The Howe O The Mearns Poem by Violet Jacob

LADDIE, my lad, when ye gang at the tail o the ploo
An the days draw in,
When the burnin yellows awa that was aince a-lowe
On the braes o whin,
Dae ye mind o me that's deaved wi the wearyfu sooth
An it's puir concairns
While the weepies fade on the knowes at the river's mooth
In the Howe o the Mearns?
There was nae twa lads frae the Grampians doon to the Tay
That could best us twa;
At bothie or dance, or the field on a fitba day,
We could sort them a';
An at coortin-time when the stars keeked doon on the glen
An its theek o fairns,
It was you an me got the pick o the basket then
In the Howe o the Mearns.
London is fine, an for ilk o the lasses at hame
There'll be saxty here,
But the springtime comes an the hairst-an it's aye the same
Throu the changefu year.
O, a lad thinks lang o hame or he thinks his fill
As his breid he airns-
An they're thrashin noo at the white ferm up on the hill
In the Howe o the Mearns.
Gin I mind mysel an toil for the lave o my days
While I've een to see,
When I'm auld an duin wi the fash o their English weys
I'll come hame to dee;
For the lad dreams aye o the prize that the man'll get,
But he lives an lairns,
An it's far, far 'ayont him still-but it's farther yet
To the Howe o the Mearns.
Laddie, my lad, when the hair is white on yer pow
An the work's put past,
When yer hand's ower auld an heavy to haud the ploo
I'll win hame at last,
An we'll bide oor time on the knowes whaur the broom stands braw
An we played as bairns,
Till the last lang gloamin shall creep on us baith an fa'
On the Howe o the Mearns.