Songs, Poems and Prose about the Vale of Leven

Over the last couple of hundred years we have had a few songs, poems and prose written about the Vale of Leven. Some of the more popular of these are listed below. We would very much welcome any more contributions. If you have any old written material about the Vale please forward it to us and we will include it on this page.


The novel, "A Lass of Lennox" was written by James Strang probably sometime in the 1870s and published in 1899. The setting is a fictional place called "The Vale of Lennox". Most of you will recognize the setting as a thinly disguised Vale of Leven. For those times it was slightly salacious and racy and it is an interesting addition to the website so we decided to make it available for Kindle users.

We have converted these as free downloads to PDF, Epub format for your Kindle and the Mobi Version for PDAs and Smartphones. If you use these devices you should know which format you require.

A Lass of Lennox

PDF Version >

Kindle Version >

Mobi Version >

See this link for Amazon Kindle instructions that may help you.


The Old Vale and its Memories is a book that is well known locally. It was published away back in 1927. Two years later The Epilogue to the Old Vale and  its Memories was published.

Once again we have converted these as free downloads to PDF, Epub format for your Kindle and the Mobi Version for PDAs and Smartphones.

The Old Vale and its Memories

PDF Version >

Kindle Version >

Mobi Version >

The Epilogue to the Old Vale and its Memories

PDF Version >

Kindle Version >

Mobi Version >


Hugh Caldwell's Poetry (Includes download of the text of his book)
Hugh Caldwell was a local poet who died in 1903. His work, mostly written about local places and events, is humble, observant and humourous. It is not celebrated in this area as it should be because it does convey an honest appreciation of what life was like in the Vale of Leven in the late 1800s.

No one would claim that Caldwell's poetry reached the standard of Robert Burns' works but Caldwell was evidently an admirer of Burns and his influence can be seen in lots of his work. His poem "I Canna get a lad" is a good example of his humourous work.

I CANNA GET A LAD

I'm a big, stoot, strappin' hizzie, on the verge o' twenty-three;
I'm as modest, neat, and tidy as a country girl could be;
My hame has mony comforts, yet my heart is seldom glad,
And the cause o' a' my sorrow is I canna get a lad.

I can wash, knit, darn, and bake, patch claes and scrub a flair;
Cook a dizen different dishes for a nobleman and mair;
Work the best ten-fingered dochter ever Scottish mither had,
And I dinna ken the reason that I shouldna get a lad.

Big Peggy roun' the corner, "Black Fanny" up the stair,
And soor‑faced Sally Sorkins wi' the ginger-coloured hair,
And gabblin' Jenny Jenkins, they're everything that's bad,
Yet I am quate and dacent, and I canna get a lad.

There's lang, lean Tibby Fowler, wha everybody kens,
Her faither some sax years sin' gat jile for stealin' hens;
She's ugly and untidy, and ever puirly clad,
Yet she's haen a dizen offers, and I canna get a lad.

Auld "teethless Jean," the widdy, wi' the funny goggle e'e,
Has buried twa braw husbands, and intends to bury three;
She'll sune wed Johnny Maurley—puir sowl! he must be mad
To coort yon auld dune limmer, and me canna get a lad.

If only "Crookit Chairlie" or bashfu' John M'Nee
Wad mak' a sweet proposal to a thrifty lass like me,
I'd brichten up his hoosie, and never mak' him sad,
For the dreary garret waits me if I canna get a lad.

View Caldwell's Works >


 

Katherine Drain's poetry is also an accurate reflection of life in the Vale of Leven at the turn of the 19th Century.

FESTINA-LENTE.

Dear, gentle reader, I implore thee,
When I shall place my book before thee—
            Look not with scorn,
But with thy sweetest smile advise me,
And do not coldly criticise me—
            Thou art but born.

Dame Nature from her lofty station
Can shower the gifts, while education,
            She may refuse it.
But the charm, for poetry hath endeared me,
And to keep the life in one who reared me
            I freely choose it.

Some lift the pen for pleasure only,
While I, in hours so sad find lonely,
            My soul doth pour.
And when in bed I should be sleeping,
Line after line, I sit here keeping
            The wolf from the door.

Then kindly read my simple story,
Free from fiction’s tales of glory
            Or dreadful crimes,
And this heart great joy shall bound in
Should you have any merit found in
            Loch Lomond Rhymes.

Katherine Drain 1902

We are once again indebted to Graham Lappin for providing the text of both of the above books. Graham is a collector of all things Vale of Leven and a regular contributor of content to this website.

In years of research Graham also tracked down some other local poets. The most notable of these is perhaps William Harriston who offered an insight into the Vale and its circumstances in the early nineteenth century in his works William Harriston was born in Glasgow around 1780.  As a child he was schooled and was an avid reader but his father became ill and in the reduced family circumstances, aged nine, he was apprenticed to a weaver who grudged even the day off to attend his father’s funeral. 

At fourteen, he became a journeyman and moved to Strathblane where he met and married his wife Margaret M‘Gregor.  About this time war was declared on France.  Most likely he joined the Dumbarton Fencibles raised by Lord Stonefield in 1794 in response to, and with them served a total of eight years in Ireland, being gone, in the first instance for six years with no home leave! 

After the peace of Amiens in 1802, the Dumbarton Fencibles were disbanded and he was able to resume his work as a weaver.  But the reductions in trade with the Continent during Napoleon’s campaigns and blockade of the Netherlands and the resultant slump in wages in the weaving trade around 1808 forced him to seek employment as a fisherman on the Leven. DOWNLOAD >

Other works that Graham has collected that can be downloaded here are from Duncan Mathieson, James McNab Jnr, Duncan Ferguson and "TD". Some of these were sourced from old newspapers of the time available in Dumbarton Library.

 


A fellow member of the Alexandria Burns Club, Duncan McLean, has also written some local poetry. Some of this appears on this page and one poem is a lament about the Old Vale and the ruinous damage inflicted on Alexandria by the planning authorities back in the 1970s. Duncan calls this poem the "Wail o' the Vale".

The Wail o’ the Vale

(LISTEN)

As I look roon aboot me
an’ see what they have done,
They’ve torn the beauty fae ye
And created ye a slum,
No’ any Cosy Corner, Nae Bank,
Nae Co-op, nae Pawn,
McKim and Kerr and Duffy,
And Don di Felice a' gone.

Victoria and Albert, Steven, Mitchell, John,
Alexander, some say Craft street,
Noo where can we a' staun?
Matha Thompson’s, Kelly’s, Jack’s, McNaughton’s tae,
The Fountain Bar, McLeran’s and Boardman’s Grapes, away.

Susanna hud a school o’ fame,
The Main Street it hud wan the same,
The gas works hud its lights pit oot,
And the auld Vale laundry’s doon tae soot,
The auld Hibs hall in Random Street,
Where many a yin danced wi happy feet,
It’s nae longer staunin’ there,
And come tae that it’s aw laid bare.

John Angus wis the baker, who made the guid tea-bread.
McLetchie wis the man who cam tae fetch ye when ye deid.
And there’s no anither Melly if yer lookin fur a feed.

Matha Haggerty, a plumber, Kinloch wis wan an aw,
Their places staun nae longer,
They too have hud tae fa’,
Wull Tyler wis the Jiner, doon Tooraladdie lane,
The Shincut oot o’ Bridge Street,
Intae Bank Street, near the train.

Nae Donald Hunter, Cannon or Co-operative coal,
And a' that’s left o’ where they were,
Is jist a great big hole.
Johnnie Bain’s garage, Sarah White’s wee shop,
Anither bit o’ Bridge Street that’s hud an awfy knock.

No any midnight grocer
Nae fruiter man named Dan,
No any Bunny Baxter, anither barber man,
Nae Granny Smith, Nae Mrs Moss,
And Riddy Broonin he’s a loss.

Nae Burgess and Buchanan,
Who collected aw the rents,
And if ye didny pey them,
Then ye hud tae pitch a tent,
Doon alang the Leven side on the Cricket park,
Or else it wis a flittin’ soon efter it wis dark.

Cherly Smith, the Slater
hud a place in Mitchell Street,
Bob Martin wis his neebor
jist alang the same wee street,
He worked in his auld smiddy
and he made an awfy din,
But some aulder yins they tell me
it belanged tae Jock McGinn.

Nae Argyll or Millburn Terrace,
It’s enough tae make ye greet,
In that wan in the Main Street,
That’s where Dick man did yer feet,
And if ye still think ye need him,
tae gi’e yer feet a treat,
Then ye’ll get him no faur fae me,
Alang in Middleton Street.

John Glen’s in Castle Danger,
Wi’ pumps an’ paraffin ile,
He takes ye up the hill noo, aw dressed in tails and tile,
He’s worth it, every penny, fur dae’in it in style,
He’ll tak’ ye our tae Cardross but no fur wulks or tea,
He’ll huv ye done well fired, and awfy deid ye’ll be.

Noo some will likely question aw av hud tae say,
But this wis how it wis laid oot, in aboot ma day,
But when the change is completed and the beauty’s aw restored,
Then we will hiv whit we can call,
The beautiful Vale once more.

Noo there’s plenty a could write aboot.
If a took time tae think,
For a hiv plenty paper and av plenty pen and ink,
But if you don’t mind I’ll jist sit doon and hae anither drink!

Duncan McLean

 

BEAUTIFUL VALE OF THE LEVEN

1. Oh where is the land that can boast aught so fair,
As the Queen of Scotch Lakes midst the pure mountain air,
‘Tis not the Rhine Valley that any could win
To the beautiful scenes of the Vale of the Leven

Chorus

Beautiful Vale, Beautiful Vale
Beautiful Vale of the Leven

2. It is sheltered all round from the wild storm and gale
While the old Castle Rock point far up the Vale
Ben Lomond in friendship nods back to the Clyde
And the hills of Carman shade its western side

3. I have viewed it in sunshine, I have viewed it in shade
I have viewed it in summer with blossom arrayed
I have seen it in winter, when clad o’er wi’ snow
But to me it is lovely in mid’st of them a’

4. Its sons that are scatter’d far over the earth
Oft remember the Vale that at first gave them birth
And the kind friends they left when they bade it adieu
Oft they long to look back jsut to see it a-new

5. When the cares and the toils of this life are near o’er
And my bark is nearing yon beautiful shore
My last wish is this, that to me it be given
To be laid to my rest in the Vale of the Leven

Words and Music by James Shanks, Farmer Ladyton Farm, Bonhill

< Download the Music >

NOTE: As you can see on the song-sheet the music as well as the words is attributed to James Shanks of Ladyton Farm, Bonhill. That does a disservice to John B MacKenzie which this note corrects. MacKenzie started out as a teacher at Main Street School, Alexandria under James Mushet, and became Mushet's son-in-law before going on to be a Church of Scotland minister in Polmont. John Neill in his biographical sketch of James Mushet in "Records and Reminiscences of Bonhill Parish" said of Mackenzie "Besides being a scholar, Mr McKenzie was a very capable musician and teacher of music......Mr Mackenzie collaborated with Mr James Shanks in composing the music for that popular and lovely song "Beautiful Vale of the Leven."

Vale historian Allan McLean, who corrected some of the entries to Temple & Ferguson's "The Old Vale and its Memories", produced a brief history of Vale FC and who in his day was regarded as the Vale historian of record, goes further than "collaborates". In a letter to the Lennox Herald on 20th January 1934 McLean writes that the words for Beautiful Vale were written by James Shanks, and the music was written by John Mackenzie "later married to Mary Mushet". It was sung in the Public Hall for the first time on 25th April 1884 by Miss Nixon. She had to sing it 3 times for the delighted audience.

Given that Shanks wrote other poems and put words to other tunes such as Scots Wha Hae, the fairest description of the creation of Beautiful Vale is that they both collaborated on the song, with Shanks writing the words and MacKenzie writing the music.

THE BRAES O’ BONULL (Bonhill)

Oh weel dae I mind o’ ma earlier days
When mony’s a time I climbed the high braes.
A’ sat by the burnie that’s aye runnin still,
The wee burn that runs doon the braes o’ Bonull

[CHORUS: The braes o’Bonull are aye clad wi’ weans
Some pullin daisies and ithers chippin stanes,
The crying o’ the cuckoo and the roarin’ o’ the bull
And you’ll aye be contented on the braes o’ Bonull]

If ye want tae walk yer lass, I’ll tell you whaur tae gang,
Just go up the Slunger and as ye go alang
Ask her there to be your wife and kiss her at her will
And then gie her a dauner o’er the braes o’ Bonull.
CHORUS
Noo I’m getting auld and I’m sorry for to say,
My legs they are frail and my hair is turning gray
Noo I sit by the door on my three legit still
And watch the bairnies playing on the braes o’ Bonull
CHORUS
Noo I maun away, I hae bide’t rather lang,
And I hope you’re a’ content wi’ my wee bit humble sang,
But if we ever meet again and hae another gill
We’ll drink success to the days we spent on the braes o’ Bonull

Words and Music Unknown

Braes o' Bonhill

There was an alternative Braes o' Bonhill sung to a different tune. This was written by James Shanks (who also wrote "Beautiful Vale"). It was published in the Dumbarton Herald in 1883.

The summer has ended ’midst storm, sleet, and rain,
The harvest, though late, has been gathered again;
Now water in torrents runs down each mountain rill,
But there’s cosie nooks and glens ’mang the braes o’ Bonhill.
            Chorus—
The braes o’ Bonhill, the braes o’ Bonhill,
There’s cosie nooks and glens ’mang the braes o’ Bonhill.

How many have rambled in life’s flowery morn,
And courted their lassie ’neath some shady thorn;
And wo’ed, won, and wed her, and cross’d life’s hill,
And now sleep at the foot o’ the braes o’ Bonhill.

Her sons far have wandered on many a foreign soil,
In search of Dame Fortune and her fickle smile;
Oft some old Scottish ditty has made their heart thrill,
And brought friends and hame to mind ’mang the braes o’ Bonhill.

Oh, who has not scrambled up the quarry brae,
To visit the Pappart on some sunny day;
And rove amang the heather wi’ heart and good will,
And viewed famed Lochlomond from the braes o’ Bonhill.

Though fate has decreed we must oft part to roam,
Far over the wide ocean from dear friends and home;
Yet the scenes of our childhood will oft our heart fill,
And the happy days we spent on the braes o’ Bonhill.

Long in peace may the monuments of trade dot the Vale,
While the fair winding Leven flows on through the dale;
May the loves and the friendships be faithful and still,
As they were in days that are past on the braes o’ Bonhill.

James Shanks
Dumbarton Herald, June, 1883.

This version of the "Braes" was sung to the tune of "Sae will we yet", a traditional Scottish tune. You can here the music as the Corries sing their version of "Sae will we yet" here, http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SeSL2WkXT-Y

 

THE VALLEY WHERE THE LEVEN FLOWS

Download 1
Download 2

Words and Music by Archibald McFarlane


 

A SPRIG O' PURPLE HEATHER

Download

Words and Music Unknown


 

LASS OF LEVENVALE

Download 1
Download 2

Words by Ross Crawford Music by Ian Gourlay


 

QUEEN OF SCOTTISH LAKES

Download 1
Download 2

Words and Music by Archibald McFarlane


 

Prose: A Scottish Scientist Looks at His Keyboard
This is an essay that is not about the Vale per se but it was written by someone from the Vale, Dr Graeme R. A. Wyllie, Laboratory coordinator, Department of Chemistry, Concordia College Minnesota.

Graeme's father Bob told me about this one evening in the bowling club. Graeme was asked to contribute to a project at Concordia College called "Djembe", which means “all of us come together” in Bamanakan, the language of the Republic of Mali in Africa.

Djembe is "A collaboration of the Office of Intercultural Affairs and the global studies program, the journal features work from students, faculty and staff. The 18 articles focus on everything from pollution in China to what it’s like to be Scottish in America."

Download a PDF copy of Graeme's article here.


 

We received this poem (written by her grandfather Richard Lees) from local woman, Hazel Mills.

"Hi Brian,
Hazel Mills here.  I have come across some of my Papa's poetry - one in particular I thought might be interesting as if refers to some old places around the vale.  My Papa's name was Richard Lees (born 18th July, 1901 at 81 Alexander Street.  Married to Jane Elizabeth Miller.  Had 6 children - Richard, James (my dad), Elizabeth, Heather, Nancy and Irene.  He died on 9th October, 1969 at home in Lansbury Street, Alexandria)."

Memories

We've had songs o' the Highlands,
The Lowlands and Islands.
Songs o' the mountains and songs o' the sea.
But there's one little spot which I think beats the lot.
Its a grand little town and its aye dear tae me.

Its my own town, my home town, the Vale o' the Leven.
And as for its beauty, well seein's believin'.
You can view it in length, on its wonderful span.
Frae the auld Pappert Well or the Hills o' Carman.
Or on midsummer evening should you care just tae dally
And watch the Leven meander its way through the valley.
Its crystal clear waters, how smoothly they glide
Frae yon bonnie banks tae the mooth o' the Clyde.

But time marches on, an' wae it brought changes
The auld toon alters daily, as mans haun rearranges.
New buildings spring up, where the auld used tae be.
They say, where noo stauns the Fountain, there yince stood a tree.
Gone are many guid auld place names, but fond memories linger still
O' Sauchie Ha', the Cannon Row and Burn o' Bonhill,
Sunnyside has vanished and so has Torry Loan.
Parkneuk is long forgotten as weel as Skittey Loan.

Nae mair the young men walk their lass up roond the Rickety Moss.
Or slops quietly doon the Puggy Line for a game at Pitch and Toss.
Nae mair on summer Sunday Morn, Paw, Maw an' a' the weans
Set oot tae hae a picnic up near the Staunin Stanes.
Yet there wis mony a bonnie lassie who wis asked tae name the day
As she walked hame roond the Slunger an' doon the Dummies Brae

The Wee Field and Sparrow Castle hae disappeared frae view,
While the Auld Mill Dam at Jamestown is still remembered by a few.
For when the school bell went at four o'clock
There wis weans on every haun, wi bits saved frae their playpiece
Tae feed "Auld Jock the Swan".

The nicht the works stopped for the holidays at the start o' Glesca Fair,
It wis off tae the Burns Concert tae hae a richt guid terr.
The lassies dressed, a' in their best, the young men spruced up like lords.
Frae far and near they came each year tae exercise their vocal chords.
And when at last the nicht had passed, in laughter, song and story,
Each lad and dame gaed traipsin hame, as dawn broke in a' its glory.

But noo the years are stealin' up on ye, and ye settle by the fire,
Wae yer paper, pipe and slippers and the young yins they enquire
"Where wis the the Slunger Daddy, and where wis Sauchie Ha'?".
Ye whisper "wheesht, gie me peace, awa and ask yer Maw"

And noo, lets congratulate the Cooncil, who hiv laid oot tidy sums
In creatin' braw new housing schemes, and demolishing the slums.
Mair power tae their elbows, may success reward thus zeal
And for yin and a', baith big and sma' a bright and prosperous new Vale.

Note: While written in a different style this poem touches on similar subjects to Duncan McLean's Wail o' the Vale (above). Perhaps because he passed away in 1969 before the Alexandria town centre redevelopment, Richard's poem is a bit more tolerant to the changes that were taking place and he even managed to be complimentary to the local "Cooncil".

Duncan's poem was written quite a few years after Richard had passed away and it was not quite so complimentary since he was able to see the results of the Vale town centre "development".


 

World War 1 Poetry

In a major realignment of the nation’s volunteer forces in 1908, the Dumbartonshire Rifle Volunteers were re-organized as the Ninth Battalion Princess Louise’s Argyll and Sutherland Highlanders, a territorial unit of the regular army.  The battalion was composed of eight companies; Helensburgh (A), Kirkintilloch (B), Dumbarton (C), Milngavie (D), Bonhill and Jamestown (E), Alexandria and Renton (F), Clydebank (G), and Yoker (H). 

At the outbreak of World War I, the Battalion assembled in Dumbarton and on Tuesday, August 11th, left by train for Bedford.  The poetry of this early period of the war reflects the patriotic fervour, urging young men to join-up.  Duncan Mathieson was a strong contributor as also was G.Q. in Canada who hearkens back to the glory days of football in Renton. These poems come from various sources and they can be downloaded as a PDF here.


 

A Quiz for Jeely Eaters

By Andrew Stewart

(Listen)

This is very popular poem - a bit of a local classic that discusses times, places and events gone by. Many more senior Vale people will still remember much of this.

Have you seen the Cannon Raw or passed by Sauchieha'
Have you listened to the word of Gavie Granger?
Did you ever know the thrill o'sledgin fast doon Ritchie Hill?
Have you seen the dunnies doon at Castle Danger?
Have you listened to the lark singin up in Brawley's Park?
Did you ever take stroll up to the "Tank"?

Have you climbed the "Dummies Brae", to the Slunger made your way?
Have you ever fished for troot at Shallowbank?
Did ye ken the "Irish Lawn" - Have you heard the Jimston Baun?
Have you walked up tae the Pappert Well?
Before you were a swimmer did you walk the Pan Lade skimmer?
Have you heard the pealing of the Auld Craft bell?

Have you wondered who could bide in a place called Sunnyside?
Did you ever play up at the "Tank Wids" when a boy?
Did you ever go at all to the Palace or the Hall?
Or did you see Jock Miller in "Rob Roy"?

Have you joukit ower the tin at Millburn tae get in
When Wullie Robb was goalie for the Vale?
Have you spent a summer day jist dookin' up the bay
And come home late wi' some unlikely tale?

Did you walk with expectation up by the Old Plantation
and cross the field toward McLellan's Brae?
With a heart as light as a feather did you stroll among the heather
and rest there at the closing of the day?

Wi' Balloch choc-o-bloc have you walked the old Slip-dock
and felt like Blondin walking o'er the falls?
Did you find it so entrancing, when you went to Sanny's dancin
Doon North Street at the Northern Halls?

Have you heard the ghostly moan as you passed the "Taurry Loan"
Or the spooks at "Sparrow Castle" up Braheid?
Have you seen the Tinker's waddin up forenenst the Mull o' Hadden
Did you ever cross Carman wi' some pieces and a pan
Or walked o'er Stoney Mollan to Ardmore?
Yet you never seemed to tire as you kinneled up the fire
and sampled Caurdross tea doon by the shore?

Did you ever make a stop at Leckie's barber shop
And found auld Bob Scott was in the chair
And heard him pour derision on a "Cooncil withoot vision"
As Tam the barber tried to cut his hair?

Dif you hire a bike frae Taig, or go to Grannie Craig
to buy her Candy Cheuchers in a poke,
Dis you ever go to meet some freens in Wilson Street,
Where the smell o' gas would mak ye choke?

Have you ever heard a turn at a concert up the Burn?
Or seen the "Wumman Hoose" at Dilllichip?
Did you march behind the baun' wi' a wee flag in your haun'
Up Bank Street at the Cooperative trip?

Have you seen the shining brass as the Bowl Carts used to pass
Wi' names like Methven, Mathieson and Lang?
Do you mind o' Paw Gargaro as he pushed his ice cream barrow
And the tunes the wee melodeon man sang?

You'll hae mind o' Lee's Bar, or Doctor Cullen's car
That banged its way around the neighbourhood.
Was there magic in the air when you went to Balloch Fair
And walked the waterside at Fisherwood?

You'll hae mind o' Allan Bayne who delighted every wean
By makin' up wee rhymes aboot their names.
And you'll ken fine who I'm meaning' when I mention Paddy Keenan
And Jeck Rabb the Warden at Linnbrane?

Now if you've answered all of this series o' sentimental queries
And understood my reminiscing tale.
You know your way about and can say without a doubt
You're a Native "Jeely Eater" frae the Vale!

Read the answers to the Jeely Eaters Quiz >

 

Background Information
Vale of Leven PoetSince the above was first published we have received more information about Andrew Stewart, who wrote the Jeely Eater's Quiz. Local woman Linda Houston, now living in Atlanta Georgia, tells us that Andrew Stewart was a good friend of her mum's and that she knew Andrew and his wife Jessie as her "aunt and uncle". Andrew worked in Burroughs, he was from the Vale but lived in Dumbarton for many years after getting married. He and Jessie later settled back in the Vale, first in the Haldane then in Burnbrae.

After he passed away in 1995 aunt Jessie showed Linda a book of his poetry. Sadly she never lived to see his work featured on the Internet but Linda tells us she would have been delighted to know that this was happening. Just this year Linda put a new memorial bench to both of them in the Christie park. This replaces the one one that had been placed there when Andrew passed away.

We are now able to offer a downloadable (PDF) copy of the book. This was compiled from original documents by Jimmy Cameron who was a relative of Andrew. Jimmy now lives in the south. His mother Ella Cameron, who was a local school teacher was Andrew's cousin.

Knowledgable, informative, humourous, sad and entertaining, Andrew's poetry and prose is all of these and well worthy of being included on the Vale of Leven website. Read the taster featured in the right hand column called "Yae Time". I defy anyone to read this without feeling the genuine sadness that Andew conveys with his words.


 

Graham Lappin sent us some more interesting Vale poetry from the 1800's.

Tom Bamford, late of Bonhill in April 1868 wrote.

THE VALE OF LEVEN—PAST AND PRESENT

I reached the trough stane safe and soun’,
And for a short time sat me doon—
But, O, my heart was unco sair
That mornin’ I was sittin’ there.

For weel I mind when a wee thing
My sisters here I used tae bring
Tae get a drink at this trough stane;
But noo I’m sitting here my lane.

We a’ hae parted lang ago;
My parents noo are lying low—
Their race is run, their warfare’s past,
And they have reached their haven at last.

There’s Cowborough’s farm and the High Glen,
The Cordale Loan, where old Cockpen
Contrived tae live sae lang at ease,
But, O, we laddies did him tease.

But from this point my eyes I turn
Tae look upon the auld red burn;
It’s gae much changed since I hae min’—
There’s a new hoose built there since syne.

There’s Ladyton upon the hill,
Aye much aboot the same think still;
The toozie weaver’s noo awa’,
That man that a’ folks did misca.

The cottages are much the same—
At least as far as I hae gane—
McAllan’s, Brock’s, Parker’s an’ a’,
Are much the same when I went awa’.

But what’sthis noo that does appear,
There’s some queer change has been wrought here,
The dyke’s awa’, the auld yett tae,
That I used tae climb on every day.

A fine big cottage is noo built here;
It makes the ithers a’roon look queer—
A splendid place it is a’ roon,
The finest cottage in the toon.

Dear me, I’m noo at Biggam’s Loan,
I hear his big dog growl and groan;
Doon this same loan I’ve often run,
And played with Biggam’s oldest son.

We used tae gallop through the glen;
But John McFarlane didna ken
We gathered beach nuts on the grun’,
And had what we a’ ca’d fine fun.

I’m at Bain’s Loan.
This dear spot by me can never be forgot,
For here the Braehead callants met,
They were a happy cheery set.

We play’d at rounders and kee-ho,
The bools an’ a was a great go—
Smugglers, cricket and the peerie,
These were the games that kept us cheery.

But frae these haunts time has me torn—
I see the room where I was born—
Those stately trees, with arms wide spread,
Were often viewed by those that’s dead.

When summer clad those trees in green
Under their shade I’ve often been,
And sung myself asleep at noon,
I slept there often lang and soun’.

The smithy tae has changed a wee,
For just before the cherry tree
They’ve built a nice bit shoppie there,
That sells provisions and hardware.

What doesna ken the cooper’s tae
That’s at the tap o’ Bonhill brae!
The Kirkland Loan’s before the door,
Where printers wrought in days o’ yore.

There is one place—the auld kirkyard—
That every exile doth regard;
With reverence we see them tread
Through this old city of the dead.

Their eye then lights upon a stane
That marks a spot where lies their ain,
Though dead they speak; hear what they say—
Salvation seek before delay.

The reply came in May 1868 from a worthy with the soubriquet of Delta.

BONHILL

When Tam sat doon at the trough stane
His muse was nae way stinted,
But gied him wit tae write the lines
That lately I saw printed.

Though changes he has noticed weel,
There’s some he missed, that’s plain,
For at the trough stane dirls noo
A ladle an’ a chain;

Which on a warm day handy is
For every passer by,
Tae tak’ a drink o’ water noo—
That is, if they are dry.

Nobleston Farm is no much changed
Since last I saw Bonhill,
For Coubrough still aye jogs alang,
His family toilin’ still.

But Ladyton has seen a change
Since Wylie gaed awa’;
The grun’ is better ploughed since then—
It’s no the same at a’.

The cottages by the road side
Are still aboot the same,
But noo they’ve got a new ane built—
“Balquhidder” is its name.

But bare they’ve made puir “Lissa” look
By cuttin’ doon the trees,
Whaever ordered that break doon
Hasna been ill tae please.

Here’s Biggam’s Loan, so named from one
Wha plies old Adam’s calling;
His trusty watch-dog, Captain’s dead,
Nae mair he’ll hear us bawling.

And noo the Glen—wha disna mind
The fun sae cheery there?
But masters new aye mak’ new laws—
We’ll rant in it nae mair.

But where’s Bain’s Loan, I think it’s changed—
O dear, I’m like tae greet—
For noo it’s got anither name,
They ca’ it Raglan Street.

And here’s the “Plumb;” or rather this
Is where it used tae be.
It’s noo closed up by something which
Is like a grate tae see.

A ladle here they’ve got, I see,
For folk tae tak’ a drink;
Whaever put the ladle there
Showed some guid sense, I think.

Noo Campbell’s smiddy comes in view—
Or rather it’s his shop;
But since I’ve daunder’d on this length,
I think it’s time tae stop.

Some ither time I’ll maybe scrawl
A verse or twa tae fit,
An get up tae the Cannon Raw—
If it’s ay staunnin’ yet.


ODE TO LEVEN WATER

On Leven’s banks while free to rove,
And tune the rural pipe to love,
I envied not the happiest swain
That ever trod the Arcadian plain.
Pure stream, in whose transparent wave
My youthful limbs I wont to lave;
No torrents stain thy limpid source,
No rocks impede thy dimpling course,
That sweetly warbles o’er its bed,
With white round polished pebbles spread;
While, lightly poised, the scaly brood
In myriads cleave the crystal flood;
The springing trout in speckled pride;
The salmon, monarch of the tide;
The ruthless pike intent on war;
The silver eel and mottled par.
Devolving from thy parent lake,
A charming maze thy waters make,
By bowers of birch, and groves of pine,
And hedges flowered with eglantine.
Still on thy banks so gaily green,
May numerous herds and flocks be seen;
And lassies chanting o’er the pail,
And shepherd’s piping in the dale;
And ancient faith that knows no guile,
And industry embrowned with toil;
And hearts resolved and hands prepared,
The blessings they enjoy to guard!


James Ferguson wrote in February 1853

MODERNISED VERSION OF SMOLLETT’S “ODE TO LEVEN WATER.”

“On Leven’s banks,” while free to walk,
Inhaling smoke from many a stalk,
I envy not the bliss of some
Who breathe the fumes of Tennant’s “lum.”
Dark stream! In whose polluted wave
The fishes die, like martyrs brave;
Where anglers, with the prin and rod,
Can find nor “ruthless pike” nor cod;
Where “springing trout” and “mottled par”
In “myriads” often poison’d are,
As dyers in thy “crystal flood”
Pour oxygen and bullocks’ blood,
Tall chimney stalks, in smoky pride,
Their sooty heads rear on thy side,
While huge brick-stoves, and sheds of broom,
Upon thy banks do sternly “loom.”
Devolving from the “Queen of Lakes,”
A winding course thy water takes,
While in its progress to the Clyde,
With hundred motley stuffs is dyed.
Upon thy banks, where “flocks and herds,”
And “lasses chanting,” like the birds,
And “piper,” piping, oft did stray
By sylvan groves the lifelong day,
Nought now remains to tell the tale
That once thou wert a lovely vale;
But smoke, and soot, and Turkey-red,
Proclaim to all thy beauty fled.
We enter noo a classic vale,
To picture which I well may fail,
Sin’ Smollett somewhaur does it ca’
Auld “Caledon’s Arcadia;”
And if ‘twas wi’ a partial e’e
He looked upon the scene, sin he
Could boast himsel’ a Leven bairn,
Born doun by here at auld Dalquhurn,
Whaur was the ill I’d like to ken
Tho’ he did say? I’d draw me ten
Arcadias frae Campsie Glen,
Ee’n wi’ my sma’ artistic skill,
Nor think I did Arcadia ill.
But as we’re noo on guarded ground,
An’ lest I poaching should be found,
Let’s tak’ the valley at a bound,
An’ wi’ my keelyvine in haun,
In musin’ mood, I’se tak’ my staun
On Balloch’s gran’ suspension brig,
O’ which she’s nae dout unco big,
An’ to my knowledge geyan fenny
To mak’, by times, an honest penny:
Sae when ye cross, be sure to min’
To slip her sic a modest coin,
Tho’ aiblins, an’ ye speak her fair,
She’ll let ye back, nor charge ye mair.
O lovely vale, meand’ring stream,
Bright wanderer thro’ the Poet’s dream,
Who wont his youthful limbs to lave
’Mid thy wood-girt, song-lisping wave,
Deep-drinking of a thrilling joy,
Which time nor change could e’er destroy.
What tho’ the ruthless wheels of trade,
Some o’ thy charms hae prostrate laid,
Curtailed thee o’ thy birken bowers,
Song-trilling birds an’ laughing flowers;
Despoiled, in part, thy bless’d retreats
O’ their pristine Arcadian sweets,
Robbing thy pastoral braes and meads
O’ shepherds wi’ their oaten reeds’
Doun-tumblin’ cots, uprootin’ trees,
To plant dye-warks an’ factories,
Whause vile impurities molest
An’ stain thy ance pellucid breast,
Thou still hast charms to be admired,
Wad poets deign to be inspired;
An’ for thy noble minnie’s sake,
Loch Lomond, Scotia’s royal lake,
Wha still has walth o’ sunny smiles
To cheer thee mid thy fretfu’ toils,
Thou’lt aye to ilka Scottish heart
Be dear, as now to mine thou art.

One anonymous poet gives a good impression of the industry of the Vale in May, 1867.

ODE TO LEVEN WATER

On Leven when the stream is low
And all our printworks on do go
The dark as porter down does flow
The river lounging lazily.

But Leven saw another sight
When Smollett of its charms did write
Inviting all to drink delight
From its Arcadian scenery.

With trout and salmon, par and eel
Each angler then with rod and reel
His basket filled; and proud did feel
Of piscatorial victory.

At morn, and oft, e’er break of day
To work now natives wend their way
Where fire and steam in madness play
And drive the grim machinery.

Here cloth is printed, dyed and steamed,
Bleached, tentered, and in water streamed,
Starched, mangled, calendered and beamed
And folded very carefully.

Now many meet where few did part;
Because of this, our fancy art
And all the Vale is one great mart
Of printing manufacturies.

A year later, in June 1868, there was another similar attempt by Laudator Temporis Acti.

ODE ON LEVEN WATER

“On Leven’s banks, where free to rove,
And tune the rural pipe to love,”
In boyhood’s days I’ve often strayed
Past gasping river trout, betrayed
By deadly poison, flowing ever
Into the sluggish muddy river
From stench-holes nigh—“On Leven’s banks,”
Dear Toby (pray accept my thanks
For this thy cue), should’st thou by chance
From Stygian realms vouchsafe a glance,
Thou surely would’st reverse thy sentence—
Things are so altered since thou went hence.
The “round, white, polished pebbles” now
Are smutty as king Pluto’s brow,
When, Proserpinas’ mandate scorning,
He keeps on bousing till the morning.
For rural pipes, we’ve got, alas!
Mere metal pipes of lead and brass,
Cloacic eke of chymic paper,
Still spewing forth their noisome vapour,
And many coloured sludge, and stench, all
Making the air so pestilential
That “swains” and “lasses” hence have fled
To purer regions.
No more is heard the thresher’s flail,
Or “shepherd piping in the dale;”
The mill drums out the one, the other
Is shoved aside with little bother
By science son, who proudly bawls
His platitudes in crowded halls;
Cramming his audience with “such stuff
As dreams are made of.” But enough,
My grey goose quill, enough of this.
Thy owner still was wont to hiss;
And, since I’ve ta’en thee for my tool,
It seems I, too, must play the fool.

 

 

BYGONE DAYS BUNULL

As I sit and think about
These troubled times of fads and styles
My thoughts drift back in time across
The paths and lanes of memories miles
I dream of days that ne’er seemed dull
In bygone days Braeheid Bunull

The seasons then they seemed to be
Far better or far worse to me
For summer sun it always shone
Far warmer in the pleasant morn
Till winter snows came ower the hill
In bygone days Braeheid Bunull

Off tae the shops upon the brae
Butchers, Bakers, Grocers tae
The weans for errands always went
Wi’ money that was often lent
An’ staun’ in queues tae buy the news
Fae Buntine’s paper shop Bunull

Upon the hill the old Black Bull
Wis hame for quite a few
For on these days when work was done
There was little else to do
The overpowering smell of ale
It drifted roon aboot
Till, “Time gents please! It’s nine o’ clock”
“It’s time that you were oot!”

And then they’d staun ootside in groups
Tae patter an’ tae chaff
An sup away at “Kerry oots”
Or sing a song and laugh
Some drifted roon the back tae see
The quoiters test their skill
Against the best in the land
An’ place a bet for thrills

The Sunday quiet was always stirred
By Kirk bells in the morn
And paper boys would wake folk up
Tae a new day that was born
The Sunday ritual once again
Apart fae church bell tunes
The joy and expectation o’
“Oor Wullie” and “The Broons”

In auld Braeheid in days gone by
Where characters abound
None more than in auld “Geordie Street”
Were many to be found
Wull Stark and Annie Bogle
An’ auld deef Murray too
Were characters without a doubt
To name but just a few
Jock Paul an’ big fat Broon
I doubt if you would ever find
Sae mony in any toon

Wee Lizzie an’ wee Tommy
The perfect man and wife
Ower tae the “pictures” every night
Tae get away fae life
The Hall an’ Strand, “The Great Escape”
On cauld, wet winter nights
A poke o’ sweeties in her pooch
One o’ the many sights

The walk along the Ladyton
Past Jimmy Wilson’s plot
On up the hill ower sanstane rock
An’ by the Hawker’s hut
Through fern an’ through bracken
Across the ripplin’ burn
The wooded paths an’ sunny glades
Then through the gates in turn

The skylark and the curlew
Upon the Pappert hill
The walk alang “The Slunger”
Are memories I have still
The cryin’ o’ the cuckoo
An’ the roarin’ o’ the bull
Were more than just words o’ a song
In bygone days Bunull.

By Tom Weir


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"For those we loved are scattered,
and some in death sleep soun',
and the old oak tree sae bonnie,
has long since been cut doon".

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TO THE AULD OAK TREE THAT STOOD IN ALEXANDRIA (POEM)

WHEN we were little children
Aroun' it aft we played,
An' linked oor herts in frienship
Beneath its leafy shade,
An' told oor childish fancies
Wi' merry, sparklin' e'e,
When sitting 'neath the branches
O' the auld oak tree.

But its bonnie, leafy branches
We'll never see again;
Nor the little, lauchin' faces,
That gathered roun' it then;
For those we loved are scattered,
An' some in daith sleep soun';
An' the auld oak tree sae bonnie
Has long since been cut doon.

As roun' the town we wan'er,
In wonder aft we pause;
We miss the modest hooses,
Wi' their bonnie, white-washed wa's.
We miss the friendly faces,
An' we see big streets aroun';
The fountain's taen the oak tree's place
Tae decorate the toon.

The stiff an' solemn fountain,
Withoot a spark o' life;
Through simmer an through winter
The scene o' prayer an' strife.
Unlike the lovely oak,
Wi' its giant branches dear,
That filled oor herts wi' gladness
Through mony a weary year.

But youth an' joy hae vanished,
An' naethin' can reca'
The little lauchin' faces
That daith has taen awa'.
An' we, grown tired and feeble,
This worl' o' strife maun lea';
Tae be forgot for ever,
Like the auld oak tree.

Hugh Caldwell >


 

This is a poem contributed by local woman Cathy Robertson about her first job in the Burroughs Adding Machine plant in Strathleven industrial estate.

Hi folks, I started work in  Burroughs machines at the age of 15,  my name is Cathy Robertson.  I write poetry and this one was to record our times in the factory.

I started work in Burroughs in 1963
It wasn't that I chose the place, in fact the place chose me
For when I went to register on leaving school I found
That poets had no value, they were thin upon the ground

So mother made me wear my Sunday best, (my hat as well)
To undertake an interview with Burroughs Personnel
I think my foam back coat and hat, with tulle around the rim
Amused the interviewer but he tried hard not to grin

They tested our intelligence (four others sat there too)
And finally they said to me "We think that you will do"
And so I was the mail girl for 1963
The only title I have held since mum gave birth to me

And there my working life began, as green as peas was I
Set up for tartan paint, long stands and lots of humble pie
One day my boss escorted me into the rag bay store
"Do you know what this place is called" he said with a such a roar

Indignantly I said to him "I've never seen this place"
"I bloody know that now" he said, I stood there, in disgrace
But times were not too bad because our pay was very good
Two pounds, six and five a week and subsidies for food!

Then just as I became quite good at knowing where to go
My time was up in Mailing and they moved me on and so,
I was transferred to offices they called Product Control
And told that making "Pan Cards" was my ultimate of goals

I had to print them off and put a sum on each - for what?
I never knew, I just wrote down the first thing that I thought
I’m sure the chasers changed it - for they never brought it back
and if it had been wrong I’m sure I would have got the sack

Then three months on they said to me that I would have to go
To help them out in scheduling for "they were short, you know"
And so, again I learned the way they printed bonus schemes
And cards with numbered metal tags for each of the machines

I stuck at this for three more years with lignum vitae stick
And then the scheduler's post came and I got in there quick
Accumulator, Hammerhead, Typesetter and Keyboard
I knew how many we produced , how many we had stored.

And on my blackboard on the wall our target for the day
How many machines that we'd progressed, the causes for delay
Our plus and minus contrast against the week before
The yearly target we must beat and there were lots, lots more.

Two thousand people were employed, a thriving, living place
It felt just like a family and I knew every face
I stood there on the threshold of the way my life would be
And wondered what the future held, and danced to 'Please, please me'

A chap called Byron Rundy was sent over from the States
He didn’t try to act the boss - he’d talk to us like mates
and when the painters came along, wee Harry and big Paul
He said the colour of my frock, - he wanted on the walls

But I had worn the day before a shift of turquoise blue
So when big Paul came in to me he just said ‘Well F.... you
It’s green and yellow with a stripe bog standard off the shelf”
for now I wore a tartan dress that I had made myself

Then one day at the lunch break along came Mr.Right
"Do you want a driving lesson, can I take you out tonight?
My mother liked him right away, she said to bring him home
He'll have his tea with us because "he cannot eat alone"

Now Lewis went to Harris on a trip he'd planned before
And brought me back a skirt length that became a pinafore
And mother was elated, " A normal one" she said
I think she'd gave up wondering if I would ever wed.

Then one day while out for a run I got on bended knee
And said "I would be very pleased if you would marry me"
I haven't got much money in the bank just yet" he said
Well how much have you got said I? Then we agreed to wed.

Now by this time I'd moved again, this time I chose to go
To Engineering Records as a typist don't you know
But I was happy till I found we'd gone computerised
And all the records were retyped and I became cross eyed

And then we'd get suppliers notes that came from overseas
In broken English they'd begin, My darling Robert ,please
(My boss was Robert Armstrong - he was a friend as well)
and outside work he was good fun, but inside .... he was hell!

I used to say ‘I’m finished’ have you any more to do
and he would say just carry on and type up volume 2
and 3 and 4 and 5 and 6 of these conversion logs
One day I said I like you lots but I hate this bloody job!

And so I went to pastures new but I did not forget
The early days that shaped my life, the people that I met
Though I am older now, I close my eyes and I can be
Transported back to when my working life began for me

Another world, a living world, that’s somehow lost in time
But still exists in memory - at least it does in mine
and when I dream - sometimes I dream that I am there again
Not old, - but young, with all my life to live, .. as it was then

Cathy B Robertson

 


 

Levenach

We received an epic prose poem written by local historian and author Billy Scobie. The first couple of verses follow but the whole poem can be downloaded as a PDF here.

The Story of the Working Peoples of the Vale of Leven.

Fast-flowing,
she has coiled
a living, ever-changing
yet constant course
from Lomond
to the Clyde.
Always she has been
a confluence
of two worlds,
two peoples,
two mythologies.

Loch Lomond –
glacier-gouged fiord,
born of the melting ice.
A holy place
of saints and sanctuaries.
Keledei –
Kessog, Kentigerna…
with sacred islands
and the Celtic Christianity
of a Gaelic-speaking people
whose Irish ancestors
brought Scotland
her very name.

Download PDF with full poem >


 

Poem: Cardoss Hill

I received a copy of this poem from George Nelson, whose grandmother, Mary Clifford wrote some poetry about the local area.

I wandered o'er the Cardross Hill,
And much to my surprise,
I saw the glory all around,
Twas there before my eyes.

I wandered on to Mount Mulowe,
The beauty was so rare,
The heather blowing in the breeze,
The fields of corn so fair.

And as I wandered on and on,
The scenes grew lovelier still,
The Leven Valley sat serene,
Surrounded by many a hill.

And as I wandered to the top,
I see the river Clyde,
And watch the ships a'bobbin,
A'bobbin with the tide.

And as I make my journey home,
Come down the Cardross hill,
I see Dumbarton Castle,
And Ben Lomond looked so still.

So as I say farewell,
To the lovely scenes that thrill,
I'm proud to know.
That I can go,
Again up Cardross Hill.

(Mary Clifford 1962)


 

Our Valley

By Duncan McLean
(This can be sung to the tune of "These are my Mountains")

Let's think of the Valley in which we reside
where the old River Leven flows down to the Clyde
Come sail on Loch Lomond wa all cry with pride
For it's here in the Valley where we all abide

From Balloch to Jamestown, Bonhill and the Vale
The road leads to Renton and Many a tale
But no matter the village or the tale that we tell
It's the love of the Valley we all know so well.

The hills of Carman they shlter us all
In summer with heather and broom thrill us all
See here from the hilltop the wonderful view.
Look down on the valley that God gave to you.

Your home is my home and this we all share
With joy and with sorrow, with love and with care.
In rain and in sunshine, the sweet smelling air
Here in our valley, our valley so rare.

Let's think of our kinsfolk so far over the sea
O' those that are dear to you and to me
and this I am sure we will all agree
That home in the valley is the best place to be.


 

A Vale Reminiscence

By A.B.McElroy. This follows the trend of lamenting the Vale in times gone by. Those of us who can remember the old Vale of pre 1970 will undesrtand the sentiments.

A few years ago I would walk down the street
And know every one of the faces I'd meet
But now there are strangers that I cannot hail
As I wander along in out once peaceful Vale.

The Strand and the Hall, you no longer would know
The Market and Bingo are all on the go.
The Main Street School no one can enter
For there in its place is a community centre.

A car park was made at the top of the brae
But useless we found to all our dismay
For if by train you are going to ride
The station was built on the wrong side.

One change that's been made to make people stare
Is surely the bridge that leads to nowhere.
But that's progress they say, alas and alack
There's quite a few things I would like to put back.
But for all that I really do know without fail
I would never leave our beautiful Vale.


 

 

Yae-Time

The story of Auld Boab by Andrew Stewart

“Ah mind yae-time ”, Auld Boab wid say
Startin’ oot tae tell a story.
He never said ‘Ah mind one day’
But aye ‘Yae-time ... in auld Kilmory’.

My, Boab could spin some awfu yarns.
His stock of stories wus immense
Learned in bothys, byres and barns
And fu’ o’ baudy earthy sense.

Whaur he cam frae, guidness kens.
Ahint the ploo he spent his days
Working hillside ferms and glens
Content wi country life and ways.

Weel thocht o’ at the ferms he wrocht.
New claes he seldom ever bocht
Never feenished – always ‘lowsed’
Always ‘waulkened’ never roused.

He talked about his cousins whiles
“A’ Boab Wulson’s like masel”
There was Boab o’ Islay, Boab o’ Kyles
And baker Boab frae Motherwell.

He wore a black patch o’er one eye.
If asked aboot it, he would sigh
“Ah loast the sicht o’t when a lad.
Jist an accident ah had.”

He made it plain (wha’er wid moot it)
He didna want tae talk aboot it!
At Balloch fair (the story goes)
When Boab wis walkin’ roon the ‘shows’,

An airgun pellet flying free
Struck poor Boab in his left ‘ee.
Now, be this story truth or rumour
It never spiled auld Boab’s good humour.

And in the fields behin’ the ploo
He turned each furrow stracht and true.
At plooin’ matches he won prizes
Cups and shields a’ shapes and sizes.

A dab haun at the turnip thinin’
At cattle shows he aye kept winnin’
And wae his fermin’ cronies later
He’d hae a wee drap o’ ‘the cratur’.

Noo, Boab’s stravaigin’ days are done
An’ a’ the ither Boabs are gone.
He stayed in his wee ‘but and ben’
Fornenst the auld mill up the glen.

But Boab’s contentment was disturbed
His sense o’ humour sorely curbed.
He viewed the rumours wae suspicion
That his hoose wis due for demolition.

T’was said the Cooncil wants it doon
Their agents would be calling soon
His fears, alas, proved all too true
They could not wait a year or two

An’ maybe saved in other ways
This precious link with other days.
He lay beside his faithful setter
In his hand they found a letter.

Death pronounced – no questions posed
Natural causes diagnosed.

Now, if I pass those heavenly portals
To join the feather-winged immortals
In halls sublime.
Just let me sit where auld Boab chortles,
“Ah mind yae-time”.


 

Nellie of the Vale

(This is an old poem that was submitted by Peter Parlane. We don't know who wrote it so if you have any information on its background please get in touch.)

My Nellie's young and bright and fair
My Nellie's blithe and bonny
And oh she has a cheery mou'
That's ne'er been preed by ony
Her lovely face and winsome smile
And her een sae bonny blue
Maks her the belle o Leven Vale
The lass I dearly loo
Maks her the belle o Leven Vale
The lass I dearly loo

The flo'er that draps its heid at een
And lies aw nicht in sweet repose
Nae purer is than Nellie's smile
Where love and virtue flows
Her lovely face and winsome smile
And her een sae bonny blue
Maks her the belle o Leven Vale
The lass I dearly loo
Maks her the belle o Leven Vale
The lass I dearly loo

And aft times walking oe'r Carman
I hae met blithe Nellie there
And oh tae see her smiling face
Was bliss beyond compare
Her lovely face and winsome smile
And her een sae bonny blue
Maks her the belle o Leven Vale
The lass I dearly loo
Maks her the belle o Leven Vale
The lass I dearly loo

But love ye ken is ever sweet
When wi' the lass you love sae dear
And there is nothing half sae grand
Tae see that she is aye sincere
Her lovely face and winsome smile
And her een sae bonny blue
Maks her the belle o Leven Vale
The lass I dearly loo
Maks her the belle o Leven Vale
The lass I dearly loo.

Added:
This song is by Charlie Nicol.  He was not a Vale resident (lived in Edinburgh) but clearly had designs on a Vale lass.  He had a correspondence with a Bonhill poet (SW) in the Dumbarton Herald in the 1880 and published a little volume of his poems that was quite polar at the time.  It is quite rare but I managed to get a copy. Here is another of his for Nellie.

Graham Lappin


 

MY AIN BONNIE NELLIE, O!

THE sun is sinking in the west,
The birds are cosy in their nest,
I’m gaun tae see her I lo’e best,
My ain bonnie Nellie, O!

Tae whaur we tryst I rin wi’ glee,
An’ sune my sweet love I can see
There, patiently waiting for me,
My ain bonnie Nellie, O!

An’ oh, hoo happy I dae feel
When doon beside her form I kneel,
I lo’e her frae my he’rt fu’weel,
My ain bonnie Nellie, O!

Her ways they are sae frank an’ free,
Her smilin’ face sae fu’o’ glee,
An’ lovingly she speaks tae me,
My ain bonnie Nellie, O!

Sometimes we twa can hardly pairt,
It’s like tae break ilk ither’s he’rt,
It is the pangs o’ cupid’s dart,
My ain bonnie Nellie, O!

I mean tae mak’ her sune my bride,
An’ hae her then aye by my side;
Then true love will wi’ us abide,
When I get bonnie Nellie, O!

 


This one is not, strictly speaking, a Vale of Leven song but it is local enough to justify inclusion on this page.

In the late 1970s local man Billy Scobie wrote the lyrics to a song about the battle of Glen Fruin. He called it "The Bloody Sarks" and sent it to the Corries. They set it to music and it was subsequently recorded and included in their album "Stovies" in 1980, It is also on their Corries 21st Anniversary Concert DVD.

The young McGregor o Glen Strae wi eighty o his men
Upon the Argyll sleekit word pit Finlas glen a flame.
The burning thieving hieland rant drove a the beasts awa
And left ahint twa dirkit men to perish in the snaw.

By Fallisdall the letter came frae black Dumbarton toon
To show the way they were ta gae tae bring McGregor doon.
The bloody sarks o butchered men tae Jamie's court maun gae
The widow women for to show and tell of the afray.

Colquhoun o Luss could thole nae mair wi trampled savaged pride,
Buchanan levies mounted up to tan McGregor hide,
From Leven's vale, Dumbarton toon and all these lowland parts
The burgesses and fairmers came wi vengeance in their hearts.

The Campbell and the Cameron, MacDonald o Glencoe
Ranked alang wi Gregorach and marched o'er the snaw.
Far o'er the loch frae Arklet glen and doon the past Parlan
By Loch Long whose shores are held by the thieves o MacFarlane.

Colquhoun wi his lowland mob lined o'er the Fruin glen:
Five hundred foot, arrayed aboot three hundred mounted men.
"Yon godless hoard o Gregorach and others o their kind
Will creep nae mair frae their hieland lair wi murdering in their minds!!

"Aye whether be it for some stirks or just a ween o blacks,
They’re ay'ways quick thier dirks to stick in ain anither backs.
For honest men and guid Scots law we'll tramp the vermin oot -
Just steady bide, God's on our side, o that there is nae doubt!"

Then like a torrent frae the glen McGregor's scarlet charge -
The sassenach could ne'er withstand the claymore and the targe!
And all around the hellish screams o torn and dying men,
Their precious blood seeped in the mud and drained in Fruin Glen!

And every beast was lead awa a full twa thoosand heid,
And the sairest price the victors paid was twa McGregors dead!..
But bide ye yet the victor's feast the worst still to show,
For the king proclaimed the Gregorach henceforth to be outlaw.

Aye, the bold McGregor and his clan were a' declared outlaw.


This poem was written in 1895 by A.S. McBride. It celebrates the end of the tolls on the Auld Brig. This was known as the Bawbee Brig. A bawbee was a ha'penny, which was the basic toll charge.

For many years the tolls on the bawbee brig were a mojor bone of contention that led to frequent protests, fighting and demonstrations. More on this here >

THE AULD BRIG

Oh the auld brig, the auld brig
Tho' noo ye're bent an' grey
Yet weel I min' in auld lang syne
Ye were sae fresh an' gay

But noo ye're auld an' thin an' bauld
Ye're hingin' sair agee
For on ye're heid like wight o' lead
Is the curse o' your bawbee

Oh the auld lairds, the auld lairds
They're gaun, the lairdies three
O' a' they got. they've left us nought
But this dear memorie

Oh the auld brig, the auld brig
Ye're just about tae dee
Yer sides are thrawn, yer cheeks are fa'in'
Ye're shakin like a tree

An' noo, jist like the lairds, ye'll work
Nae mair iniquitie
But meet yer fate, an' gang yer gait
Withoot a broon bawbee.

A.S. McBride 1895

 

Rowing Hame Tae Balloch
(Tune - By Yon Bonnie Banks)

Respectfully dedicated to Alex Wylie Esq of Cordale a life-long lover of the Loch and the Vale

When nicht sen’s the gull
Tae his hame on Inch Moan
An the day’s a’ bit din on Loch Lomond,
When on island, ben and bay,
Fa’ the shades o’ closin’ day
We steer hame, hame tae Balloch in the gloamin’

Chorus –

Rowin hame, hame tae Balloch
Back hame tae Leven
On the still simmer’s nicht frae Loch Lomond
Wi a sang tae the oar,
By bonnie bank and shore
Rowin’ hame, hame tae Balloch in the gloaming

The clock strikes the oor
Frae the auld Castle wa’
Ower the peace an’ the calm o’ Loch Lomond
An’ the sunset’s hinmost beam
On Boturich throws its gleam,
While we row back tae Balloch in the gloaming

Sae bonnie ends the day
We wad fain linger still,
Tho since morn mang her isles we’ve been roamin
But the croonin’ o’ the day
Is the mystic twilight grey
An’ the glimmer o’ the sunset at the gloamin’

The echo awakes
As the day gaes tae rest,
An’ oor sang rings clear ower Loch Lomond,
While the wids roun’ Balloch Burn,
Mak’ an eerie sweet return,
Echoin back, back the chorus thro’ the gloamin’

Ah! Dear were the nights,
An’ o’ blythe happy days
Are the memories sweet frae Loch Lomon’
An aye they come tae min’
Scenes that canna dim wi’ time
But come back like the echo at the gloamin’

Chorus again

Author: Tom Drever, published in the Lennox Herald 13th March 1915

 

 

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