Poems (Forrest)/The harrying
THE HARRYING
Had she been less fair we might let her be!But she wiles our men as the white moon wiles Or the will-o-the-wisp that rides the fen,And takes them wanderin' miles an' miles— This is her way with our foolish men!
Sandy followed the hare last e'enIn and out the October stooks, And all the day by the cattle byreSandy goes with his drookit looks, And eyes that burn like a kiln fire.
Take the spurtles! Come, guid wives a'!Her cot lies hid in the bracken reach, Let us drive her down to the grey North Sea;The cauld North Sea on the barren beach, Till it shall prove whether witch she be!
Let lame Jean come! She has wisdom rare.Let Nancy come who has wept full sore, For Alec it was who brought the broom,In gold bouquet for her cottage-door, And the honeyed heather bloom.
Let crazed Marget, with her long, wild hair,Be pioneer of the rocky way; The foot of the goat has Marget got,And nothing the foot of her could stay An' we harry the witch's cot!
For Marget's lover was like a pine;A Hielander of the Stewart clan, And they were to marry come Lady Day,Dear chiel! But he was a proper man, Till the witch eyes turned his way!
And then 'twas he who climbed the hill,Oh, red the moon as a copper coin! The cairngorm over his shoulder set;The deer-knife swinging against his loin, The morrow's morn was wet.
Two men fought out on the windy hill,Nancy's Alec and Marget's lad; And the wildfowl, screamin' overhead,Why should one woman make men so mad? One's for the hangin', t' ither's dead.
And Marget daft as should be a bride(Store of linen and skillets bright), And a' for the sake of a wee bit lass,Yellow-headed, with bosom white; Lips like coral, and eyes like glass.
Had she been less fair we might let her be!But she wiles our men as the hedge-rose wiles, And the will-o'-the-wisp that rides the fen,And takes them wanderin' miles and miles— This is the way with our foolish men!
I would set a bruise on her shoulder white,For the sake of the son I yet may bear; For she may live thro' a dozen livesAnd still keep only as smooth and fair. She grows not grey as do decent wives.
Grandfeyther there, though he's bent and old,His weak lids dropped when he saw her pass; But I ken he could see in the darkened paneA woman's shape in the clouded glass, For he looked again and again.
Jean is bringing a length of rope;Nancy cuts her a thorny stick. Nancy never will be a wife;Her days burn down like a smoking wick. But Marget brings a knife.
Will the men turn out to save the witch?Not they! They'll sulk in the fields and byre. Only I like not Sandy's looks;And his big, grey e'en, like a smouldering fire, As he watches among the stooks.
The kirk gives them to our arms, and so'Tis like enough they remember this; Are fain to forget the foolish clingOf that they gained thro' a devil's kiss, And not by candle and priest and ring.
Then kilt your kirtles! Come guid wives a'!Her cot lies snug in the bracken reach; Let us drive her down to the grey North Sea;The cauld North Sea and the barren beach, And let them prove whether witch she be!