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Poem by Robert Nicoll
My Grandfather
HALE be thy honest trusty heart,
And hale thy beld and snawy pow,
The hand of eld ne'er furrowed o'er
A baulder or a manlier brow.
The laddie wha was ance thy pet,
Has been in places far awa',
But he thy marrow hasna met
Amang the great nor yet the sma'.
Ance proud eneuch was I to sit
Beside thee in the muirland kirk,
A ruling elder—ane o' weight,
Nae wonder though your oe did smirk
And braw eneuch was I to find
My head the preacher's hand upon,
While by the kirkyard stile he cracked
Of holy things wi' Elder John!
And syne as hame alang the muir
I prattling by your side did rin,
Ye mind how ye rebuked thae thochts—
And ca'd them vanity and sin.
But pennies frae your auld breek pouch
Wi' dauds o' counsel ye would gie,
The last war gude—but aye the first
I liket best, I winna lee!
Thy daily fireside worship dwalls
Within this inmost soul of mine:
Thy earnest prayer—sae prophet-like—
For a' on earth I wadna tyne.
And you and granny sang the Psalms
In holy rapt sincerity;—
My granny—dinna greet, auld man—
She's looking down on you and me.
Can I forget how lang and weel
The carritches ye made me read?
Or yet the apples—rosy anes—
I gat to gar me mend my speed?
Can I forget affection's words,
That frae your lips like pearls ran?
Can I forget the heart that prayed
To see me aye an honest man?
And mind ye how we gat us beuks,
And read wi' meikle care and skill,
Until ye thocht this head wad wag
The pu'pit's holy place intil?
For mony an idle whim of mine
Wad my auld father journeys gang;
His auld heart danced when I did right,
And sair it grieved when I did wrang.
But mair than a'—frae beuks sae auld—
Frae mony treasured earnest page,
Thou traced for me the march of truth,
The path of right from age to age:
A peasant, auld, and puir, and deaf,
Bequeathed this legacy to me,
I was his bairn—he filled my soul
With love for liberty!
Be blessings on thy reverend head,
I dinna need for thee to pray;
The path is narrow, but nae een
E'er saw thee from it stray.
God bears his ancient servants up—
He's borne thee since thy life began;—
I'm noble by descent:—thy grave
Will hold an honest man.
This patriarch of Auchtergaven, the maternal grandfather of
Nicoll, survived to the venerable age of ninety-two, in the
enjoyment of nearly uninterrupted health and activity, and with
full possession of his mental faculties to the last. He was a
respectable farmer of the old school, and probably the very last
wearer of the broad blue Lowland bonnet. With "Elder John"—or
Mr. John Fenwick—his grandson, Robert, was a very great
favourite. To those who read the above poem it is superfluous to
say that the affection was mutual and fervent.
Robert Nicoll
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