Alexander Anderson

1845-1909 / Scotland

An Old-World Ballad

lie an' look doon on the clachan,
This best o' a' simmer days,
An' doon by the side o' the burnie
The lasses are bleachin' their claes.
I hear them lauchin' an' daffin',
I catch the skance o' their feet
As they rin wi' their cans for mair water
To jaw on the snaw o' the sheet.
Then ane starts liltin' an' singin',
And the sang comes up to the heicht;
It's a' aboot lads and their lasses
That coort in the lown o' the nicht;
The lads an' the lasses coortin'
Aneath the spread o' the birk,
Or castin' sheeps' een at ilk ither
As they stan' at the psalms in the kirk.
An' O, but the sang comes bonnie,
On a gliff o' the win' up the brae,
An' as sweet as the scent in the meadows
When fowk are teddin' their hay.
Then anither ane sang, but her singin'
Brocht the warm tears into my een;
For an auld-warld sorrow was sabbin'
In an' oot through the words atween.
A sang o' a deid knicht lyin'
At the back o' a rickle o' stanes;
An' you heard the deid grass rustle,
An' the sugh o' the win' through his banes.
A licht dee'd oot o' the sunshine,
A shadow fell doon on the hill;
The win' held its breath for a moment,
An' the grass beside me was still.
A' this by an unkenned singer,
An' O, but the heart was sair
For the knicht away in the muirlands,
An' the grass growin' up through his hair.
How strange that an old-world ballad,
Away far back in the years,
Should still have the same sad magic,
To touch the source of our tears.
An' a' this is mine as I listen,
This best o' a' simmer days;
Hearin' naething ava' but the liltin'
O' lasses thrang bleachin' their claes.
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