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Home > World Tour > Scotland > Poetry & Poets > A Border Lilt
A Border Lilt Poem
by James Brown Selkirk
Leeze
me on the border,
leeze me on the land,
known by every nation,
where freedom takes her stand.
Wherever
ye may wander,
whatever be your lot,
in earth's remotest corner,
ye'll find the Border Scot.
His
record is unbroken,
a' the world avers,
their names are on the empire,
oor Elliot's, Scott's and Kerr's.
History
canna mate them,
read her pages through,
Yarrows dauntless outlaw,
Ettrick's bold Buccleuch.
On
the path of glory,
in the battle's brunt,
ever the same story,
Border to the front.
Iron
wills that name can turn,
hearts that canna yield,
victory at Otterburn,
death at Flodden field.
A
rouse for Hawick callants,
they well deserve a cheer,
and let nae border man forget,
the slogan ' Jethart's here'.
A
word for guid auld Selkirk,
her royal hills amang,
her story's set to music,
the lilt Jean Elliot sang.
For
yet the thought o't harrows,
while memory endures,
a curse on Surrey's arrows,
that sped oor forest flo'ers.
Fu'
weel I trow that Selkirk,
can never be forgot,
her fate her sang her shirra,
immortal Walter Scott.
The
pleisure that is Peebles,
the beauty that is Tweed,
the man that can dispute them,
he's wrang aboot the heid.
I've
seen the yellow tiber,
hard by St Pete's dome,
come flashing from her hoary heights,
to wash the walls of Rome.
The
Rhine, the Rhone the Danube,
their grandeur weel beseems,
to me they want the sweetness,
o' oor bonnie Border streams.
Gi'e
me the warbling water,
that through the meadow rins,
and let me hear the lintie's sang,
amang the golden whins.
Where
Veitch'e honest heart was sent,
on his beloved Tweed,
wi' Riddell singin' 'Scotland yet',
'up at Teviothead.
Poor
Leyden suffered death's eclipse,
upon a foreign strand,
the words upon his dying lips,
were o' the Borderland.
The
Ettrick shepherds fairy lore,
his sangs o' pawky glee,
where near him lies the deathless store,
o' Yarrow's glamourie.
And
o! forget them never,
the ballad minstrel host,
their songs shall live forever,
although their names be lost.
The
Border through there's not a stream,
their hills and howes among,
unhaunted by the poets dream,
unhallowed by his sang.
Songs
made in that high fashion,
moulded to endure,
in love's immortal matrix,
to keep the world pure.
Though
foreign sangs we'll no debar,
that's not to say I ween,
that we forget 'young Lochinvar',
or 'Jock o' Hazeldean'.
Na
na! let ilk ane hand his ain,
the sangs his faither sang,
and let na coward loon disdain,
the dear auld mother tongue.
'A
wee bird cam' ' my heart is sair',
'my Jamie lo'ed me weel',
'oor ain folk' and a hundred mair,
would move a heart o' steel.
They're
written in a sacred scroll,
they're dear to me and you,
wi' Border song my very soul,
is soakit through and through.
There's
scarce within your boundary,
a fit I dinna ken,
the triple forkit Eildons,
the quiet Rhymers Glen.
The
Tweed has mony a quiet path,
where you may tak your drearie,
it by yoursel' just let me tell,
that some o' them are eerie.
Where
she taks in the Poswail burn,
Tweed shudders to the deep,
wi' stories frae that under world,
where Merlin lies asleep.
And
if ye gang through Leader Haughs,
alane beneath the moon,
beware the spell that ance befell,
the speer of Ereildoune.
And
gin ye walk by Huntly Burn,
just reek this wierd o' me,
tak care ye dinna kiss a witch,
under the Eildon tree.
But
Tweed has mony a bonnie dell,
her tribute streams amang,
the country's sae delectable,
ye canna weel gae wrang.
Wherever
Border river runs,
and honest men survive,
long may she breed her hardy sons,
to keep her fame alive.
Then
leeze me on the Border,
leeze me on the land,
known in every nation,
where freedom makes a stand.
To
praise the race that bore us,
let each ane lend a hand,
and swell the hearty chorus,
god bless the Borderland.
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