he believed were carriers of
the plague. It was for this reason he decreed that burials of these ‘verminous creatures’ be halted, and the remains duly dug up and burned. Certain undesirables looked upon this duty
as a trade, because when remains were brought to court a small payment was paid to the grave-robber. From then on, English gypsies burned their deceased and all they owned.
Like wildfire the king’s ruling spread to Scotland, and soon burials were carried out under a cloak of secrecy and darkness. No sign was left to signify that a dear one lay sleeping
beneath the soil. The only witnesses were kin, and no stranger was allowed anywhere near.
Being from travelling folk, this was a story repeated many times to me as a bairn. If you don’t mind I’d love to repeat John Gilbert’s beautiful poem for you, just in case it
has passed you by.
THE TINKER’S GRAVE
In the drowsie sound o’ a murmurin burn
Far ben in the hert o’ a boskie glen,
There they left the tinker sleepin,
But whaur? There’s nane but the tinkers ken.
Was it close tae the silvery stream o’ the Earn
Or set by the Ruchill’s rockie bed?
The fairies that dance on the Leadnaig’s banks,
Do they lull his sleep wi’ their airy tread?
His bed was lined wi’ the saft green mosses,
His shroud was the tent he had sleepit in.
His dirge was the tune o’ that wimplin burnie
Played on the sough o’ the saft west wind.
Owre him they made the tinker ritual,
They merched roond the grave an they keepit time,
Chatterin aye wi’ a mystic mutter
Some cryptic words in a queer auld rhyme.
The lovelorn merl there in the lerac,
Singin his mate tae sleep fur the nicht,
Soondit the last post owre the tinker,
Full and clear in the fadin licht.
Never a mound did they raise abune him,
Nor chiseled a stane fer his grave tae mark
That unkent spot in the phantom country,
That lies merched in twixt the licht an the dark.
There in the land o’ mellowin gloamin
Whaur the evenin shadows begin tae fa’,
Whaur the nicht comes quietly creepin forrit,
An the day goes gently wastin awa.
In the drowsie soond o’ that murmurin burnie,
Far ben in the hert’ that bowskie glen,
There they left the tinker sleepin—
Whaur? There’s nane but the tinkers ken.
That beautiful picture in verse, written in the old Perthshire tongue, never fails to bring a tear to my eye. However moving it is, my favourite poem of all that has been
written is ‘The Last o’ the Tinklers’ by Violet Jacob. Honest, I challenge the sturdiest heart among you to read it and not to feel a tiny tear welling at the corner of your
eye.
THE LAST O’ THE TINKLERS
Lay me in yon place, lad,
The gloamin’s thick wi’ nicht;
Ah canna see yer face, lad
Fer ma een’s no richt.
But its ower late fur leein,
Fer ah ken fine ah’m deein,
Like an auld craw fleein,
Tae the last o’ the light.
The kye gan tae the byre, lad,
The sheep tae the fauld,
Ye’ll mak a spunk o’ fire, lad,
Fer ma hert’s growin cauld;
And whaur the trees are meetin,
There’s a sound like waters beatin,
An the birds seem near tae greetin
That was aye singin bauld.
There’s just the tent tae leave, lad,
Ah’ve gaithered little gear,
There’s just yersel’ tae grieve, lad,
An the auld dug lyin here;
But when the morn comes creepin
And the waukin birds are cheepin,
Ye’ll find me lyin sleepin,
As I’ve slept saxty year.
Ye’ll rise tae meet the sun, lad,
An baith be trevellin west,
But me that’s auld an done, lad,
Ah’ll bide an’ take ma rest;
For the grey heed is bendin
And this auld shoe needs mendin,
But the trevellin’s near its endin
An’ the endin’s aye the best.
Is that not the saddest poem? It is in my world. Say it aloud to anyone who might listen, it sounds as bonny as it reads.
14
ENEMY AT THE DOOR
T alking about worlds, this tale we’re about to share deals with a certain group of travellers living in their own world—Glen Lyon.
the plague. It was for this reason he decreed that burials of these ‘verminous creatures’ be halted, and the remains duly dug up and burned. Certain undesirables looked upon this duty
as a trade, because when remains were brought to court a small payment was paid to the grave-robber. From then on, English gypsies burned their deceased and all they owned.
Like wildfire the king’s ruling spread to Scotland, and soon burials were carried out under a cloak of secrecy and darkness. No sign was left to signify that a dear one lay sleeping
beneath the soil. The only witnesses were kin, and no stranger was allowed anywhere near.
Being from travelling folk, this was a story repeated many times to me as a bairn. If you don’t mind I’d love to repeat John Gilbert’s beautiful poem for you, just in case it
has passed you by.
THE TINKER’S GRAVE
In the drowsie sound o’ a murmurin burn
Far ben in the hert o’ a boskie glen,
There they left the tinker sleepin,
But whaur? There’s nane but the tinkers ken.
Was it close tae the silvery stream o’ the Earn
Or set by the Ruchill’s rockie bed?
The fairies that dance on the Leadnaig’s banks,
Do they lull his sleep wi’ their airy tread?
His bed was lined wi’ the saft green mosses,
His shroud was the tent he had sleepit in.
His dirge was the tune o’ that wimplin burnie
Played on the sough o’ the saft west wind.
Owre him they made the tinker ritual,
They merched roond the grave an they keepit time,
Chatterin aye wi’ a mystic mutter
Some cryptic words in a queer auld rhyme.
The lovelorn merl there in the lerac,
Singin his mate tae sleep fur the nicht,
Soondit the last post owre the tinker,
Full and clear in the fadin licht.
Never a mound did they raise abune him,
Nor chiseled a stane fer his grave tae mark
That unkent spot in the phantom country,
That lies merched in twixt the licht an the dark.
There in the land o’ mellowin gloamin
Whaur the evenin shadows begin tae fa’,
Whaur the nicht comes quietly creepin forrit,
An the day goes gently wastin awa.
In the drowsie soond o’ that murmurin burnie,
Far ben in the hert’ that bowskie glen,
There they left the tinker sleepin—
Whaur? There’s nane but the tinkers ken.
That beautiful picture in verse, written in the old Perthshire tongue, never fails to bring a tear to my eye. However moving it is, my favourite poem of all that has been
written is ‘The Last o’ the Tinklers’ by Violet Jacob. Honest, I challenge the sturdiest heart among you to read it and not to feel a tiny tear welling at the corner of your
eye.
THE LAST O’ THE TINKLERS
Lay me in yon place, lad,
The gloamin’s thick wi’ nicht;
Ah canna see yer face, lad
Fer ma een’s no richt.
But its ower late fur leein,
Fer ah ken fine ah’m deein,
Like an auld craw fleein,
Tae the last o’ the light.
The kye gan tae the byre, lad,
The sheep tae the fauld,
Ye’ll mak a spunk o’ fire, lad,
Fer ma hert’s growin cauld;
And whaur the trees are meetin,
There’s a sound like waters beatin,
An the birds seem near tae greetin
That was aye singin bauld.
There’s just the tent tae leave, lad,
Ah’ve gaithered little gear,
There’s just yersel’ tae grieve, lad,
An the auld dug lyin here;
But when the morn comes creepin
And the waukin birds are cheepin,
Ye’ll find me lyin sleepin,
As I’ve slept saxty year.
Ye’ll rise tae meet the sun, lad,
An baith be trevellin west,
But me that’s auld an done, lad,
Ah’ll bide an’ take ma rest;
For the grey heed is bendin
And this auld shoe needs mendin,
But the trevellin’s near its endin
An’ the endin’s aye the best.
Is that not the saddest poem? It is in my world. Say it aloud to anyone who might listen, it sounds as bonny as it reads.
14
ENEMY AT THE DOOR
T alking about worlds, this tale we’re about to share deals with a certain group of travellers living in their own world—Glen Lyon.
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