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THE PLOUGHMAN POET
[Sands of Time by Lorne C Loney, 1964]
‘Neath shading and greenwood bough
The Ploughman’s team doth stand,
But where to find the ploughman
For he seemth not at hand?
While echoing down the valley
Though it soundth far away,
There comes a faint but earnest call
At the waning of the day.
Oh! Robbie come ta supper lad
For it canna’ longer wait,
Now ye’ve ploughed enough the red-soil
And the hour is getting late,
But lying on the river bank
With foot in cooling stream
We find the weary ploughman
Where he’s ever prone to dream.
For he’s watching as the white clouds
Drift on a lazy sky,
And the verse that forms within his mind
Through pen will never die,
With beauteous thought, his mind hath caught
The gladness born of May,
For dawning love hath filled his soul
To form a poet’s lay.
There are meetings in the twi-light
Along the River Ayr,
For Robbie and his Jeannie
Have their trysting places there…
But echoing down the valley
And out across the glade,
There comes a faint and loving call
The woodlands to invade.
Oh! Robbie come to supper lad
For it canna’ longer wait,
Now ye’ve ploughed enough the red-soil
And the hour is getting late
Dedicated to the memory of Robert Burns and all his fellow Scotsmen throughout the world.
ON ROBERT BURNS
There’s a hush in the air of Ballachmyle woods
Near the banks of the river Ayr,
See the fisherman pause as he whiffs on his pipe
For he senses a presence there.
With a whispering breeze, comes a sigh in the trees
And it seems of a past refrain,
For two lovers of old haunt the woodland path
To stroll through the green-fern again.
“Oh! Dear Robbie Burns, can ye catch me the noo
As I hide ‘neath the greenwood tree?’
“Oh! Sweet Jeannie Armour, I’ll find ye for sure
Cause ye niver can hide fra’ me”…
“Oh! Robbie, dear Robbie, the years have sped by”
“Whatever awa’ can ye be?”
“Oh! Sweet Jeannie Armour, ye’ll be wi’ me soon
And ‘twill be forever ye’ll see
There’s a sunset glow on the river of Ayr
Reflecting the willows of gold
And ‘twas here they went wandering arm in arm,
On that fern-strewn path of old.
There’s a whispering sigh in the woods near Mauchline
Oh! fisherman hark to the sound,
For two lovers of yore haunt the woodland path
And ‘tis here their story is found.
Though the years have been many and far between
Since she hid ‘neath the greenwood tree,
There’s a whispering sound of a song in the birch
And there’s love in it’s melody.
“Oh! Robbie, dear Robbie, where are ye the noo?
“A’ the ache in my heart is for thee,’
Oh! sweet Jeannie Armour, ye’ll be wi me soon
And ‘twill be forever ye’ll see.
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