*That a Black Lady” haunted this house was some folks opinion in my young days and how the report affected even rational beings, the following will show you:---A young servant had occasion to go to the laird’s room with some refreshment one evening, and on reaching the landing, raised her eye from the dishes she was carrying to open the room door, when the Black Lady presented herself right between her and the door. To drop what she carried and scream, was natural, and she did so. The master- who was mad at the reports being circulated—at once opened the door inquiring what was the matter, As the young one knew he would be angry if she mentioned the Black Lady, she evaded his question until she could do so no longer, and admitted having met the Black Lady, who “just melted” when he opened the door. Well, I will let you se her again,” said the laird, shutting the door and revealing the young woman’s shadow extra distinctly thrown on the door by the silent moon shining through a large window at the lassie’s back. That young lass got married, and lived in the village until he was an old woman and her stay no doubt helped to dismiss our “Black Lady o’ Broomy Knowe.
Wilma Bolton. 2005.
WHEN WE WERE GAUN AWA’.
O’ we were laith tae leave them a’,
My bonnie native clachan!
The cozie cots o’ Lavrockha’,
The heights an’ howes o’ Machan;
The haughs o’ Clyde, aul’ Avon side;--
‘Twas sairest far o’ a’,
When Charlotte grat tae pairt wi’ Mern,
When we were gaun awa.
Tae leave the hearts that hae the lowe
O’ love as warmly burnin’,
As when, lang syne, in Harlees howe,
It lichtit life’s fair mornin’.
The rough anes that we rampit wi’,
An’ pestered a’ the toon,
Wi’ mischief, when the “Moose” was fou,
Or Luggie Jock cam’ roun’.
The dour anes, in yon direfu’ fiel’
That battle fire an’ water,
An’ brawly aye can calmly smile
At some folk’s silly clatter;
At sumphs, wi’ bitter prejudice
Against oor miner heroes,---
If we hae honest men’s esteem
It’s a’ we want tae cheer us.
An’ gratefully, fu’ lang I’ll min’—
Nae matter whaur I wauner,
The e’e that beamed on “me an’ mine,”
An’ gloried in oor honour;
The e’en that glowed the ardent love
O’ gen’rous souls revealin’!
An’ need na tongue o’ praise, tae prove
The kin’ly kindred feelin’.
Aye, we were laith tae lea’ ye a’!
But hopes o’ fairin better,
‘S taen mony as warm a heart awa’
Oot o’er the western water;
An’ I hae little cause tae write
A yaum’rin rhyme ava;
But Charlotte grat tae pairt we’ Mern,
When we were gaun awa’.
Thomas Stewart. Larkhall. Circa 1870’s
Wilma Bolton. 2005,
FUN IN THE “HOMESTEAD.”
In Larkhall there is a hostelry known as the “Homestead Bar,” and here genial souls gather on occasion for a crack, a song, or a good story.
The audience is said to be more that an ordinary mixed one on a Saturday night, and a frequent patron supplies the following lines expressive of the situation: ---
Every Saturday night, just about seven,
There is a crowd, ten or eleven
In the Homestead Bar down London Street,
Frae different places we always meet;
An’ a working chaps free at the week-end
An’ hae an hoor or two tae spend,*
Wha keeps things gaun fair and square.
He caws on Sam tae gae’s a bit sang,
And start the harmony alang,
Then Sam gets up and squares his shoulder
Sings—“Darling, I am growing older.”
The next he ca’s is Tammy Orr,
Who keeps the fun gaun wi’ a roar;
At telling stories he’s an expert,
Then drives to Glesga’ in a soor milk cairt
Noo Geordie Tamson, next on the list,
Gets a sang sheet in his fist
And sings, “Jane, my Jane, my pretty Jane,”
Or “Maggie, if you and I were young again.”
The next we hear is Geordie Queen,
O’ auld Scotch sangs he has a wheen,
“The Maid of Longollan,” there far awa,
And its no the clean tattie ava.
The Hughie McWhinnie, the next ane he cries
Sings “I wish I were where Helen lies,”
Can gaes that sang “Drinking,” too
And then he sings “Were no sae foo.”
Then Jimmy Boag caed on tae dae his pairt,
He gets up and sings, “For a’ the airts.”
And Freddy, gin whom we all know,
He sings, “We’ve got a long way to go.”
Then Dougald Fleming, comes in frae the bar,
And gives us, “Dark Lochnagar,”
Then Tommy Stirrat, yae a’ ken him weel,
Stands up and sings “Teddy O’Neil,”
Then time is called, wae hae Andrew Reid,
At community singing he tak’s the leed,
Starts wi’ “Banks and braes o’ bonnie Doon,”
Then sings on to the Carolina Moon.
In the evening by the moonlight he goes,
To the booze that makes you wear bad clothes,
And when I’m dead don’t bury us at all, he’ll say,
And this is the end of a perfect day.
Anonymous.
Ref. The Lanarkshire. 30/1/1930. Page 11.
* There appears to be a line missing here.
Wilma Bolton. 2005.
THE VALE OF OLD MILLHEUGH.
Where the river Avon murmurs as it
winds down to the sea,
And nature shows her splendour on
every bush and tree,
My footsteps oftimes wander with
this purpose to pursue,
The beauty that abounds around the
Vale of Old Millheugh.
The old worlds buildings nestling
close, so peaceful and serene,
The happy cries of children at play
Upon the green,
And feathery clouds that drift on high
‘gainst sky of azure blue—
Yes, there’s beauty in abundance
round the Vale of Old Millheugh.
The many pathways of the “Park”,
With grass so verdant green,
Where myriad flowers and rose-
twined bowers are just an
artist’s dream;
While on the perfumed laden breeze
is wafted clear and true---
The thought of all the beauty round
The Vale of Old Millheugh.
The gold expanse of ripening corn
as far as eye can see.
The browsing herds that graze at
ease upon the grassy lea,
And the blood red sun just sinking
in a sky of lovely hue,
Adding lustre to the beauty round
The Vale of Old Millheugh.
And if by fate or fortune’s wheel
My steps should ever veer,
And lead me to some distant spot,
one wish I would hold dear—
To return once more, with pride and
joy, and pay my homage to
The beauty that’s eternal; round the
Vale of Old Millheugh. Pat Watters.
Wilma Bolton. 2005.
THE WEE LARKIE BIRD
RETURNS FROM CALIFORNIA
May flowers decked the sunny land
As with the Larkie bird in hand,
We sailed from California’s shore
To sail eight thousand miles or more
To dear old Scotland, far away,
We left Los Angeles that day
On the S.S. Manchuria,
For far New York by Panama,
And soon were passing Mexico,
But only saw the sunset glow
On mountain peaks, high in the sky,
Then we passed Costa Rica by;
And Nicaragua, so green,
Off to the East could well be seen,
The sun had now waxed warm and bright,
And lightening storms raged every night;
At last, when nine days sail was done,
We passed Cape Hale, near Canal Zone,
And reached Balboa, where night was spent.
The Southern Cross we could descry---
The stars, like jewels, blazed in the sky;
Through Panama, next day, we strolled,
Where, pirates buccaneers untold,
In olden times had each his day,
By noon our ship was on it’s way
Through Panama Canal; past rocks,
Jungles, through Miraflores Locks,
Across the Lake, waters yellow green,
To Gatum Locks; a lovely scene.
As we the Atlantic Level gain,
The deluge came with Tropic rain;
At Christobal we bide a wee,
Then sail across Carribean Sea.
In three days we saw Cuba fair
And in Havana’s Plaza square
We viewed the people gathered there
Then off again to colder seas
Past Florida and all its Keys;
Past other southern states we go,
And saw a whale come up to blow,
And anchor, after sixteen days,
In New York harbour’s busy maze.
A few days in New York were spent,
And then on board the Cedric went;
We sailed to Boston all that day,
And set off then for Queenstown Bay,
Where we arrived on Sabbath night,
And viewed the green hills with delight
We soon passed Wales, and Liverpool
Was reached that day; our hearts were full
To see our land, and in the train,
Were soon in old Scotland again,
Old Scotland dear, land of my dreams,
Old Tinto tap in sunset gleams;
And just as darkness settled down
We landed in old Glasgow town.
The next morn to Larkhall we went, then
Took that wee bird to Avon Glen,
The wee bird flew down by The Linn,
And joined in song with all its kin.
The Avon flowed adown the glen,
Abloom with flowers each ferny den;
Tall, trees looked down, all robed in green,
Stirred by the wind, a lovely scene,
And songs were sung so sweet and gay,
By that wee bird returned that day;
No place so sweet, within my ken,
As that dear, lovely Avon Glen. ALEXANDER CRICHTON.
