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Poem by Violet Jacob


THE tattie-liftin's nearly through,
They're ploughin' whaur the barley grew,
    And aifter dark, roond ilka stack, 
    Ye'11 see the horsemen stand an' crack 
Lachlan, but I mind o' you !

1 mind foo often we hae seen
Ten thoosand stars keek doon atween
    The nakit branches, an' below 
    Baith fairm an' bothie hae their show, 
Alowe wi' lichts o' Hallowe'en.

There's bairns wi' guizards at their tail
Clourin' the doors wi' runts o' kail,
    And fine ye' 11 hear the skreichs an' skirls 
    O' lassies wi' their droukit curls 
Bobbin' for aipples i' the pail.

The bothie fire is loupin' het,
A new heid horseman's kist is set
    Richts o' the lum; whaur by the blaze 
    The auld ane stude that kept yer claes-- 
I canna thole to see it yet!

But gin the auld fowks' tales are richt
An ghaists come hame on Hallow nicht,
    O freend o' freends! what wad I gie 
    To feel ye rax yer hand to me 
Atween the dark an' caun'le licht?

Awa in France, across the wave,
The wee lichts burn on ilka grave,
    An' you an' me their lowe hae seen-- 
    Ye'11 mebbe hae yer Hallowe'en 
Yont, whaur ye're lyin' wi' the lave.

There's drink an' damn', sang an' dance
And ploys and kisses get their chance,
    But Lachlan, man, the place I see 
    Is whaur the auld kist used to be 
And the lichts o' Hallowe'en in France! 

Violet Jacob

Violet Jacob's other poems:
  1. Presage
  2. The Kirk Beside the Sands
  3. At a Brookside
  4. Unity

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