Tears for a Tinker (13 page)
Read Tears for a Tinker Online
Authors: Jess Smith
There were plenty of lads who, all the worse for a heavy night’s drinking, found themselves sat in Crieff cottage hospital dreading a lecture from a local doctor. Worse still was the
prospect of getting home to the wife, sporting another stitched head-wound and taking a tongue-lashing. It was Mamie they wanted to see, because never a lecture or a dressing-down or any other kind
of warning about the evil drink did she administer. She would simply ask, while cleaning and bandaging, ‘How is them weans o’ yours, lad? Are you still working with so and so?’
Gentle words from a dear lady, who knew her patient was punishing himself inwardly. Little did she realise it was her good nature that made him feel shame and remorse.
I have known Mamie for over thirty years, and to this day I’ve never heard her speak down to a living soul. Her couthy ways were inherited from Keith, and not only did he love his
neighbours, but he made sure all the bairns living around Glenartney got to school on time. He owned and maintained the school taxi. His poem about this ‘school taxi’ speaks for
itself.
THE AULD SCHULE CAR
(Sing it to the tune of ‘Where the praties grow’)
There’s folk who like to travel,
And some foreign lands tae see,
Like sunny Spain or Italy,
Or even gay Capri.
But me I like the hameland,
So I dinna travel far,
I go driving up Glenartney,
Wi’ ma auld schule car.
I have a wheen o’ laddies,
Who are starting on life’s road.
Wi’ singin and wi’ laughter,
Man, they mak a cheery load.
I join them in the chorus,
For I’m just as young they are,
When I’m drivin up Glenartney
Wi’ ma auld schule car.
There’s Billy an there’s Bertie,
And Sandy one and two,
Wi’ Stewart an wi’ Jackie,
They complete the merry crew.
They sing a cornkister
Just as well as any star,
When we’re driving up Glenartney
In the auld schule car.
I’ve got another laddie,
But like me he’s left the schule,
We’ve made him leading tenor
Just tae earn his milk and meal.
He leads us in the singing,
And he keeps us up tae par,
When we’re driving up Glenartney,
In the auld schule car.
The cuckoo in the season
Gi’es a call as we pass by,
The old cock grouse, he lifts his head,
An’ winks a beady eye.
An’ whispers tae his sittin’ hen,
‘Jist bide ye whaur ye are,
For ye ken its jist McPherson
Wi’ his auld schule car.’
We dinna hae the golden sands,
Nor yet the sunny days,
But bonnie is the heather
Growing round Dalclathic Braes.
We see the winter shadows
On the snowclad Uam Var,
When we’re driving up Glenartney
In the auld schule car.
We see the bonnie rowan trees,
Their flowers the summer’s pride,
And then the scarlet berries come,
And deck the countryside.
Ye get a great contentment,
And a pleasure nane can mar,
When we’re driving up Glenartney
In the auld schule car.
I’ve seen the glen in a’ its moods,
In sunshine and in snow.
I’ve seen it at its brightest
When the autumn colours glow.
I turn quite sentimental,
Till a pothole gi’es a jar,
Then I ken I’m in Glenartney
Wi’ ma auld schule car.
There’s time when death’s dark shadow
Haunts that lonely, lovely glen,
An’ Grewer whispers tae his wife,
‘We’ve lost anither hen.
It wisnae Fisher Ferguson,
Nor Pate frae Tighnablair,
It maun hae been McPherson
Wi’ his auld schule car.’
So if you’re bowed wi’ trouble,
An’ your sky seems dull an’ grey,
If you think that fickle fortune’s
Turned her head the other way,
Should you want to lose your sorrows
(An’ be sure there’s thousands waur),
Just come driving up Glenartney
In ma auld schule car.
My laddies a’ hae left me,
Father Time has passed along,
I hope they face life’s battles
Wi’ the same auld cheery song,
As echoed round the hill tops
‘Stron-e-moul tae Uam Var,’
When we sang gaun up Glenartney
In the auld schule car.
If you have read
Jessie’s Journey
, my first book, you will recall John Gilbert, that fine gent who gave me permission to use his grandfather’s moving poem ‘The
Tinker’s Grave’. I knew little about him at that time. I simply read the verses, researched who it was that penned them, and discovered I had to ask permission from his grandson.
The poet lived in Perthshire, ran a fruit and veg. shop in Comrie, and was gifted, as we all now know, with the art of beautiful verse. Since
Jessie’s Journey
, his grandson has very
kindly given me the following information about the poem:
‘One evening towards the end of the Napoleonic Wars, a young man, Peter MacEwan by name, was watching for smugglers in the woods of Strath Bran. He saw no smugglers; instead he saw a
strange sight, the burial of an old tinker. When Peter MacEwan was an old man he described the scene to my grandfather when he was a young boy.
Each autumn a group of tinkers were in the habit of camping near my Grandfather’s home. On one occasion he noticed that one of their numbers was missing and naturally asked where he was.
“We left him sleeping ’tween the licht and the dark,” was the mysterious reply.
That incident in Strath Bran and that reply inspired my Grandfather to write the poem.’
Travelling tinkers didn’t always bury their dead without marking the spot. Up until the reign of Henry VIII they were renowned for their elaborate way of sending loved ones into heaven
with precious belongings and lots more. Stones were erected over them and it was apparent what lay beneath the earth. Well, the king became obsessed with gypsies, whom he believed were carriers of
the plague. It was for this reason he decreed that burials of these ‘verminous creatures’ be halted, and the remains duly dug up and burned. Certain undesirables looked upon this duty
as a trade, because when remains were brought to court a small payment was paid to the grave-robber. From then on, English gypsies burned their deceased and all they owned.
Like wildfire the king’s ruling spread to Scotland, and soon burials were carried out under a cloak of secrecy and darkness. No sign was left to signify that a dear one lay sleeping
beneath the soil. The only witnesses were kin, and no stranger was allowed anywhere near.
Being from travelling folk, this was a story repeated many times to me as a bairn. If you don’t mind I’d love to repeat John Gilbert’s beautiful poem for you, just in case it
has passed you by.
THE TINKER’S GRAVE
In the drowsie sound o’ a murmurin burn
Far ben in the hert o’ a boskie glen,
There they left the tinker sleepin,
But whaur? There’s nane but the tinkers ken.
Was it close tae the silvery stream o’ the Earn
Or set by the Ruchill’s rockie bed?
The fairies that dance on the Leadnaig’s banks,
Do they lull his sleep wi’ their airy tread?
His bed was lined wi’ the saft green mosses,
His shroud was the tent he had sleepit in.
His dirge was the tune o’ that wimplin burnie
Played on the sough o’ the saft west wind.
Owre him they made the tinker ritual,
They merched roond the grave an they keepit time,
Chatterin aye wi’ a mystic mutter
Some cryptic words in a queer auld rhyme.
The lovelorn merl there in the lerac,
Singin his mate tae sleep fur the nicht,
Soondit the last post owre the tinker,
Full and clear in the fadin licht.
Never a mound did they raise abune him,
Nor chiseled a stane fer his grave tae mark
That unkent spot in the phantom country,
That lies merched in twixt the licht an the dark.
There in the land o’ mellowin gloamin
Whaur the evenin shadows begin tae fa’,
Whaur the nicht comes quietly creepin forrit,
An the day goes gently wastin awa.
In the drowsie soond o’ that murmurin burnie,
Far ben in the hert’ that bowskie glen,
There they left the tinker sleepin—
Whaur? There’s nane but the tinkers ken.
That beautiful picture in verse, written in the old Perthshire tongue, never fails to bring a tear to my eye. However moving it is, my favourite poem of all that has been
written is ‘The Last o’ the Tinklers’ by Violet Jacob. Honest, I challenge the sturdiest heart among you to read it and not to feel a tiny tear welling at the corner of your
eye.
THE LAST O’ THE TINKLERS
Lay me in yon place, lad,
The gloamin’s thick wi’ nicht;
Ah canna see yer face, lad
Fer ma een’s no richt.
But its ower late fur leein,
Fer ah ken fine ah’m deein,
Like an auld craw fleein,
Tae the last o’ the light.
The kye gan tae the byre, lad,
The sheep tae the fauld,
Ye’ll mak a spunk o’ fire, lad,
Fer ma hert’s growin cauld;
And whaur the trees are meetin,
There’s a sound like waters beatin,
An the birds seem near tae greetin
That was aye singin bauld.
There’s just the tent tae leave, lad,
Ah’ve gaithered little gear,
There’s just yersel’ tae grieve, lad,
An the auld dug lyin here;
But when the morn comes creepin
And the waukin birds are cheepin,
Ye’ll find me lyin sleepin,
As I’ve slept saxty year.
Ye’ll rise tae meet the sun, lad,
An baith be trevellin west,
But me that’s auld an done, lad,
Ah’ll bide an’ take ma rest;
For the grey heed is bendin
And this auld shoe needs mendin,
But the trevellin’s near its endin
An’ the endin’s aye the best.
Is that not the saddest poem? It is in my world. Say it aloud to anyone who might listen, it sounds as bonny as it reads.
14
ENEMY AT THE DOOR
T
alking about worlds, this tale we’re about to share deals with a certain group of travellers living in their own world—Glen Lyon.
We’ll drift on down there now. It’s 1944 and Daisy is beside herself with worry.
‘Donald, ma man, where dae ye think yon Germans are the day?’
Donald grasped the neck of the struggling cock pheasant between the two middle fingers of his right hand and pulled, threw the jerking bird at her feet. He said, ‘Daisy, I’ll tell ye
till I’m sick o’ telling ye; the Germans dinna come this far south.’
‘Better no leave ma washing hingin ower the dyke just in case, though.’ Pushing her bouncing breasts up with clasped hands she went on, much to the annoyance of a long-suffering
husband, ‘Minnie Robertson said she’d heard—and by god, thon woman is as honest as the lang day—that a troop o’ the buggers were seen in aboot Kingussie. Donald, my
heart is feart, ’cause you ken that’s no far awa frae us here in Glen Lyon.’
Poor Donald, ever since a lone tramp had brought news that Britain was at war with Germany, his wife hadn’t given a minute’s piece to his wind-battered ears. He put some more sticks
onto the low burning fire, lifted a big black kettle and wandered off to fill it at a fast-flowing burn near their camp site. Her shrill tones pierced through his head. ‘Aye, dinna answer
me—go on, walk away, an’ thon buggers nae mair than six miles frae my tent door.’
Wearily he turned and said, ‘Kingussie is mair than six mile away lassie, I’d say nearer sixty.’