The Doucot Up The Braes Poem by Violet Jacob

BESIDE the doucot up the braes
The fields slope doon frae me,
An fine's the glint on blawin days
O the bonnie plains o sea.
Ablo's my mither's hoosie sma',
The smiddy by the byre
Whaur aye my feyther dings awa
An my brither blaws the fire.
For Lachlan loes the smiddy's reek,
An Geordie's but a fuil
Wha drives the ploo his breid to seek,
An Rob's to teach the schuil;
He'll haiver roond the schuilhoose wa's,
An ring the schuilhoose bell,
He'll skelp the scholars wi the tawse
(I'd like that fine mysel!)
They're easy pleased, my brithers three-
I hate the smiddy's lowe,
A weary dominie I'd be,
An I canna thole the ploo.
But by the doucot up the braes
There's nane frae me can steal
The blue sea an the ocean haze
An the ships I like sae weel.
The brigs ride oot past Ferryden
Ahint the girnin tugs,
An the lasses wave to the Baltic men
Wi the gowd rings i' their lugs.
My mither's sweir to let me gang.
My feyther gies me blame,
But youth is sair an life is lang
When yer hert's sae far frae hame.
But i' the doucot up the braes,
When a'tumn nichts are mirk,
I've hid my pennies an my claes
An the Beuk I read at kirk,
An come ae nicht when a' fowks sleep,
I'll lift them whaur they lie,
An to the herbour-side I'll creep
I' the dim licht o the sky;
An when the eastern blink growes wide,
An dark still smuirs the west,
A Baltic brig will tak the tide
Wi a lad that canna rest!