Complete Fictional Works of John Buchan (Illustrated)

by John Buchan

Thyme and hinny and heather,

  Jeniper, birk and fern,

  Rose in the lown June weather.

  It minded me o’ auld days,

  When I wandered barefit there,

  Guddlin’ troot in the burns,

  Howkin’ the tod frae his lair.

  If a’ the hills were graves

  There was peace for the folk aneath

  And peace for the folk abune,

  And life in the hert o’ death....

  Up frae the howe o’ the glen

  Cam the murmur o’ wells that creep

  To swell the heids o’the burns,

  And the kindly voices o’ sheep.

  And the cry o’ a whaup on the wing,

  And a plover seekin’ its bield. —

  And oot o’ my crazy lugs

  Went the din o’the battlefield.

  I flang me doun on my knees

  And I prayed as my hert wad break,

  And I got my answer sune,

  For oot o’ the nicht God spake.

  As a man that wauks frae a stound

  And kens but a single thocht,

  Oot o’ the wind and the nicht

  I got the peace that I socht.

  Loos and the Lammerlaw,

  The battle was feucht in baith,

  Death was roond and abune,

  But life in the hert o’ death.

  A’ the warld was a grave,

  But the grass on the graves was green,

  And the stanes were bields for hames,

  And the laddies played atween.

  Kneelin’ aside the cairn

  On the heather and thymy sod,

  The place I had kenned as a bairn,

  I made my peace wi’ God.

  The Great Ones

  1916

  Ae mom aside the road frae Bray

  I wrocht my squad to mend the track;

  A feck o’ sodgers passed that way

  And garred me often straucht my back.

  By cam a General on a horse,

  A jinglin’ lad on either side.

  I gie’d my best salute of course,

  Weel pleased to see sic honest pride.

  And syne twae Frenchmen in a cawr —

  Yon are the lads to speel the braes;

  They speldered me inch-deep wi’ glaur

  And verra near ran ower my taes.

  And last the pipes, and at their tail

  Oor gaucy lads in martial line.

  I stopped my wark and cried them hail,

  And wished them weel for auld lang syne.

  An auld chap plooin’ on the muir

  Ne’er jee’d his heid nor held his han’,

  But drave his furrow straucht and fair, —

  Thinks I, “But ye’re the biggest man.”

  Fisher Jamie

  1916

  Puir Jamie’s killed. A better lad

  Ye wouldna find to busk a flee

  Or burn a pule or weild a gad

  Frae Berwick to the Clints o’ Dee.

  And noo he’s in a happier land. —

  It’s Gospel truith and Gospel law

  That Heaven’s yett maun open stand

  To folk that for their country fa’.

  But Jamie will be ill to mate;

  He lo’ed nae music, kenned nae tunes

  Except the sang o’Tweed in spate,

  Or Talla loupin’ ower its linns.

  I sair misdoot that Jamie’s heid

  A croun o’ gowd will never please;

  He liked a kep o’ dacent tweed

  Whaur he could stick his casts o’ flees.

  If Heaven is a’ that man can dream

  And a’ that honest herts can wish,

  It maun provide some muirland stream,

  For Jamie dreamed o’ nocht but fish.

  And weel I wot he’ll up and speir

  In his bit blate and canty way,

  Wi’ kind Apostles standin’ near

  Whae in their time were fishers tae.

  He’ll offer back his gowden croun

  And in its place a rod he’ll seek,

  And bashfu’-like his herp lay doun

  And speir a leister and a cleek.

  For Jims had aye a poachin’ whim;

  He’ll sune grow tired, wi’ lawfu’ flee

  Made frae the wings o’ cherubim,

  O’ castin’ ower the Crystal Sea....

  I picter him at gloamin’ tide

  Steekin’ the backdoor o’ his hame

  And hastin’ to the waterside

  To play again the auld auld game;

  And syne wi’ saumon on his back,

  Catch’t clean against the Heavenly law,

  And Heavenly byliffs on his track,

  Gaun linkin’ doun some Heavenly shaw.

  The ‘Lusitania’ Waits

  1916

  Long, long ago He said,

  He who could wake the dead,

  And walk upon the sea —

  “Come follow Me.

  “Leave your brown nets and bring

  Only your hearts to sing,

  Only your souls to pray,

  Rise, come away.

  “Shake out your spirit-sails,

  And brave those wilder gales,

  And I will make you then

  Fishers of men.”

  Was this, then, what He meant?

  Was this His high intent,

  After two thousand years

  Of blood and tears?

  God help us, if we fight

  For right and not for might.

  God help us if we seek

  To shield the weak.

  Then, though His heaven be far

  From this blind welter of war,

  He’ll bless us on the sea

  From Calvary.

  Wireless

  Now to those who search the deep,

  Gleam of Hope and Kindly Light,

  Once, before you turn to sleep,

  Breathe a message through the night.

  Never doubt that they’ll receive it.

  Send it, once, and you’ll believe it.

  Wrecks that burn against the stars,

  Decks where death is wallowing green,

  Snare the breath among the spars,

  Hear the flickering threads between,

  Quick, through all the storms that blind them.

  Quick with worlds that rush to find them.

  Think you these aerial wires

  Whisper more than spirits may?

  Think you that our strong desires

  Touch no distance when we pray?

  Think you that no wings are flying

  ‘Twixt the living and the dying?

  Inland, here, upon your knees,

  You shall breathe from urgent lips,

  Round the ships that guard your seas,

  Fleet on fleet of angel ships;

  Yea, the guarded may so bless them

  That no terrors can distress them.

  You shall guide the darkling prow,

  Kneeling thus — and far inland —

  You shall touch the storm-beat brow

  Gently as a spirit-hand.

  Even a blindfold prayer may speed them,

  And a little child may lead them.

  Alastair Buchan

  1917

  A.E.B.

  Born 12th June, 1894

  Died of Wounds received at Arras, 9th April, 1917

  I

  A mile or two from Arras town

  The yellow moorland stretches far,

  And from its crest the roads go down

  Like arrows to the front of war.

  All day the laden convoys pass,

  The sunburnt troops are swinging by,

  And far above the trampled grass

  The droning planes climb up the sky.

  In April when I passed that way

  An April joy was in the breeze;

  The hollows of the woods were gay

/>   With slender-stalked anemones.

  The horn of Spring was faintly blown,

  Bidding a ransomed world awake,

  Nor could the throbbing batteries drown

  The nesting linnets in the brake.

  And as I stood beside the grave,

  Where ‘mid your kindly Scots you lie,

  I could not think that one so brave,

  So glad of heart, so kind of eye.

  Had found the deep and dreamless rest,

  Which men may crave who bear the scars

  Of weary decades on their breast,

  And yearn for slumber after wars.

  You scarce had shed your boyhood’s years,

  In every vein the blood ran young,

  Your soul uncramped by ageing fears,

  Your tales untold, your songs unsung.

  As if my sorrow to beguile,

  I heard the ballad’s bold refrain:

  “I’ll lay me downe and bleed a-while,

  And then I’ll rise and fight again.”

  II

  Long, long ago, when all the lands

  Were deep in peace as summer sea,

  God chose His squires, and trained their hands

  For those stem lists of liberty.

  You made no careful plans for life,

  Happy with dreams and books and friends,

  Incurious of our worldly strife,

  As dedicate to nobler ends;

  Like some young knight, who kept his sword

  Virgin from common broils that he

  Might flesh it on the Paynim horde

  When Richard stormed through Galilee.

  I mind how on the hills of home

  You ever lagged and strayed aside,

  A brooding boy whose thoughts would roam

  O’er gallant fates that might betide.

  But not the wildest dreams of youth,

  Bom of the sunset and the spring,

  Could match the splendour of the truth

  That waited on your journeying —

  The ancient city deep in night,

  The wind among its crumbling spires;

  The assembly in the chill twilight

  Murky with ghosts of wayward fires;

  The last brave words; the outward march;

  The punctual shells, whose ceaseless beat

  Made the dark sky an echoing arch

  Pounded without by demon feet;

  While with the mom wild April blew

  Her snows across the tortured mead,

  The spring-time gales that once you knew

  In glens beside the founts of Tweed;

  And then the appointed hour; the dread

  Gun-flare that turned the sleet to flame,

  When, the long vigil o’er, you led

  Your men to purge the world of shame.

  I know that in your soul was then

  No fear to irk or hate to mar,

  But a strong peace and joy as when

  The Sons of God go forth to war.

  You did not fail till you had won

  The utmost trench and knew the pride

  Of a high duty nobly done

  And a great longing satisfied.

  You left the line with jest and smile

  And heart that would not bow to pain —

  I’ll lay me down and bleed a-while,

  And then I’ll rise and fight again.

  III

  We cannot grieve that youth so strong

  Should miss the encroaching frosts of age,

  The sordid fears, the unnerving throng

  Of cares that are man’s heritage.

  A boy in years, you travelled far

  And found perfection in short space;

  By the stem sacrament of war

  You grew in gifts and power and grace,

  Until, with soul attuned and tried,

  You reached full manhood, staunch and free,

  And bore a spirit o’er the tide

  Most ripe for immortality.

  We cannot tell what grave pure light

  Illumes for you our earthly show,

  What heavenly love and infinite

  Wisdom is yours; but this we know; —

  That just beyond our senses’ veil

  You dwell unseen in youth and joy,

  Joy which no languid years can pale

  Youth which is younger than the boy.

  Your kindly voice enhearten still,

  Your happy laughter is not dead,

  And when we roam our Border hill

  You walk beside with lighter tread.

  All day where lies your valiant dust

  The troops go by to hold the line;

  They never steel for ward or thrust

  But you are with them, brother mine.

  Still, still you list the ancient tunes,

  The comrade fire is with you yet;

  Still, still you lead your worn platoons

  Beyond the farthest parapet.

  And when to chaos and black night

  At last the broken eagles flee,

  Your heart will know the stem delight

  Of his who succours liberty.

  I stood beside your new-made grave,

  And as I mused my sorrow fled,

  Save for those mortal thoughts that crave

  For sight of those whom men call dead.

  I knew you moved in ampler powers,

  A warrior in a purer strife,

  Walking that world that shall be ours

  When death has called us dead to life.

  The rough white cross above your breast,

  The earth ungraced by flower or stone,

  Are bivouac marks of those that rest

  One instant ere they hasten on.

  More fit such grave than funeral pile,

  Than requiem dirge and ballad strain:

  I’ll lay me downe and bleed a-while,

  And then I’ll rise and fight again.

  The Kirk Bell

  1917

  When oor lads gaed ower the tap

  It was nine o’ a Sabbath mom.

  I felt as my hert wad stap,

  And wished I had ne’er been bom;

  I wished I had ne’er been bom

  For I feared baith the foe and mysel’,

  Till there fell on my ear forlorn

  The jow o’ an auld kirk bell.

  For a moment the guns were deid,

  Sae I heard it faint and far;

  And that bell was ringin’ inside my heid

  As I stauchered into the war.

  I heard nae ither soun’,

  Though the air was a wild stramash,

  And oor barrage beat the grun’

  Like the crack o’ a cairter’s lash,

  Like the sting o’ lang whup lash;

  And ilk breath war a prayer or an aith,

  And whistle and drone and crash

  Made the pitiless sang o’ death.

  But in a’ that deavin’ din

  Like the cry o’ the lost in Hell,

  I was hearkenin’to a peacefu’tune

  In the jow o’ a far-off bell.

  I had on my Sabbath claes,

  And was steppin’ doucely the gait

  To the kirk on the broomy braes;

  I was standin’ aside the yett,

  Crackin’ aside the yett;

  And syne I was singin’ lood

  ‘Mang the lasses snod and blate

  Wi’ their roses and southernwood.

  I hae nae mind o’ the tex’

  For the psalm was the thing for me,

  And I gied a gey wheen Huns their paiks

  To the tune o’ auld “Dundee.”

  They tell me I feucht like wud,

  And I’ve got a medal to shaw,

  But in a’ that habble o’ smoke and bluid

  My mind was far awa’;

  My mind was far awa’

  In the peace o’ a simmer glen,

  Daund
erin’ hame ower the heathery law,

  Wi’ twae-three ither men....

  But sudden the lift grew red

  Ere we wan to the pairtin’ place;

  And the next I kenned I was lyin’ in bed

  And a Sister washin’ my face.

  My faither was stench U.P.;

  Nae guid in Rome could he fin’;

  But, this war weel ower, I’m gaun back to see

  That kirk ahint the line —

  That kirk ahint oor line,

  And siller the priest I’ll gie

  To pray for the sauls o’ the deid langsyne

  Whae bigged the steeple for me.

  It’s no that I’m chief wi’the Pape,

  But I owe the warld to yon bell;

  And the beadle that swung the rape

  Will get half a croun for himsel’.

  Home Thoughts From Abroad

  1917

  No me!

  By God! No me!

  Aince we hae lickit oor faes

  And aince I get oot o’this hell

  For the rest o’ my leevin’ days

  I’ll mak a pet o’ mysel’.

  I’ll haste me back wi’an Eident fit

  And settle again in the same auld bit.

  And oh! the comfort to snowk again

  The reek o’ my mither’s but-and-ben,

  The wee box-bed and the ingle neuk

  And the kail-pat hung frae the chimley-heuk!

  I’ll gang back to the shop like a laddie to play,

  Tak doun the shutters at skreigh o’ day,

  And weigh oot floor wi’ a carefu’ pride,

  And hear the clash o’ the countraside.

  I’ll wear for ordinar’ a roond hard hat,