Maybole Town and other poems by John Fulton
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(The poems below contributed by Gordon Macfarlane)


A poem by John Fulton

Far up amongst auld Carrick hills

'Mongst crystal springs and glittering rills,

'Mongst shady trees and scented thorn,

Whaur wild birds' song wakes early morn,

Stands Maybole Toon, 0' ancient glory

Famed in romance, in song and story,

Whose sons for freedom always fought,

And with their blood new glory bought

On monys a gory field.


There castles grim tell of a day

When Marshall lairds they held the sway;

Each hill or dell, where'er you turn,

Bespeaks the Wallace, Bruce or Burns.

Up on the hill stands Peden's tree

And Cargill Stane doon in the lea,

Baith men who stood for conscience sake

Were hunted down by moor or brake,

By Claver's bloody band.


The scene's now changed, no more resound

The noise of steed or Claver's hounds;

The peaceful traveller wends his way,

Where'er he choose he now may pray;

The tyrant now witholds his hand

For justice now pervades the land.

The ploughman now from bondage free

Goes whistling homeward o'er the lea

To cottage hame and wife.


Whilst in the toon wi' joke and sang

The Souter lads still ply the Whang

As hearty as in days of yore

W' hen Souter Johnnie sang and splored;

And bricht eyes bairnes fresh frae schule

The streets and lanes wi lauchter fill;

And Maybole still majestic stands-

A bullwark o' auld Scotia's land-

Up 'mongst auld Carrick hills.




A poem by John Fulton


Lang years hae gane since I left hame And cross'd the rollin' main,
But boyhood scenes in memories' dreams I often see again.

Mony steep braes on life's pathway I've wander'd owre since then,
But ne'er hae been 'mongst bonnier scenes Than in my native glen.

Their's memories sweet 0' wee, bare feet A'trudging hame frae schule,
A' fou' a' glee-happy and free, With purity instilled.

Wi' backward glance, the kirk, the manse I see up on the brae,
Whaur pastor preach'd, and teacher teatch'd, The paths 0' heavenly ways.


That pastor's gone-unto his bourne Wha' held forth in my day, Another face looks from his place And lairns the bairns tae pray.

Yet, still I view pulpit and pew And I see as I saw then, In their auld place, each weel kent face In that auld kirk 0' the glen.

Time can't efface what memories trace Aback in the langsyne, Nor change those scenes sae deeply screen'd And settled in the mind.

For, aye, we'll see-wi' memories ee' The scenes as we saw then, And on the brae on Sabboth day The auld kirk 0' the glen



(This is a reply to my poem, "The Auld Kirk in the Glen," by an old Scotch gentleman, in Petone, New Zealand. I never knew him, yet he sent me two lovely oil paintings. J. Fulton)




In reading through those lines frae you, Just fresh come frae your pen, Sac clear tae me, I think I see, The wee kirk in the glen.

When jist a lad, I often had Wae mother tae gang there, 'I'a join the good, as others shonid, The minister in prayer.


Way doon the dale I loved sae well The auld kirk amang the trees, The friends I know that used tac go And face the wintry breeze.

J ist in a crack, You've brought it back, Those auld times, tac my mind, Dear Bro-Scot, I've ne'er forgot.