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Lucy Byatt on The Wild Geese

28 October, 2024

I’m particularly interested in this poem by Violet Jacob, who was a posh woman from a big house, the House of Dun in Montrose. She was encouraged in her writing by journalist, writer and editor Hugh MacDiarmid, who lived nearby. When her only son died in the First World War, it influenced her poetry. I suppose she felt that the whole class structure was ridiculous, and she started writing in Scots dialect. For a woman of that period – the turn of the 19th century, she was uncommon.

This beautiful poem, in particular, is a nostalgic poem about coming back to Scotland. I think lots of Scottish people feel this sense of homesickness, because there’s such a huge diaspora in the world. They feel like coming back to the landscape, coming back to the beautiful, misty hills of Scotland. And so it’s a really important poem from that point of view.

“O tell me what was on yer road, ye roarin’ norlan’ Wind,
As ye cam’ blawin’ frae the land that’s niver frae my mind?
My feet they traivel England, but I’m dee’in for the north.”
“My man, I heard the siller tides rin up the Firth o’ Forth.”

“Aye, Wind, I ken them weel eneuch, and fine they fa’ an’ rise,
And fain I’d feel the creepin’ mist on yonder shore that lies,
But tell me, ere ye passed them by, what saw ye on the way?”
“My man, I rocked the rovin’ gulls that sail abune the Tay.”

“But saw ye naething, leein’ Wind, afore ye cam’ to Fife?
There’s muckle lyin’ ‘yont the Tay that’s mair to me nor life.”
“My man, I swept the Angus braes ye hae’na trod for years.”
“O Wind, forgi’e a hameless loon that canna see for tears!”

“And far abune the Angus straths I saw the wild geese flee,
A lang, lang skein o’ beatin’ wings, wi’ their heids towards the sea,
And aye their cryin’ voices trailed ahint them on the air—”
“O Wind, hae maircy, haud yer whisht, for I daurna listen mair!”

GLOSSARY

Airt, point (of compass). Billies, cronies. Braws, finery. Bubbly-jock, turkey-cock. Cankered, cross-grained. Causey, paved edge of a street. Chanter, mouth-piece of a bag-pipe. Clour, a blow. Coup, to fall. Deaved, deafened, bewildered. Droukit, soaked. Dunt, a blow. Fit, foot. Fleggit, frightened. Gean-tree, a wild cheerry-tree. Girnin‘, groaning. Gowk, a cuckoo. Grapes, gropes. Hairst, harvest. Happit, happ’d, wrapped. Haughs, low-lying lands. Keek, peer. Kep, meet. Laigh, low. Lane, his lane, alone. Loan, disused, overgrown road, a waste place. Loon, a fellow. Lowe, flame. Lum, chimney. Mear, mare. Mill-lade, mill-race. Neep, turnip. Poke, pocket. Puddock-stules, toadstools. Rodden-tree, rowan-tree. Rug, to pull. Sark, shift, smock. Shaws, small woods. Sheltie, pony. Skailed, split, dispersed. Smoors, smothers. Sneck, latch. Soom, swim. Sort them, deal with them. Speels, climbs. Speir, to inquire. Steerin‘, stirring. Sweir, loth. Syne, since, ago, then. Tawse, a leather strap used for correcting children. Thole, to endure. Thrawn, twisted. Tint, lost. Tod, fox. Toom, empty. Toorie, a knob, a topknot. Traivel, to go afoot; literally, to go at a foot’s pace. Warslin’, wrestling. Wauks, wakes. Waur, worse. Wean, infant. Weepies, rag-wort. Whaup, curlew. Wildfire, summer lightning. Writer, attorney. Yett, gate.

Lucy Byatt on The Wild Geese

I’m particularly interested in this poem by Violet Jacob, who was a posh woman from a big house, the House of Dun in Montrose. She was encouraged in her writing by journalist, writer and editor Hugh MacDiarmid, who lived nearby. When her only son died in the First World War, it influenced her poetry. I […]