Crieff in the early Victorian Days

The following little poem  is about the weavers and kids  who lived in Bridgend Crieff  - a wee weaving  village within a bigger village - namely Crieff. I  found it  in an old booklet  published HK Brown a bookseller at 15 King Street in 1897 and reflects  life in  a by gone era . Hope  you enjoy it a s much as I did !

 





‘Tis on a lovely day in June

When shuttles play their lively tune

When summer’s sun shines forth on high

A throws a blaze across the sky

That merry boys  just out for play

Espy just of a little way

A fine big “ deilie “ – full of grace

A tempting prize for any race

Knowing soon the day must close

It quickly flies  from bud  to rose

So gaily flitting past the flowers 

It passes on to higher powers

The youngsters  start , with ready grace

And to the butterfly  give chase

Running off with childish hearts

Each for  a separate corner starts

But, when a bonnet at it flies

It rises upwards in the skies

And soaring far above their heads

Lights down upon a sweet briar hedge

Leaping on with boisterous glee

The rogue  behind  a blade they see.

Getting near with utmost caution

Scarce they set a twig in motion

They feast their eyes  upon the “ deil “

Which calmly sits at evening meal.

Along the hedge they slowly creep-

All tongues the utmost silence keep ;

But just when close upon their prey ,

It rises  up and turns away ,

And down the street, at fastest pace ,

It flutters  , with the boys in chase .

 

The weavers  hear the deafening noise ,

As past their windows charge the boys ;

And. What the sounds import ,

Rush from their looms  and join the sport .

Down the street they scamper on

And soon  they head the merry throng

For weapons  some have cabbage blades ,

Some kail-stocks , and some have spades ;

Some clutch at mutches  out to dry ,

While some a common broom stick ply;

Some seize a towel , some a shirt

As from their looms  they madly skirt ;

While some , with paling – posts  and sticks

Among the yelling huntsmen mix .

 

Hearing the approaching cries

The hens  outstretch their wings and rise

And settling high upon the roof

They cackle  forth a loud reproof

The grumphie  hides  behind the “ cree “

The cat it climbs  the nearest tree

While ducks  a- feeding in the mud

Before the awful tempest scud .

Ere yet  the “ deil “ has crossed the Earn

A hundred eyes its spots discern;

But , knowing safely in the breech

It keeps its flight wellout of reach

Bridgenders  , catching the alarm ,

And knowing sport in  all its charm

Join heartily  among the crew

Who close  upon the “ deil “ pursue

 

The butterfly with eager flight

Makes for a hilltop  now in sight

Where blood was spilt in days of yore ,

In wiping  off a clansman’s sore ;-

Where Murrays paid the price  of cattle

By losing all their men in battle

The “ deilie “ holds upon its course

The leaders  try the pace to force ,

And when  the Torleum hill is won

The huntsmen follow  one by one .

Sometimes  the “beastie “ spots a rose ,

And tempted  , to the ground it goes ;

But when a dozen missiles fly ,

It darts again  into the sky ,

And, charging forward  in its flight

It notes the near approach of night

As weavers spank o’er hill and glade

The daylight soon begins to fade ;

But while  the gaudy game ‘s in sight

They feel  their hopes are ever bright

Now , wild and panting with the race

But ever game upon the chase

They run as only deer hound can

To suit the sporting mind of man

The “ deilie “ startled  by the sound

Which echoes from the fields around ,

Decides the earn  agin to clear

And for the Laggan Hill to steer

Far over thistle , whin and fern

The weavers reach  the banks of Earn ;

But in the quickly darkening night

The little “ deil “ is lost to sight

When in the sky  they see it soar

The huntsmen know  the chase is o’er ;

And, as slowly home  they ramble 

Swear “the game ain’t worth the candle .”