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A Puckle Poems an Poets, Past
an Present, o Armadale an roun aboot.
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| Introducing the Page. |
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Rosie recently, on this website,
published a poem of mine entitled The Lady Baillie Trophy commemorating
the 100th Anniversary of its being played for in 1908, by members of the
newly formed Armadale Golf Club. Since then, she has been kind
enough (or rash enough) to suggest that I contribute a poetry feature
page. In a moment of weakness I succumbed, (web-sites are well
outwith my era), so this is its tentative start. I hope Armadalians,
young and old, at home or overseas, and their descendants) will enjoy the
experience.
Davie Kerr |
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Any page on Armadale poets must
start with Jessie o the Dell, one that every Armadale bairn would
sing lustily as they tramped roun the toun on Gala-days, behind the Brass
Band, to the Public Park. Even the Toll Brae didnae seem sae steep
in thae halcyon days... when the sun always shone... and everyone knew the
chorus, if not all of the verses. Here they are now. |
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Jessie o the
Dell |
O bright the beaming queen
o night
Shines in yon flowery vale,
and softly sheds her silver light
O'er mountain-path and dale:
Short is the way when light's the heart
That's bound in loves soft spell;
Sae I'll awa to Armadale,
To Jessie o the Dell.
To Jessie o the Dell,
Sweet Jessie o the Dell,
The bonnie lass o Armadale,
Sweet Jessie o the Dell. |
We've pu'd the primrose on
the braes
Beside my Jessie's cot;
We've gathered nuts, we've gathered slaes
In that sweet rural spot.
The wee short hours danced merrily,
Like lambkins on the fell,
As if they joined in joy wi me
And Jessie o the Dell
To Jessie o the Dell
Sweet Jessie o the Dell,
The bonnie lass o Armadale,
Sweet Jessie o the Dell. |
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There's nane to me wi her
can vie,
I'll love her till I dee;
For she's sae sweet an bonnie aye,
And kind as kind can be.
This night in mutual kind embrace,
O wha our joys can tell!
Then I'll awa to Armadale
To Jessie o the Dell.
To Jessie o the Dell,
The bonnie lass o Armadale,
Sweet Jessie o the Dell.
William Cameron |
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William Cameron, who wrote the above
song, was born in the town of Dunipace, Stirlingshire, in the year 1801,
and moved to the then new village of Armadale, to become its first
schoolmaster, at the age of 25.
Amid the beauties of Barbaughlaw
Glen, he drew inspiration for his writing and Jessie o the Dell
proved to be a winner with generations of Armadalians.
He wrote many other popular poems
and songs too, such as Morags Faery Glen,
Sweet Birkenshaw, Meet me on the Gowan Lea, etc, marking him
high on the list of Scotland's song writers of the time. |
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Above: Birthplace of Jessie Harvie
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Frost in the
Mornin'
I'm sure ye'll hae heard o the year seventeen,
When frost o October set in very keen;
The maist o oor muirland craps then bein' green
Were ruined by three o thae mornin's.
An efter the frost an the snaw gaed awa',
The rain it cam on like to ruin us a',
It lasted sae lang that it shortened oor straw,
Which added mair dule to oor mornin'.
But besides a' this a scheme I had laid;
I had promised to wed wi a beautiful maid,
To share o the owercome when a'thing was paid,
But was baffled wi frost in the mornin'.
Noo, since my wee crap is a' snug in the yaird,
An still for the lassie I hae a regaird,
I think I will wed her an no pay the laird--
Let him ken it was frost in the mornin'.
William Brock |
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Frost in the mornin' was
written about the same time as Jessie o' the Dell, but in a
different style. It was written by William Brock, 1793 - 1855, who
farmed the land of Eastertoun, at the foot of what is now called the Mill
Road. Difference in the language used by each of the foregoing poets
is revealing too, between the academic and the more down to earth
farmer... although both are love poems... and both wee gems.
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Mill Road |
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screen doesn't put you off this page altogether, after you have read it,
then you are a true Armadalian and not easily put off. It puts
Armadale into its proper place in the greater scheme of things.
This story starts when a new roondaboot was built at
Heatherfield, just east of Armadale. It seems that some computer
buff, (there's always one), fed into his lap-top all the roundabouts in
Scotland's road system and came up with the very interesting fact that the
one newly formed at Heatherfield was the centre of Scotland's routes.
Never slow to recognise a good photo-opportunity
when it is presented, some Bathgate Cooncillors of that time set up a
table and some chairs in the middle of Sibbald's field, on the Bathgate
side of the roondaboot and promptly declared, to the camera, (and coos),
present, Bathgate to be at the centre of Scotland's road system.
Well!! No self-respecting poet could let Bathgate
Cooncillors get away with that one. Hence the poem, - brought up to
date when calming measures had to be introduced to control the tourists.
Read on. |
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Heatherfield
Roondaboot
The hert o Scotland roondaboot?
Three guesses where an then yer oot.
It's no Embra, Perth or Stirlin.
Nae mair guessin, heids are burlin.
Experts say, (A don't dispute it),
Airmadale, it's been computit,
is 'CENTRE O OOR COUNTRY'S ROUTES',
tho' Bathgate folk micht hae thir doots.
They tried ti claim it for thir ain.
The cheek o thim, (they're aye the same)'
for Heatherfield, aa Dale folk ken,
wis pairt o us since 'way back when'.
So, haunds aff oor wan claim ti fame
an ye'll be welcome yince again.
Ti caa in-by jist burl aroun
oor roondaboot, then slow richt doun.
Alang the road an headin west,
lies Airmadale, ye'll be impressed,
for here's a toun'll play its pairt
an prood ti be at 'SCOTLAND'S HERT'.
Haud oan a wee, the future's 'noo', -
it's true that tourists flockin' throu',
led cooncillors ti tak a vote
oan 'calmin measures', but we got
big bumps, nine inches, fuit ti tap,
unwary motorists ti trap,
speedin', only oot for pleisure,
insteid took aff or taen a seizure.
At least, sky-high, hauf-wey ti heaven,
this view o Airmadale they're given,
conversely soonds, in rhymin' verse
like 'CENTRE O THE UNIVERSE'.
Davie Kerr |
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Kite aerial photo taken from
Hardhill Millennium Wood, Armadale, looking towards Heatherfield
Roundabout (A89 and A801 junction), February 2008 |
The Big Lums o Armadale were,
at one time, quite an iconic sight on the skyline and could be likened to
the first sight that emigrants got of the sky-scrapers of New York.
Some cynics, though, might aver that the emigrants were probably
Armadalians trying to escape the black reek fae oor ain lums in the first
place.
The next poem takes a slightly nostalgic look at the
last one left standing.
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Looking north by
kite from Etna Brickworks
(A
Wider Image)
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Legacy o the Last Lum
The thocht, auld freen, jist blears ma ee,
ti see ye sae forlorn,-
this age o high technology
lacks majesty o form.
Where yince, aroun, aa belchin reek,
wir mony, like yersel,
proclaimin hope, for thaem wha seek,
in betterment, ti dwell.
Frae high grund aa aroun, wha views
thon vibrant, busy scene
wuid, for thir faim'lys future, choose
the power o coal an steam.
Thus, Airmadale accepts her role,
the coal an fireclay found,
wi ironstane an parrot coal,
abundant underground.
Excitin times. Afore ow'r lang,
the trowels an hammers flew
in buildin hames, ti hap the thrang
as Airmadale jist... grew.
Wi aa the furnaces aroun,
lums played thir pairt anaa,
as kil's an pits aboot the toun,
depended on thir draw.
But time moves on, (it ayeways does),
wi modern skills the trend,
computers noo create the buzz
that you an I yince kenned.
Dale folk ken hoo (where'er they be,
thir genes are still the same)
ti mak thir dreams reality,
like, when thir forebears came.
An sae, auld freen, yir legacy,
as you puff your last 'smoke',
is, whit ye've left posterity
wir skilled, weel-daein folk.
Davie Kerr. Feb. 2009 |
While we're on the subject of Armadale's Industrial
Past, here are a few more contributions from A Puckle Poems and
others too, on the same theme. |
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PIT REDD
Coal is black
and
hard to get.
Coal warms hands
and
feet and yet,
Coal is found
cold,
underground. |
Guttering
and sputtering
candles, light
the miners moles
slashing picks
that win the coals.
Nightmare dreams
haunt low wet
seams. |
Grovelling
and shovelling
miners, weans
and miners wives
(grimy sweat
cakes all their
lives),
haul the coal
up the black hole, |
to sunlight,
(where
colours glow),
sea and sky
and trees,
but no,
bings abound
round
poison'd ground. |
| Davie Kerr |
This one comments on the main industries upon which
Armadale's prosperity was based and questions where our town's future role
lies.
| A Chapter's Close
Lang lums,
black belchin
reek,
mark shair the thrivin toun
that lives
weel daein there.
The roarin furnace, glintin, glowers.
White-het the molten metal spews.
The slag raked aff, the ladle gently slews,
ti shape the cast o steel, wi sparkin showers.
Syne, startin in the stourie laft,
the fireclay moulders free-han skills
reveal, when dampers draw het-shimmer kil's,
the saut-glaze produce o thir ancient craft.
The bings oot-by, lik dour black cairns,
raised ti a special breed o men,-
o moles, wha howk thir stent o coal an then,
wund ti the licht, ti greet thir wives an bairns.
Change comes.
Th'enlightened seek
clean air, while aa aroun
life ebbs,
ti flow, - but where?
Davie Kerr, from A Puckle
Poems |
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Ellen Cairnie, (or Mrs Mulvey as she later became),
is the next poet I'd like to introduce. She came with her parents to
live in the wee mining village just north-west of Armadale, called 'The
Briggest', (though I see nowadays it goes under the much grander name of
Bridgehouse Village. Pity! The Briggest always sounded just
right to me).
She was born in the year 1900 and her poems
graphically describe her life's experiences. With plenty of lovely
countryside on her doorstep, Ellen's was a happy childhood and she became
quite an expert on country lore and of the wild flowers that grew in
abundance all around. Together with her brothers and sisters, she
attended the wee village school and also spent part of her schooldays at
what are now Westfield and Armadale Primary Schools, when walking to and
from them was the only option.
On leaving school at the age of 14 years, she was at
one of the local pits, doing odd-jobs before progressing to the job of
separating out the stones from the coal passing before them on the
'Tables'. 'Happy as Larry' was how her sister described their
growing-up years, doing a job that may seem to us now-a-days as pure
drudgery. Having experienced the hardships of the 1921 General
Strike and having to make way for a younger generation of girls for work
at the pithead, Ellen had to go into 'service'. (This was the only
alternative to helping out in the family home for women and girls in those
days.) Her poems tell their own (often humorous) story.
I am indebted to her sister, for all of the above
information, which I got while doing some research on her work. What
a pity it hasn't, as far as I know, been published. I'll bet the
children of Westfield and The Briggest would be fascinated by her tales of
growing-up and of life in their village of 100 years ago, as I was.
Here is one of her earlier poems... still on the
past industrial scene.
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To a workmate
Margaret, do you remember,
When our years but twelve would be,
The fun we had when we were sent
To the pit with father's tea?
Crawling underneath the wagons,
Down the shaft we used to peer,
Seemed as if the old pit loved us,
Nothing gave us any fear.
Peeping into engine-houses,
Watching winding-engines work,
List'ning to the pit-bell tolling
Warning men that danger lurk't.
We then wandered to the tables,
Where the girls at work, would be
Separating stones from good coal
Gliding past them on the scree.
Two years passed and then we joined them
At the tables next the scree,
Follow'd happy years of freedom,
Happy in our work were we.
Happy nights at Barn-dances
Ending with the Harvest-Ball,
Then our life of freedom ended,
Nature gave her 'grown-up' call.
We left home and went to service
Thinking happiness to find
But our thoughts were aye returning
To those friends we'd left behind.
Perhaps to some, our work seemed rough,
Though our clothes were worn and old,
We smoothed all with a friendliness
That cannot be bought or sold.
Mrs Mulvey (nee Helen Cairnie)
1900 - 1986 |
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Let's leave this world of work and big lums
and black reek and seek some simpler pleasures.
In common with most towns and villages of our area,
Armadale has produced her fair share of poets, most of them just writing
for their own pleasure or for that of family or friends. What a pity
that these local efforts are going largely undiscovered and unrecorded
nowadays. Who knows? Maybe this page will help towards reversing
that trend.
Here is one written by Francis Barnard of Woodend.
Francis was a popular poet of his time, as recorded in A M Bisset's
scholarly and well-researched book Poets and Poetry of Linlithgowshire
(and which I acknowledge as my main source of information for some of our
poets of past years.) He was one of Scotland's famous Collier Poets
and was born in Clackmannshire in the year 1834. With the Armadale
coalfields opening up, he moved with his wife and baby son to find work at
the local colliery. Here he is...
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Voices i' the
Glen
When the bud upon the hawthorn bush proclaims
the newborn spring,
An the merry lark far into heaven ascends on spiral wing,
I wander awa doon the brae when mony dinnae ken,
A' ti listen ti the music o the voices i' the glen.
Wee robin noo has fled the doors, an wha will only gang.
An listen ti him i' the glen, he sings a cheerier sang,
An sweetly on the hawthorn spray the dunnock pipes his strain,
Oh! there's naething melancholy in the voices i' the glen.
The blackbird, his sweet lay o love, chants in
mair solemn tune,
An the lichter-hearted thrush, you'd think the merle's sang wad
droon,
An the merry little shilfa rattles ow'r an ow'r again
His thowless sang- a's love an joy that's heard doon i' the glen.
O come wi me a' ye wha's high an holy aim thro life
Is battling in your brithers weal an in the weary strife
Your guid's requited aye wi ill- O come awa, an then
Ye'll soon forget your sorrows 'mang the voices i' the glen.
Ungratefu' soond was never heard or kent ti
live doon there
An oh! it's aye a blest retreat frae dull an carkin' care;
Should a' the warld look glum an sour, how sweet it is ti ken
That ye get a kingly greetin' frae the voices i' the glen.
But yesterday nae far'er gane, delightfu' t'was ti hear
A still wee sang, up frae the earth, stole sweetly on my ear;
I listened, t'was the primrose singing, "here I come again
Ti waken up the beauty that lies sleepin' i' the glen".
The buttercup an daisy soon in legion will be
here,
An the gaudy little heartsease that ne'er fails the heart ti cheer,
An a thousand ither beauties, that ti sing I maun refrain,
A' coming yet ti bless you wi' their music i' the glen.
An after I am sleeping, when the merle forgets ti sing,
An' the mavis disnae dae ocht but salute you wi' his wing,
Ye'll get the bonnie harebell an the stately foxglove, when
They will sing a merry welcome as ye come inti the glen.
She ceased ti sing, but oh! she smiled, all
blushing loveliness,
Like sweet young maiden, half attired, there in the crumpled dress
She had thrown in haste around her, in her eagerness just then
Ti hurry forth an rouse the beauty sleepin' in the glen.
Mair might I sing but now the trees an bushes are a' thrang
Rejoicing in their birth-time but I maun close my sang.
On the wimplin' little burnie I may sometime sing again
An its music tinkle, tinklin' on its way doon through the glen.
A' ye wha wad hae freedom frae the warld's
deceitfu' snares,
In busy, bustlin' tainted life, yet strive ti droon your cares,
An think ti find your peace o mind in haunts o sinfu' men,
O seek the simple pleasures that are found doon i' the glen.
Francis Barnard, 1834
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Barbaughlaw Glen wis a place that aa Airmadale folk o a
certain age will mind o wi affection, o the mony happy oors they wad spend
there. Faimilies wad gan doun wi thir picnic baskets for a day oot,
maist weekends, in the summertime. Wi faithers fishin or guddlin for
troot in the burn, the mithers in thir bare feet, playin rounders or
attendin ti the tea an the laddies at the fuitba', a rare time wis had bi
aa... we'll hear mair aboot thae times again, A've nae doot.
Here's yin though, that takes a look back at oor toun
frae the present day, when the glen seems empty o folk, and oor last lum
looks gey lonely bi itsel... we'll still keep positive though an look ti
the future wi confidence. The world has moved on... but are we
missing something?
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ARMADALE THE TOURIST TRAP
Armadale is wonderful,
marvellous and beautiful.
Noo we're trystin tourists
ti wir toun,- it's lookin braw.
Wir pit bings, manky mings,
thir's nae mair o sic-like things.
Wealthiest or puirest,
yiz are welcome, wan an aa.
Armadale is wonderful,
marvellous and beautiful.
Noo we hae wir gateweys,
designed ti slow yiz doun.
So, park'n'see, (an it's free,)
aa wir healthy scenery.
Tramp alang the byweys,
that gang aa aroun the toun.
Armadale is wonderful,
marvellous and beautiful.
We're a trap whaur for'ners
can spen mair nor they plan,
in chip shops, bettin shops,
even in wee sweetie shops.
Pubs oan aa the corners
mean, "ye'll hae anither dram".
Armadale is wonderful,
marvellous and beautiful.
Sit back an tak yer ease
an linger ow' yir meal
o steak, lean, French cuisine,
curry that can nip yer een,
Indian or Chinese,-
we hae cairry-oots as weel.
Armadale is wonderful,
marvellous and beautiful.
Fu' o cooncil hooses
built ti last bi local men.
Wir Goth tow'rs leanin ow'r,
its knock stuck at hauf past fow'r.
Listed tow'rs hae uses,-
you can list an whas' ti ken.
Armadale is wonderful,
marvellous and beautiful.
Click on Rosie's website
frae yer ain wee but-n-ben.
You can choose, postcaird views,
poetry pages ti amuse,
'Time Team' humplocks bring ti light
umpteen 'castles' doun the Glen.
Visit Armadale an then,
mind the patter yince again.
Then ye'll ken that you miss't,
wir free an easy crack,
in caird schools, tossin schools,
if ye dinnae brek the rules,
ye'll be on oor guest list.
"Here's ti us",- an haste ye back.
Davie Kerr. |
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Other website links that may interest
you:
Dale Tales
Tom
Hanlin, the Dale's very own
novelist
Publications (fiction and non-fiction)
History of
Armadale Association for a list of their publications
Scots
Language and Literature |
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| We are grateful to Davie Kerr
for allowing us to publish his new poem, which commemorates the
centenary of the award of the Lady Baillie Trophy by Lady Baillie of Polkemmet to Armadale
Golf Club in 1908. |
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THE LADY BAILLIE TROPHY
by Davie Kerr, 2008
A hunder year ago this year,
oor gowf-club met ti clap and cheer
the winner in his finest gear,
at Tarraray,
where Lady Baillie wad appear,
to mak his day.
This braw new trophy she'd present,
ti mark the "champion" event
ti cheerin' crowds. 'Twas evident
the day went weel,
as she stood up an thereanent
made her wee speil.
Noo, tho' this tribute, fae the past,
has modern silverware oot-classed,
(its sturdy cast wis meant ti last
for gowfers gain),
God knows hoo mony ba's thae'll blast
in quest o fame.
At seasons start, guidwill's intendit,
frae gowfers, keen an weel connectit
wi drives, that should land where thae meant it,
but, in the huff,
thir's times thiv driven, hauf-dementit,
inti the rough.
As weel's thir spells o bunker pain,
thae'll try an try an try again
ti putt a ba', (that's no ti blame),
in ti the hole.
It's mair nor flesh an bluid an bane,
in truth, can thole.
Oor gemme's had mony ups an douns.
In Airmadale, its present gloom's
meant naewhere noo, within the toun's
gowf still in play,
an sae, till brighter prospect looms,
we'll mind the day. |
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Andy Anderson with the trophy,
which was later known as the David Kerr Trophy
For the history of golf in Armadale,
and the Lady Baillie Trophy in particular, see
Gowff, written by Andy Anderson
The Baillie family and
Polkemmet |
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Written for
Davie
Shiny New Armadale
Shiny
new Armadale at its periphery and by the station
Gentle folk of Burgh long-standing of bumpy streets and declination.
Our
iron and coal with bricks have built our nation’s heritage with
sweat and filth
But
generosity still abounds from those who walk above the ground.
Reeking lums, sun’s rays deflecting gave the crust and expectation
And
now the last is due to fall, pleasing most but not quite all.
Blackened gritty lungs resist the scalpel blade of deft resection
Bodies born with such perfection stain the earth, Woodbank’s
detention.
Dulce
et decorum est…
Hanlin knew still drew the best but
Down
the pit on bended knee Arbeit did not macht him free
It
was in the word that he found solace, dreams, redemption and life’s
promise
Steinbeck’s praise and liberation followed by deterioration.
Children come and old friends go, taking with them what they know
Life
turns the page to write anew, we walk the streets where once we
grew.
So,
shiny new Armadale at its periphery and by the station
Remember those who built the nation.
John Wells,
2012 |
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