead,
A stag, a runnable stag.

So a fateful hope lit up his eye,
And he open'd his nostrils wide again,
And he toss'd his branching antlers high
As he headed the hunt down the Charlock glen,
As he raced down the echoing glen
For five miles more, the stag, the stag,
For twenty miles, and five and five,
Not to be caught now, dead or alive,
The stag, the runnable stag.

Three hundred gentleman, able to ride,
Three hundred horses as gallant and free,
Beheld him escape on the evening tide,
Far out till he sank in the Severn Sea,
Till he sank in the depths of the sea
The stag, the buoyant stag, the stag
That slept at last in a jewell'd bed
Under the sheltering ocean spread,
The stag, the runnable stag.

Poem: A Runnable Stag by John Davidson (poetrynook.com)

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