Songs of Angus and More Songs of Angus

In Short

This collection brings together the dual voices of a poet writing from the intersection of memory and exile. Through both dense, rhythmic Scots and a more ethereal, meditative English, the work captures the landscapes of Angus—its braes, kirkyards, and rivers—as a backdrop for human longing. Whether observing the quiet lives of shepherds and beadles or grappling with the profound ruptures of the Great War, these poems resonate with a timeless authenticity. It remains a vital portrait of a vanishing world, preserved by a voice that understood that to love a place truly, one must often look at it from afar.

The Story

The collection opens in the "Howe o' the Mearns," a place defined by the steady, unglamorous cycle of the plough and the changing seasons. The poet establishes the central tension: the pull of the local, grounded life against the inevitable outward drift of youth. We see the young man turning his face toward the "roarin' o' the mills" in the city, leaving behind the green glens for a life of "care and sin." The narrative arc of the book is one of displacement, moving from the pastoral innocence of the glen to the harsh, gray realities of urban labor and, eventually, to the devastating trauma of the First World War.

As the collection unfolds, the reader witnesses the domestic rhythms of Angus—the beadle of Drumlee asserting his quiet intellectual superiority over his neighbors, and the "heid horseman" at Soutar’s farm working his team with a silent, stoic devotion that masks a hidden, burning heart. Yet, the tone grows increasingly somber as death, both natural and violent, intrudes upon the landscape. The mother who watches her sons head down the "lang road" to the city, only to lose them to the sea and the trenches, serves as a recurring, haunting figure. Her grief, and the grief of the women left behind in the kirk, forms the backbone of the later sections.

The ending is neither simple nor final. It is a movement toward reconciliation, where the living seek to bridge the gap between their own weary existence and the "glory" of those who have fallen. The soldier who returns "maimed and spent" from the war finds a final, quiet dignity in his scars, while the spirit of the poet seeks a "brig" or bridge to connect the here and now with the peace of the hereafter. In the closing English poems, the landscape of Angus is stripped of its dialect but not its spirit, becoming a meditative space where the "heartbreak of an anguished world" is momentarily held in check by the purity of the natural world. The book concludes with the realization that while time and space may separate us from our origins or our loved ones, the human soul possesses a "unity" that transcends the physical, binding the witness to the witness-bearer in a final, quiet, and triumphant peace.

How It Unfolds

The call of the glen The initial poems establish the deep, tactile connection between the speaker and the Angus landscape. Scenes of young love, ploughing, and the quiet beauty of the gean-trees create a world that feels both permanent and intensely vulnerable.

The drift of the diaspora The focus shifts to those who leave, tracing the path from the countryside to the "black toon" and the harsh environments of the cities. This section highlights the psychological toll of exile and the crushing weight of modern industrial life on the spirit.

The intrusion of the conflict The war emerges as an inescapable presence, transforming the pastoral quiet into a place of mourning. The language shifts as the poet addresses the fallen directly, moving from the specific local "laddie" to the universal soldier.

The bridge to the beyond The final movement seeks to resolve the trauma of loss through spiritual reflection. By envisioning a bridge that spans from the mortal to the eternal, the poet finds a way to house the grief of the living alongside the memory of the dead.

The People

The book is populated by figures who exist in the tension between their private desires and their public roles. The Beadle of Drumlee is a man of quiet, intellectual pride, masking his deeper nature behind the administrative duties of the kirk. He wants recognition for his hidden influence, standing in contrast to the Heid Horseman, who wants only to work his team and remain in his own solitary orbit, oblivious to the serving lass who observes him with a mixture of love and frustration. Jeemsie Miller offers a more ribald character study, a man who lives a life of "sinfu'" indulgence only to surprise his community by leaving his wealth to the church, subverting the expectations of his family. Finally, the mother of the three sons represents the heart of the collection. She is the anchor of the domestic sphere, trying to reconcile the memory of her children—scattered to the sea, the grave, and the city—with the empty, silent house she inhabits. She begins as a figure of mourning but ends as a conduit for a broader, more stoic acceptance of life's losses.

In Its Own Voice

"There's a reid rose lies on the Buik o' the Word 'afore ye / That was growin' braw on its bush at the keek o' day."

The poet describes the distraction of a lover during a church service, highlighting the tension between religious obligation and earthly desire.

"I'm Sairgeant Weelum Henderson frae Pairth, / That's wha I am!"

This speaker captures the defiant, weary, and fiercely proud identity of the Scottish soldier facing the realities of war.

"The heartbreak of an anguished world / Throbs not by Fringford brook."

In a moment of English-language reflection, the poet finds a rare, fragile sanctuary in the beauty of the natural world, setting it apart from the surrounding global conflict.

What It's Really About

The work is a meditation on the nature of belonging and the permanence of memory. It asks how one maintains an identity when the language, landscape, and people that shaped that identity are either fading or have been irrevocably broken by tragedy. The book argues that "exile" is not merely a physical distance, but a psychological state; it suggests that by holding fast to the "noble speech" and the specific rhythms of one’s home, the exile can reclaim a sense of self that is otherwise eroded by the "changefu' year." Ultimately, it is an inquiry into the cost of endurance, asking whether the scars we carry are a burden or a badge of honor.

Why Read It Today

This collection is for anyone who appreciates the quiet dignity of a life lived close to the land and the emotional depth of poetry that refuses to shy away from grief. It offers a rare window into a specific Scots vernacular that is beautiful in its precision and musicality. However, the reader should be prepared for the challenge of the dialect; while a helpful glossary is provided, the poems require a patient ear to catch their rhythm. Modern readers may also find the period attitudes toward war and social duty to be stark, reflecting the stoic, often fatalistic, worldview of the early 20th century.

Yet, there is a warmth here that is difficult to find elsewhere. The poet’s ability to move from the hum of a stable or the "sneck" of a backdoor to the profound, cosmic scale of war and eternity is remarkable. You will stay with the book for its honesty; it does not promise that life is easy, but it suggests that the connections we forge—to our home, to our dead, and to the "flame" of our own experiences—are what keep us whole. It is a deeply grounding experience, ideal for those who value poems that act as a shelter against the "roarin'" noise of the present.