He cut a sappy sucker from the muckle rodden-tree,
He trimmed it, an’ he wet it, an’ he thumped it on his knee;
He never heard the teuchat when the harrow broke her eggs,
He missed the craggit heron nabbin’ puddocks in the seggs,
He forgot to hound the collie at the cattle when they strayed,
But you should hae seen the whistle that the wee herd made!
He wheepled on’t at mornin’ an’ he tweetled on’t at nicht,
He puffed his freckled cheeks until his nose sank oot o’ sicht,
The kye were late for milkin’ when he piped them up the closs,
The kitlins got his supper syne, an’ he was beddit boss;
But he cared na doit nor docken what they did or thocht or said,
There was comfort in the whistle that the wee herd made.
For lyin’ lang o’ mornin’s he had clawed the caup for weeks,
But noo he had his bonnet on afore the lave had breeks;
He was whistlin’ to the porridge that were hott’rin’ on the fire,
He was whistlin’ ower the travise to the baillie in the byre;
Nae a blackbird nor a mavis, that hae pipin’ for their trade,
Was a marrow for the whistle that the wee herd made.
He played a march to battle, it cam’ dirlin’ through the mist,
Till the halflin’ squared his shou’ders an’ made up his mind to ‘list;
He tried a spring for wooers, though he wistna what it meant,
But the kitchen-lass was lauchin’ an he thocht she maybe kent;
He got ream an’ buttered bannocks for the lovin’ lilt he played.
Wasna that a cheery whistle that the wee herd made?
He blew them rants sae lively, schottisches, reels an’ jigs,
The foalie flang his muckle legs an’ capered ower the rigs,
The grey-tailed futt’rat bobbit oot to hear his ain strathspey,
The bawd cam’ loupin’ through the corn to ‘Clean Pease Strae’;
The feet o’ ilka man an’ beast gat youkie when he played –
Hae ye ever heard o’ whistle like the wee herd made?
But the snaw it stopped the herdin’ an the winter brocht him dool,
When in spite o’ hacks an’ chilblains he was shod again for school;
He couldna sough the catechis nor pipe the rule o’ three,
He was keepit in an’ lickit when the ither loons got free;
But he aften played the truant – ‘twas the only thing he played,
For the maister brunt the whistle that the wee herd made!
The Whistle by Charles Murray - Scottish Poetry Library
Wald my gud lady lufe me best
And wirk eftir my will,
I suld ane garmond gudliest
Gar mak hir body till.
Of he honour suld be hir hud
Upon hir heid to weir,
Garneist with govirnance so gud,
Na demying suld her deir.
Hir sark suld be hir body nixt,
Of chestetie so quhyt,
With schame and dreid togidder mixt,
The same suld be perfyt.
Hir kirtill suld be of clene constance,
Lasit with lesum lufe,
The mailyeis of continuance
For nevir to remufe.
Hir gown suld be of gudliness,
Weill ribband with renowne,
Purfillit with plesour in ilk place,
Furrit with fyne fassoun.
Hir belt suld be of benignitie
Abowt hir middill meit;
Hir mantill of humilitie
To tholl bayth wind and weit.
Hir hat suld be of fair having
And hir tepat of trewth;
Hir patelet of gud pansing,
Hir hals ribbane of rewth.
Hir slevis suld be of esperance
To keip hir fra dispair,
Hir gluvis of gud govirnance
To hyd hir fyngearis fair.
Hir schone suld be of sickernes,
In syne that scho nocht slyd;
Hir hois of honestie, I gess,
I suld for hir provyd.
Wald scho put on this garmond gay,
I durst sweir by my seill,
That scho woir nevir grene nor gray
That set hir half so weill.
The Garmont of Gud Ladeis by Robert Henryson - Scottish Poetry Library
HAVE you heard of the manly turning taken by the camp that was in Cille
Chuimein? Far went the fame of their treatment of the foes they put to flight.
I ascended early on the Sunday morning to the top of the castle of Inverlochy.
I saw the whole affair, and the battle's triumph was with Clan Donald.
Climbing up the slope of Cul-Eachaidh, I knew you were in the full inspiration
of your valour. Although my country was in flames, a requital for that was the
outcome of your action.
Even though the estate of the Brae were to remain for seven years as it is
now, without sowing, harrowing, or cultivation, still good would be the interest
with which we now are paid.
As for your side, Lord of Lawers, though great your boast in your sword, many
is the young man of your father's clan now in Inverlochy lying.
Many's the man of gorget and pillion, as good as was ever of your clan, that
was not suffered to take his boots over dry, but was taught to swim on Bun
Nibheis.
A tale most joyful to receive of the Campbells of the wry mouths -- every
troop of them as they came having their heads broken under the blows of the
swords.
On the day they had reckoned to triumph, they were being chased on the ice,
and many a big dun sloucher of them was lying in Ach' an Todhair.
Whoso climbed Tom na-h-aire? Many were the new paws there badly salted, the
death-cloud on their eyes, lifeless after being scourged with sword-blades.
You made a hot fray about Lochy, striking them on the noses. Many were the
blue-fluted even swords striking in the hands of Clan Donald.
When gathered the great trouble of the blood-feud, in time of unsheathing the
thin blades, the nails of the Campbells were to the earth after their sinews'
cutting.
Many is the naked corpse without clothing that is lying on Cnoc an Fhraoiche
from the field where the heroes hastened to the end of Litir Blar a' Chaorainn.
I'd tell another tale with truth, as well as clerk can write. Those heroes
went to their utmost and they made the men they hated erupt like water in rout.
John of Moidart of the bright sails that would sail the ocean on a dark day,
there was no tryst-breaking with you! And joyful to me was the news of Barbreck
in your power.
That was no unlucky journey that brought Alasdair to Alba, plundering, burning
and slaying, and he laid down the Cock of Strathbogie.
The bad bird that lost his comeliness
In England and Scotland and Ireland,
A feather is he of the wing's corner,
I am not the worse of it that he yielded!
Alasdair of the sharp biting blades, you promised yesterday to destroy them.
You put the rout past the Castle, guiding right well the pursuit.
Alasdair of the sharp galling blades, if you had had Mull's heroes with you,
you had made those who escaped of them wait, while the rabble of the dulse
retreated.
Alasdair, noble son of Colla, right hand for cleaving the castles, you put
rout on the grey Saxons and if they drank kail-broth you emptied it out of them.
Did you know the Goirtein Odhar? Well was it manured, not with dung of sheep
or goats, but with blood of Campbells frozen!
Curse you if I pity your condition, listening to the distress of your
children, wailing for the band that was in the battlefield, the howling of the
women of Argyle!
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