Scottish World War I Poetry #3 The Soldier’s Cairn

The Soldiers’ Cairn

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Gie me a hill wi’ the heather on’t,
An’ a reid sun drappin’ doon,
Or the mists o’ the mornin’ risin’ saft
Wi’ the reek owre a wee grey toon.
Gie me a howe by the lang Glen road,
For it’s there ‘mang the whin and fern
D’ye mind on’t, Will? Are ye hearin’, Dod?
That we’re biggin’ the Soldiers’ Cairn.

Far awa’ is the Flanders land
Wi’ fremmit France atween,
But mony a howe o’ them baith the day
Has a hap o’ the Gordon green.
It’s them we kent that’s lyin’ there,
An’ it’s nae wi’ stane or airn
But wi’ brakin’ herts, an’ mem’ries sair,
That we’re biggin’ the Soldiers’ Cairn.

Doon, laich doon the Dullan sings—
An’ I ken o’ an aul’ sauch tree,
Where a wee loon’s wahnie’s hingin’ yet
That’s dead in Picardy;
An’ ilka win’ fae the Conval’s broo
Bends aye the buss o’ ern,
Where aince he futtled a name that noo
I’ll read on the Soldiers’ Cairn.

Oh! build it fine and build it fair,
Till it leaps to the moorland sky —
More, more than death is symbolled there,
Than tears or triumphs by.
There’s the Dream Divine of a starward way
Our laggard feet would learn—
It’s a new earth’s corner-stone we’d lay
As we fashion the Soldiers’ Cairn.

Lads in your plaidies lyin’ still
In lands we’ll never see,
This lanely cairn on a hameland hill
Is a’ that oor love can dee;
An’ fine an’ braw we’ll mak’ it a’,
But oh, my Bairn, my Bairn,
It’s a cradle’s croon that’II aye blaw doon
To me fae the Soldiers’ Cairn.

(Mary Symon (1863 – 1938) from Dufftown)

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