(The poems below contributed by Gordon Macfarlane)
A poem by John Fulton
up amongst auld Carrick hills
crystal springs and glittering rills,
shady trees and scented thorn,
wild birds' song wakes early morn,
Maybole Toon, 0' ancient glory
in romance, in song and story,
sons for freedom always fought,
with their blood new glory bought
monys a gory field.
castles grim tell of a day
Marshall lairds they held the sway;
hill or dell, where'er you turn,
the Wallace, Bruce or Burns.
on the hill stands Peden's tree
Cargill Stane doon in the lea,
men who stood for conscience sake
hunted down by moor or brake,
Claver's bloody band.
scene's now changed, no more resound
noise of steed or Claver's hounds;
peaceful traveller wends his way,
he choose he now may pray;
tyrant now witholds his hand
justice now pervades the land.
ploughman now from bondage free
whistling homeward o'er the lea
cottage hame and wife.
in the toon wi' joke and sang
Souter lads still ply the Whang
hearty as in days of yore
hen Souter Johnnie sang and splored;
bricht eyes bairnes fresh frae schule
streets and lanes wi lauchter fill;
Maybole still majestic stands-
bullwark o' auld Scotia's land-
'mongst auld Carrick hills.
GLEN KIRK, MAYBOLE
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.
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)
KIRK IN THE GLEN
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.