George Abel

George Abel wis born on 29 March 1856 at the ferm o Womblehill in parish o Kintore in Aiberdeenshire. He wis meenister o Udny (United Free) for thirty-five eers. He scrievit varse in Doric a his days an a collection o them wis publisht as Wylins fae my wallet jist weeks afore he deid in 1916.

George Abel wis born it Womblehill, Kintore on 29 March 1856. Fan aye a wee loon, the femily flitted tae the ferm o North Leylodge, fae far George wint tae Ley Lodge Skweel an then the Free Kirk Skweel in Kintore. He wint tae the Varsity o Aiberdeen far he read Arts afore gan tae the Free Kirk College in Aiberdeen in 1877 tae study Divinity. Efter feenishing it Divinity Hall, he wis appyntit tae the mission it New Byth bit wis only there for twa or three months afore he wis caed tae Udny Free Kirk as colleague and successor tae Rev. George Archibald fa wis aboot tae retire. George Abel wis ordaint and inductit on 14 December 1881 an bed it Udny until his deeth in 1916. He bed a bachelor an his sister keepit hoose until she deid in 1907, fan an ither sister cam tae bide we him.

Abel wis richt beloved be the fowk in Udny and Pitmedden an syne held monthly evening services in Public Hall fit wis aye stappit we fowk. He taen a graan interest in the community being on the Skweel Buird an the Parish Cooncil and cheered the Udny Public Leebrary. He wis a chiel full o wit and humour an aften includit Doric in his sermons. He hid aye scrievit bit is wisna until 1900 thit his varse startit tae appear in local papers under the name o "G. A., Udny". Ower the eers, his freens priggit we him tae tak oot a buik o his wark bit is wisna nor December 1915 thit Wylins fae my Wallet was publisht. Twa wikks later, on Christmas Eve, he left Udny tae exchynge pulpits we his younger brither Rev. Arthur C Abel of Dudhope United Free Kirk, Dundee. He preacht on the Sunday foreneen bit wisna richt an nae able tae tak the evening service. Pneumonia set in an he deid on Sunday 2 January 1916. His funeral taen place it Udny on 6 January an he wis laid tae rest in the kirkyard far he bed sae lang and far he wis sae loved as weel.

His poems spik aa aboot the personalities o the countryside fit he kent best: The Deein Poacher, The Doctor, The Dominie, The Auld Beadle, and a puckle o the poems were aboot fit wis happenin we the First Warl War.

The skweel steed by the wimplin' Don,
In sicht o' Benachie,
An' there the howpfu' mither's son
Gat lear, an' smeddum, tee.

The Dominie I'll ne'er forget
As lang's my mem'ry bides,
His pictur' in my hert is set,
Unblurred by times an' tides.

His quizzin' een ahin' the specks,
His croon o' toozlet hair,
His sonsy cheeks like bulgin' seeks,
A chin twa-faul an' mair.

But kibble he on hills an' dales,
On fleer, on stour, or mud;
His heid weel first, the swalla'-tails
Gaed efter as they cud.

Oor Domsie never took a wife,
Aul' Bet o' hoose had care ;
Wi' her he had aneuch o' strife ;
He widna risk nae mair.

We kent fin there had been a strush,
The tag was to the fore;
Wi' mair than ane he had a brush,
The thrashin's war galore.

But dear to me that lang, lang syne,
In spite o' tag an' dunt;
'Twas then I gat the best that's mine
For time, an' far ayont.

I leernt to coont, an' vreet, an' read,
Gat map an' gremmar dreel,
Cud tell fan kings had lived an' dee'd,
An' Latin verbs aff-reel.

But best o' a', I leernt the Buik
That lifts the human lot ;
Had catechis sax times an ouk--
As aft's the pottage pot.

The Maister ever did his pairt
To teach the wyes o' Gweed,
An' that a clean an' lovin' hert
Was mair than brainy heid.

T H E D O M I N I E

An' fat he bade's he wis himsel',
Nae pick o' hate nor spite;
Fin throu' the reek we got oor kail,
'Twas a' Aul' Betty's wyte.

Fin we gaed oot the warl' to try,
At poopit, shop, or pleuch,
There aye was on's the Maister's eye,
An' that was seer aneuch.

Whan we wan hame to see oor folks,
To Domsie's we gaed owre,
An' got a sneeshin' fae his box,
A kin'ly wird an' glower.

But, oh thae days are far ahin's,
An' Domsie's sleepin' soun',
An' near him aye the river rins,
An' Benachie looks doon.

The Maister had a fun'ral braw ;
A kist o' oak wi' bress,
O' kerridges a half-mile raw,
Ilk chiel in Sawbath dress.

We thocht that he was wirth't an' mair,
For years o' lawbor spent ;
I'll vooch they thocht sae up the Stair,
Far wirth is better kent.

Ay, gin there be a farrer Ian',
Far fowk come to their ain.
Far honest wark we here began,
We'll there begin again ;

Gin there is still in front a task,
Mair things we need to ken,
Oor Domsie will be at the dask,
For he was aye far ben.

An' I will tak' a raith, or mair,
An' hear him ca' my name,
An' he will mak' the drumly clair,
An' Heaven '11 be like hame