Alan Croxford
THE PINKY BRAES O’ NETHERMILL.
In leafy June when fields were gay
I took a dander up the glen,
Then crossed the bridge and climbed the brae
To view my native heath again.
The sun shone forth in radiance bright,
His rays were wandering o’er the hill,
When lo! there burst upon my sight
The pinky braes o’ Nethermill.
They seemed a mass of living gold,
They peeped from underneath the broom,
A wondrous sight ’twas to behold
When mingling with the whin in bloom.
They nod and tremble in the breeze
On yonder knoll upon the height,
Their golden tint the eye doth please
And fills my soul with calm delight.
In wild profusion here they grow,
Their fragrance fills the balmy air,
The “Cruden Water” far below
Combines to make a picture fair.
Sweet yellow flower, your time is brief,
So soon ye wither and decay,
It almost seems wanton mischief
When bairnies pluck their posies gay.
But still it does one good to see
Them take an interest in the flowers,
While on the braes they romp with glee
And while away the happy hours.
The Cruden church stands in the howe
Half-circled by yon sparkling rill,
Its background is yon grassy knowe
That used to be the “Gallows Hill.”
It stands beside the spreading boughs
Half hid behind its leafy screen,
Where “Cruden Water” gently flows
And winds along the haughs so green.
’Mid scenes like these I love to stray
Far from the busy, bustling street,
And watch the lambkins sport and play
Among green fields and flowerets sweet.
And list, while warblers fill the air
With harmony the whole day long,
It frees the mind from worldly care
To hear the cataract of song.
And as I view this peaceful scene
I muse upon the bygone days,
Methinks I see the silver sheen
Of armoured men among the braes.
When Scot and Dane met face to face
They fought their final battle here,
The gallant Scot kept up the chase
With battleaxe and bloody spear.
’Twas here where pinkies deck the ground
That Scotland made her foes to yield;
War relics often have been found
On Cruden’s famous battlefield.
Amid the din and clash of blows
I seem to hear their dying groans
Now all is peace, the primrose glows,
This earth conceals the warriors’ bones.
Let other bards of high degree
Uphold the golden daffodil,
These simple flowers sufficeth me,
The pinky braes o’ Nethermill.