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             mary symon

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MARY SYMON Photograph be kind permission o Robert Gordon's College, Aiberdeen.

MAKAR  |  DUFFTOON

Fir mony fowk e day, e war makars mean fowk lik Rupert Brooke, Siegfried Sassoon, Wilfred Owen or Scotland’s ain E A Mackintosh – chiels fa focht an hid in mony cases deid in e sotter o e trenches.  Thone war makars thit we admire e day didna ayewis hae their scrievin taen oot in buiks or wis weel-kent until efter e war wis deen.

An yit in Dufftoon, Banffshire, bed a spinster damie in her fifties, fa's verse, scrievit in the war, an in Scots, catched e mood o mony fowk an maun be some o e maist fine war verse o e time aboot bein sair-made an lost.  She wis caaed Mary Symon.  Her vreetin is o national stannin. 
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Click ablo tae ging tae National Leebrary o Scotland for digital copy o Deveron Days.
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“Oh English speech for English yird
We ken it’s gran’ an’ fine,
But ah! It takes the dear Scots word
To grip your heart an’ mine.”
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THE GREAT WAR POETS

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MARY  SYMON:  TEXT  BE  ALISTAIR  CAMPBELL

Mary Symon was born on 25th September 1863 in Dufftown, the aulest o the twa dothers o John Symon and Isabella Duncan. Her fadder, Provost o Dufftoon in the 1880s, served his time is a saddler bit gotten intae fairmin an hid a haun in the Pittvaich Distillery.  He bocht Pittyvaich Hoose fit wis Mary's hame for maist o her life.  Mary was squeeled first it Mortlach Public Squeel and then it Edinburgh Institute for Young Ladies far her English dominie wis James Logie Robertson, fa scrived in Scots as Hugh Halliburton and clearly influenced the later scrievin o his protégé quine. She went tae classes at Edinburgh Varsity and graduated fae St Andrews Varsity.  Mary Symon was a wfiie o of graan knowledge, but we her foun richt rooted in the culture, heirskip an tongue o her native Banffshire. 

Her poetry career got yokit it the age of 11 fan her poem aboot the rebiggin o Mortlach Kirk wis publisht.  By the yokin of the twintieth century her work wis printit in the Scots Magazine, the New Century Review, The Century Illustrated Magazine an ither magazines under a boorachie o names including Mary Duff an Malcolm Forbes.  She hid mony interests outside poetry, scrievin articles on mony metters an wis an entertaining spikker on local lore, heirskip an the toung.  She scrievit the squeel sang for Robert Gordon's College in Aiberdeen. 
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Bit is wis the Great War thit brocht oot her best wark, we that wark scrievit in Scots.  After Neuve Chapelle (1915) is a ca tae airms bit it gies a keek o fit life it the front wis like; at its yokin telling o the affa loss o the Gordon Highlanders.  A Whiff O’Hame wis included in a Christmas Book gien tae sodgers in 1916, urging the lads “To ache, an’ fecht, an’ fa’.”   The Soldier’s Cairn and A Recruit for the Gordons staun testimony tae foo she kwid express the thochts  of them fa focht an the sair-made loss of them at hame.  Aa o them shid be read.
 
Bit it is The Glen’s Muster Roll; the Dominie Loquitur, publisht in February 1916, fit stauns as the maist byordinar Scots elegy tae cam oot o the Great War. Nae ither poem evokes so effectively the sense of the loss tae a place o a hail generation of loons.  An elegy of the war deid o  a sma placie, spoke be the Dominie, an lats us ken thit fowk at hame kent fine fit hell and loss war meant.  The vyce of the Dominie is compelling.  He has lairned ivry ain o the hunner or sae loons - young chiels - fas names mak up the muster roll.  The poem concentrates on the fates o echt o his loons, the detail absorbing and affa, affa moving, bit nivver sentimental.  It the feenish, Dominie his a hellish sicht o the deid an wounded gan back tae the squeel room.
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They speir it their aul maister.
“Ah, Maister, tell’s fat a’ this means.”

Bit his only reply can be: 
“I dinna ken, I dinna ken. Fa does, oh, Loons O’ Mine.”
Abidy jalooses fitna wye Mary Symon’s war poems tuggit it the hairts an minds o the fowk.  She is a makar thit fowk felt they kent an here wis a makar fit simple hamely fowk kent and kwid forstaw and fa kwid pit their ain thochts an feelins intae their ain tongue and claik.
 
Mary Symon’s scrievin wis a poetry o kennin an empathy, nae jingoistic nor sentimental. The hail vrangness an horror is brocht hame tae ae placie – and in deein sae stauns as a representative o the hairtbrak o sae mony, mony either placies across Scotland. That Mary Symon’s mither cam fae Cabrach, we aa the sufferings thit it saa during the war eers, gies the poem an added poignancy, strength and resonance fit can aye be seen iday.  Mary Symon’s war poetry biggit her staunin is a national weel-kent makar, we her waurk in mony anthologies. Bit, losh, her collectit poems nivver appeart in ae buik until 1933, fan “Deveron Days” was taen oot. It wis a muckle success and sellt oot in ae wikk.  Immediately taen oot again in a reprint, it sellt oot a second time.  Anither, second edition, we sivven mair poems with taen oot in 1938.
 
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Pittyvaich Hoose, hame tae Mary Symon afore it wis taen doon in the 1970s.
Mary Symon deid at hame, Pittyvaich Hoose, on 27 May 1938.  She wis beeryt we her mither an fadder in a kirkyard at Mortlach in the placie she kent best an loved sae weel.  Charles Murray 'Hamewith' wis ain o her pall bearers.  
 
Mary Symon’s poems an scrievin stand tall, testimony tae a rare talent and brain.  Bit it is as a war poems that mak her a makar o national importance, we a richt skill fir capturing the hellishness o war, sair-made fowk an placies - an aa deen in her aine tongue.
The Dufftown News obituary said o her:
“She was a woman of extraordinarily wide culture, familiar with several languages and a keen and discerning student of literature, philosophy and life. Old Scottish words and phrases were constantly on her lips when she was in the company of those who understood the charm of the pure vernacular. Her native countryside and its people and customs she loved with a passionate devotion.”

The  Glen's  Muster  Roll:  the  Dominie  Loquitur

Hing't up aside the chumley-cheek, the aul' glen's Muster Roll
A' names we ken fae hut an' ha', fae Penang to the Pole,
An' speir na gin I'm prood o't - Josh! coont them line by line,
Near han' a hunner fechtin' men, an' they a' were Loons o' Mine.

A' mine. It's jist like yesterday they sat there raw on raw,
Some tyaavin' wi' the 'Rule o' Three', some widin' throu' 'Mensa';
The map o' Asia's shoogly yet faur Dysie's sheemach head
Gaed cleeter-clatter a' the time the carritches was said.
'A limb,' his greetin' granny swore, 'the aul' deil's very limb' --
But Dysie's deid and drooned lang syne; the 'Cressy' coffined him.
'Man guns upon the fore barbette!'. .. What's that to me an' you?
Here's moss an' burn, the skailin' kirk, aul' Kissack beddin's soo.
It's Peace, it's Hame - but owre the Ben the coastal searchlights shine,
And we ken that Britain's bastions mean -- that sailor Loon o' Mine.

The muirlan's lang, the muirlan's wide, an' fa says 'ships' or 'sea'?
But the tang o' saut that's in wir bleed has puzzled mair than me.
There's Sandy wi' the bristled shins, faur think ye's he the day?
Oot where the hawser's tuggin' taut in the surf o' Suvla Bay;
An' owre the spurs o' Chanak Bahr gaed twa lang stilpert chiels,
I think o' flappin' butteries yet or weyvin' powets' creels --
Exiles on far Australian plains -- but the Lord's ain boomerang
'S the Highland heart that's aye for hame hooever far it gang.
An' the winds that wail owre Anzac an' requiem Lone Pine
Are nae jist a' for stranger kin, for some were Loons a' Mine.

They're comin' hame in twas an' threes; there's Tam fae Singapore--
Yon's his, the string o' buckie-beads abeen the aumry door --
An' Dick MacLeod, his sanshach sel' (Guidsake, a bombardier!)
I see them yet ae summer day come hodgin' but the fleer:
'Please, sir,' (a habber an' a hoast), 'Please, sir' (a gasp, a gulp,
Syne wi' a rush) 'Please-sir-can-we-win-oot-to-droon-a-fulp?'
..Hi, Rover, here, lad! -- aye, that's him, the fulp they didna droon,
But Tam -- puir Tam lies cauld an' stiff on some grey Belgian dune,
An' the Via Dolorosa's there, faur a wee bit cutty quine
Stan's lookin' doon a teem hill road for a sodger Loon a' Mine.
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Fa's neist? the Gaup - A Gordon wi' the 'Bydand' on his broo,
Nae murlacks dreetlin' fae his pooch or owre his grauvit noo,
Nae words o' groff-write trackies on the 'Four best ways to fooge'--
He steed his grun' an' something mair, they tell me, oot at Hooge.
But owre the dyke I'm hearin' yet: 'Lads, fa's on for a swap?.
A lang sook o' a pandrop for the sense o' verbum sap.
Fack's death, I tried to min' on't - here's my gairten wi' the knot--
But -- bizz! a dhubrack loupit as I passed the muckle pot.'
...Ay, ye dinna ken the classics, never heard o' a co-sine,
But here's my aul' lum aff tae ye, dear gowkit Loon o' Mine.

​They're handin' oot the haloes an' three's come to the glen --

There's Jeemack ta'en his Sam Browne to his mither's but an' ben.
Ay, they ca' me 'Blawin' Beelie,' but I never crawed sae crouse
As the day they gaed the V.C. to my filius nullius.
But he winna sit 'Receptions' nor keep on his aureole,
A' he says is 'Dinna haiver, jist rax owre the Bogie Roll.'
An' the Duke an' 's dother shook his han' an' speirt aboot his kin.
'Old family, yes; here sin' the Flood,' I smairtly chippit in.
(Fiech! Noah's Na -- we'd ane wirsels, ye ken, in '29)
I'm nae the man tae stan' an' hear them lichtlie Loon o' Mine.

​Wir Lairdie. That's his mither in her doo's-neck silk gaun by,

The puddock, so she tells me, 's haudin' up the H.L.I.
An' he's stan'in' owre his middle in the Flanders' clort an' dub,
Him 'at eese't to scent his hanky, an' speak o's mornin' 'tub'.
The Manse loon's deffin' divots on the weary road to Lille,
An' he canna flype his stockin's, cause they hinna tae nor heel.
Sennelager's gotten Davie -- a' moo fae lug tae lug --
An' the Kaiser's kyaak, he's writin', 'll neither ryve nor rug,
'But mind ye' (so he post-cairds), 'I'm already owre the Rhine.'
Ay, there's nae a wanworth o' them, though they werna Loons o' Mine.

​...You - Robbie. Memory pictures; Front bench, a curly pow,

A chappit hannie grippin' ticht a Homer men't wi' tow --
The lave a' scrammelin' near him, like bummies roon a bike.
'Fat's this?' 'Fats that?' he'd tell them a' -- ay, speir they fat they like.
My hill-foot lad! A sowl an' brain fae's bonnet to his beets,
A 'Fullerton' in posse, nae the first fun' fowin' peats.
An' I see a blythe young Bajan gang whistlin' doon the brae,
An' I hear a wistful Paladin his patriot credo say.
An' noo, an' noo. I'm waitin' till a puir thing hirples hame --
Ay, 't's the Valley o' the Shadow, nae the mountain heichts o' Fame.
An' where's the nimble nostrum, the dogma fair an' fine.
To still the ruggin' heart I hae for you, oh, Loon o' Mine?


My loons, my loons! Yon winnock gets the settin' sun the same
Here's sklates and skailies, ilka dask a' futtled wi' a name.
An as I sit a vision comes: Ye're troopin' in aince mair,
Ye're back fae Aisne an' Marne an' Meuse, Ypres an' Festubert
Ye re back on weary bleedin' feet -- you, you that danced an' ran --
For every lauchm' loon I kent I see a hell-scarred man.
Not mine but yours to question now! You lift unhappy eyes --
Ah, Maister, tell's fat a' this means.' And I, ye thocht sae wise,
Maun answer wi' the bairn words ye said tae me langsyne:
I dinna ken, I dinna ken. Fa does, oh, Loons a' Mine?'

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