MEMORIES OF THE LITTLE RED HOUSE

Whaur westward fae the Mither Tap the braes o Bennachie
Fa gently tae the windin Don, meanderin tae the sea,
There lies an earthly Paradise the Sun himsel lo’es best,
For aye it gets his hinmost smile frae dark Pitfichie’s crest.
O happy blend o moorland and cultivated field,
The wardly route I dare to fout frae sic a peaceful bield,
O God ye maun hae lo’ed me in an unco high degree,
Tae gie me as Life’s bivouac, the Braes o Bennachie.
It’s only bit a cauld bleak hill laid bare o flower and tree,
But ilka rock upon it flames wi glory dear tae me,
Because the eyes of lovin friends sae aft hae rested there,
And I hae trod its heather slopes wi those that are nae mair.
It’s lovely in the sunny shafts when cauld winds are asleep,
And aa its storm worn boulders lie as clean as new shorn sheep,
For weel I ken the bodin clood that shrouds the mither tap
Tae warn the buirdly Garioch lads that sune they’ll hae a drap.
Gin ye wad ken the secret o my love for Bennachie,
Jist wander frae its southern side twa mile or maybe mair,
An whar the moorland merges in the Hill o Fetternear
Ye’ll see a winsome cottage that tae me will aye be dear,
It stands ayont the Fairy Knowes, and near the peat moss side,
Whaur aft as bairns we used tae play and whaur the Corbies hide,
Its reed roof has aft cheered me as by Sclattie Kirk I’ve passed,
And made my step fu lichtsome, till I reached its door at last.
Just a humble but and ben, wi a middle place forbye,
Its rosy wa’s blush brightly gainst the azure o the sky,
A kindly welcome waits ye, at the green auld fashioned door
An syne ye’r in the the salon wi its curios galore.
A motley sandbank belongin tae the Skakles and the Rawers,
The painted bench, harmonium, the tables and the drawers.
Ye can sit upon John Chalmers or tak rest on Brockies bed,
Aa decorated bravely wi chintzes white and red.

THE FIREPLACE

So bonny is the blink o the cosy big peat fire,
When the bellows gaurs the ruddy sparks leap merrily and high,
As they leap about the muckle kettle singin lord on high.
Abune the fireplace Tam o Shanter flees on his white mare,
The hanging auld Kirk lamp sends shadows flickerin here and there.

THE LASSES O THE COTTAGE

Like Wordsworth, lovely lasses, they could answer we are seven,
Tho nane o them as yet has reached the pearly gates of Heaven.
Four were Skakles, three were Rawers, wi Grandma as the queen,
A mitherless wee Teddy played among them on the green.
Upon the bench for ilka lass this cottage trim doth grace,
There stands a shining piece o china gaily in its place,
Ilk bonny maiden hers may claim if she becomes a bride,
But faith they’ve waited seven lang years, still the bridegroom bides.
They said sweet Peggy changed their luck by buying yallow dishes,
An sae forsaken lang they wait fulfilment o their wishes.

GRANDMA

A douce auld body Mrs Rawers sae doonricht kind and frank,
Twas fine tae see her sittin on John Chalmers wi her shank.
She fairly read the riot act when tongues waged loud and high,
Or dandered roon the quate Kirkyard whaur auld companions lie.
She kent the countryside fu weel for twas her naitur place,
An mony a tale o byegone days she’d tell wi homely grace.
A joy it was to see her, skirt the windin rummle dyke,
For ane that cairriet seventy years ye never saw the like.
Her lassies Crissie, Moll and Bell were sweet as wayside flowers,
Wha mang the purple heather spent mony happy hours.
Oh place o happy memories graced by a little child,
Who grew beside the muirland like a humble floweret wild
An learned the love of countryside, o woodland flooer and tree,
Wi nature for his teacher at the fit o Bennachie,
Wi jist ae young companion he wid scour the moss and knowes
Or paddle in the eddies whaur the bonnie burnie rows.
Fie weel he liked to wake the echo ower the moss that plays,
Or listen tae the cuckoo i the early summer days.

THE PLATFORM

Twas jist a rough bit summer house atween the auld gean tree,
Tae shelter happy gossipers fae Bennachie’s caul breeze.
It stood on muckle hefty legs, ilk ane a heavy stump,
Cut doon when granma and the lave, sawed up the auld gean rump.
Syne Polly she wiled the best bits fae an antrin load o beams,
An roofed the whole hypothick whaur the blackbirds steal the gean.
O happy are the memories o sunny summer days,
When a row o cheery lasses cracked o frolic, freens and claes.

THE GARDEN

Roon the door a rockery is bright wi blossoms fair,
Wi snow in summer, jessamine and pansies planted there.
A bonny yett swings gaily by the privet hedge sae green
An roon the white rimmed windows grow the roses like a screen.
Twa verdant plots o greensward skirt the hedge and catch the leaves,
There sweetly grow the primroses sheltered by a southern wa.
You ne’er saw purer snowdrops when in springtime here they blaw,
O sweet it is to wander when the poppies gently wave,
An aye be careful nae to tramp on Tipperary’s grave.

THE MOOR

A happy sight the crimson roof against the heather hue,
Fu aft we’ve climbed the fairy knowes wi Bennachie in view
An watched the sun send flaming rays when settin like a fire,
Or see the new moon’s sickle rise above the larches spire.
There’s mony a time we’ve bowed to her and turned our siller ower,
For tween the moor and moss the Fairies hae muckle power.
Was ever sight sae peacefu as we passed the line o trees,
Returnin hame at milkin time when softly fa’es the breeze.
Ayont the wee red sheilin lies the folden o the hills,
An sic a peace that drives awa the memory o aa ills.
There happy Sheep against the moor are only dimly seen,
O may He grant me tae lie doon in pastures sae serene,
I’ve sung ‘The Lord’s my Shepherd’ at the quiet peaceful sight,
And prayed that at my eventide, He’d grant sic lovely light.

THE MOSS

Follow the leader was the game as bairns we used to play
For then the moss was fu o pots the time we cam to stay,
Aneath Hugh Phillip’s thacket reef, a stern auld carle was he,
But happy hae we played aroon grandfather’s big gean tree.
We tracked the wild birds tae their nests, fae hag to hag jumped we,
An he who took the greatest risk the leader cam to be.
But noo the moss is heather clad and purple wi the ling
An some that used to play wi us now wi the Angels sing.
Noo little Freddie taks the place o ane we nae mair see,
His bonnie lauch wakes memories whene’er we wander there
Amang peat stacks and auld tree reets that Troupie guards sae weel
In case Free Kirkers cross the moss his weel hauned peets to steal.

TROUPIE

Foo aften hae we seen him dodder doon the lang stane dykes,
The auld Kirk Sexton he, wha in the country has nae like.
Behold a Troup doth come we said and so we called him Gad,
An diggin graves an dustin Kirks aye kept his aspect sad.
Tae see him mount the pulpit steps and lay the books in place
Brought mony a quiet smile to the observant watcher’s face.
Twa said that on a fast day, Gad forgot to don his blacks
An, busy scythin grass, in moleskin breeks like sacks,
An when the folk cam tae the Kirk, he doon the road in haste,
Tae beg the nearest black surtout whatever size the waist.
He chappit on the roadman’s door, a giant stoot was he,
An sune John Troup was garbed wi sleeves doon tae his very knees.
Auld Leezie Burnett snickered when she saw him mount the stair
Wi coat tails dangling ower his hochs and buits besplattered sair

THE KIRK

Beside a lofty avenue o beeches auld and grand,
Within a sunny clearin ye can see the auld Kirk stand,
Amidst a quiet God’s acre whaur I’d like to rest at last,
Tis sweet to sit and ponder on the memory of the past.
We liked to hear on Sabbath morn the dear old fashioned bell
That bids the neighbours gather when the notes so loodly swell
And winding towards the churchyard fae the Hill o Fetternear
Ye see the guid folks hurry when the warnin chimes they hear.

THE MINISTER

Baith Minister and fairmer wis the Pastor o Blairdaff,
Twa flocks he tended kindly, o his care he gaed the half,
Tae sheep that wandered o’e the moor wi nae a care nor fear,
His human flock wis pastured roon the Hill o Fetternear.
Twas good tae see him ca’in aa the white sheep tae the knowes
An emblem o his calling like the Shepherd good I trow.
At sunset aft we’ve seen him gainst the evening flaming ray
Tak ae last care o aa the lambs afore the close o day
An syne on Sabbath mornin he dispensed a higher food
Wi mony wise instructions that his flock might aa be good.
He set a grand example tae his followers in wark,
For he was unco eident frae the risin o the lark.
The neeps he’d hoe as leaf as gae a sermon or a prayer,
At harvestin o hay or corn the guid auld man was there,
A sight it was to see him burnin heather wi a will,
Like Moses by the burnin bush on Rorebs holy hill,
For lang, lang time he’s laboured near the fit o Bennachie,
May Heaven reward him duly when his face nae mair we see.

THE NEEBORS

Twas just a step along the road to Mrs Grassie’s Cot,
As langs we live, her gentle life will never be forgot,
Her jasmine covered sheiling by the ivy covered stump
Twas dear to see, ilk time we cairriet water fae the pump.
Her sweet auld fashioned gairden whaur the flooers cam first in Spring,
Will be to me a theme on which I could for ever sing.
She was the good Lord’s pattern o a neebor kind an sweet,
A loving good Samaratin wha cam wi willin feet.
Her guid man was a carpenter as eident as a bee,
What better trade tae hae than He wha walked by Galilee.
Sweet music as with Orpheus was ever his delight,
Wi melody he often kept a happy corner bright.
Beside the clatterin stream ye’ll see the steadin o Burnside,
Whaur neebors kind, the Allans, wi their bonny family bide.
Their thrifty upright household whaur my memory aft returns
Wad fair hae pleased our ain Scottish Bard, immortal Robbie Burns.
The kind guidman obligin ever brocht us sticks an peats,
An served oot quant philosophy my memory oft repeats.
The gudewife ever eident gave us butter, milk and cream,
An tae the Reed Hoose neebors was a staunch an trusty freen.
We watched their lads an lasses grow an gang their several ways,
An mony a happy hour we spent wi them in summer days.
God prosper them and keep them as they leave the family nest,
An may they in the time to come, wi aa that’s good be blest.

RETROSPECT

O dear wee house among the heather,
I’ve loved you in sunny weather,
And when Boreas swept the hill
My love for you he could not chill.
Where’er I wander east or west
My mind returns to you for rest,
And aye I’ll bless the fortune sweet
That led me to your calm retreat.