May Wilson Paterson

Oh dearly Loved; that magic night 

When golden sun burned o’er the moors 

And set with a celestial light 

Across a world, al mine – all yours. 

A world of distant Hills and Sea, 

A blue loch cradled in the height, 

The wand of Spring’s sweet mystery 

Transformed us for her own delight. 

And we were sweethearts for an hour 

And drank Spring’s cup of distilled Love 

Drew tenderness like budding flower 

That feels the warmth of sun above. 

No spoiling thought to stain the thrill, 

No parsing of this new found Joy, 

The acceptation of each will 

To let this night know no destroy. 

The lamp slow sweet parting through the glen, 

The lamplit dusk of shore and sea 

A kiss that sealed the night’s amen 

Made pendant for my Rosary.

Gae me a keek frae the windie, 

The windie that looks tae the sea. 

And the close gangs out tae the cobbles, 

That’s Harbour and Hame tae me. 

Watchin’ the gulls I wis feedin’ 

Alicht on the mast and deck, 

An’ I snoak in the air that is fragrant 

Wi sa’t fishin’ nets an’ wreck. 

Hearin’ the thuds o’ unloadin’ 

Scale glit’rin boxes o’ fare, 

When the sun’s taen tilt for her settin’ 

Ma heart’s taen tae bide ever there. 

Up in the mornin’ the hootin’ 

Bids trippers awa for the day, 

An’ the sma craft crest on the trailer 

O’ foam churnin’ white in the bay. 

Harbour place, Ayr, how I lo’e thee, 

Yer cobbles, yer breath and yer tang, 

The swans and the sunset and quiet, 

I ken it is there I belang. 

Gae me a keek frae the windie, 

The windie abune the quay, 

When boats are coalin’ and catches shoalin’ 

It’s Life and it’s Hame tae me.

Oh, March, the caprice of thy moods, 

Did for one lovely day make vain June blush, 

And by the sea, even one’s own step intrudes 

Upon the tranquillity and hush. 

‘Twas here I came, down terraced hill, 

Where thro’ the fence, gorse thrusts her early gold, 

And slender catkins etch each furry spill 

Against the skyline of a garden’s fold. 

‘Way down past daffodil and crocus bed, 

Into the wooded aisle of arching trees, 

The snip of twigs by blackbirds overhead,  

And nest new formed before the veil of leaves. 

Through stone track that bands the great green course 

With laughing stream, where soon the swallow’s flight 

Will skim the surface with affected force, 

And mirror motion of their wild delight. 

And here, the sand, the sea, the sun-kissed rise 

Of Arran, with er peaks outlined in snow, 

Her crevices look robbed of their disguise 

And streams become long veins of crystal glow. 

And, oh, the minds life up to meet 

The wordless beauty of a morn in Spring, 

And bids it stay for some dull days retreat 

A lasting record that the heart will sing.

And so you came, for long I had been watching 

Your tender progress to a world of light, 

And that first peep of green above earth growing 

Shared was my heart with the Spring’s delight 

Then tall leaves came, alas the snow was falling 

And siler frosted was each sheaf of thine, 

But when the dawn your fragile stem was kissing, 

The golden sun shone on that flower of mine. 

And now I sit, my eyes are ever resting 

On yellow lilies that are blooming fair, 

Sunset has left an imprint, your caressing 

Within your petals it is hidden there.

The sunshine was dazzling, the Firth was a gem, 

An azure and emerald Clyde diadem, 

And Largs bedecked right down to the sea, 

And the white sails at Cairnie’s were lined at the Quay. 

Beneath local Sandringham, aged and young 

Sat in the sunshine, buntings were strung 

O’er bright peopled pavements, enhancing the scene, 

All tip toe and eager to welcome our Queen. 

The great Royal car with its standard came by, 

And the long waited moment – the 7^th of July, 

With the Queen and the Duke, looking glad to be here, 

The hush of our wonder, the burst of our cheer. 

Their path is duty, to serve and to please, 

Their Life is tension fulfilling all these, 

Theirs is the high standard without any vanity, 

Theirs the deep knowledge of humble humanity. 

God bless the children who cheered them today, 

With adventurous spirit, the pluck to be gay, 

And help us to make this a glorious land, 

Sharing and giving a warm loyal hand. 

Scouts of the East Park, dependent on care, 

Here’s a Remembrance to say, “We were there.”

Some things throughout the year seem not to change, 

The little Railway Station by the brae, 

Here sheltered by the hills, the traveller knows 

Its entrance and its exit every day. 

Spiked wooden railings cleave each platform length, 

With climbing yellow roses as a screen, 

And on the city-side the trees have grown 

Where once old adds for nibs and pens had been. 

The dim gas mantle still pops in and out, 

The winter farewells rarely were aware 

How dated was the light.  The au revoir 

Had stars for choice.  The waiting room was there. 

The waiting room! The porter’s joyous fire 

That blessed the morning with a radiant glow, 

And stilled the tremble of the cold 

That stamped our feet when walking thro’ the snow. 

This August month, dismantling has begun 

Of rafters clasped in perfect limb and frame, 

And we are sore, altho’ accept the need 

To pace with time, we also feel a shame. 

The old steam train that billows smoke to wend, 

With acrid fumes, where Crosbie’s trees embrace 

The village coup.  The seagulls leave their habitat 

To come and seek an inland feeding place. 

Displaced old engine rarely on the line, 

A stranger in a known path so soon, 

Yet while we travel diesel to the town, 

Destined men are hitching to the moon.