“The Plewin’ Match” by Henry Bell Cross (1828-1888) (DORIC VERSE)

 

“The Plewin’ Match” by Henry Bell Cross

Ploughing Matches were good sport during the winter months of November – January in the 19th century –early 20th century.

The horse ploughs, driven by big strong fellas with brave horses.

This poem by Henry Bell Cross (1828-1888), our great great grandfather captures the muse and mood of one of the local ploughing matches at Gartocharn, Kilmaronock, Loch Lomond, in the 1880s.

It is written in the Doric, the language of the old Scots.

Weel din oor Harry! - Posted by William Cross, FSA Scot

“The Plewin’ Match” by Henry Bell Cross

"Enclosed sir, ye’ll find a sketch

Aboot oor annual plewin’ match—

What time the lads cam’ tae the scratch;

What time they ended;

Wha did the lucky prizes catch;

Wha’ recommended.

At daybreak, on Badshallach fiel’,

Assemb’d mony a sturdy chiel;

Tae try the temper o’ their steel,

They were inclin’d;

An’ gie the furr a bonnie tweel,

A’ had a mind.

Awa’ they go—the daffodilly

Is pu’d by Jocky frae the hillie;

At plewin’ he’s nae burn-the-gullie,

Gude faith, I trew;

He ranks close on oor champion Billie,

Ahint the plew.

But Jamie Bilsland o’ the Spittle,

Wi’ sock an’ cooter like a whittle

Display’d fu weel the pithy mettle

That he possest;

The jury did the verdict settle—

The second best.

Wee Tammy, neist, frae aul’ Shannachle,

Cam’ up the brae wi’ fearful sprachle,

An’ put-the-Peter wi’ his bachle

Weel on the yird;

Richt proodly manag’d he tae wachle

In rank the third.

A stalwart loon o’ twa Scotch ell

Frae yon wee fairm abune the dell,

Whiles got the first, and whiles the mell,

In days a’ yore—

His hammer dirlt on the bell,

One, two, three, four.

Brave Willie, doon frae mang the heather,

Wi’ sinews strain’d like thongs a’ leather,

At number five they tied his tether—

A sair diminish;

Butt in his bonnet stuck a feather

For style o’ finish.

Wee Airchie Mac’, frac Ledrish Braes

Whaur grow the hazel nuts and slaes,

Divested a’ his plaidin’ claes,

Gaed ’maist aglee;

But ranket in amang his faes

At twa times three.

A sturdy chiel, frae En’rick Watter,

Determin’d he wad end the matter;

He rais’d his gun the fort to batter,

An’ drew the trigger,

When, lo! his chairge did only shatter

The seeven figger!

A stumpy youth, wi’ easy jog—

His guide a weel-train’d pedagogue—

Ran up his vessel thro’ the fog,

An’ wan the siller;

The last ane entered in the log

Was young Rab Miller.

Then aff tae Gartocharn Inn,

An’ gust their gabs wi’ thick an’ thin,

’Mid lood applause, sangs, toasts, an’ din,

The time it shiftet;

Inspir’d wi’ whisky, rum, an gin,

At twal they liftet."

The ploughing image is for illustration only.

FOR MORE POEMS BY HENRY BELL CROSS EMAIL WILLIAM CROSS, HIS GREAT GREAT GRANDSON

williecross@aol.com