The Maggie Law Maritime Museum Poetry Anthology, compiled by Celia Craig 2013

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The Maggie Law Maritime Museum Poetry Anthology CONTENTS

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1. A Ramble through Kincardineshire to Gourdon from John Kerr’s “Reminiscences of a Wanderer” – possibly the earliest cataloguing of Gourdon and its layout, houses, businesses etc.

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Poems about disasters – Lost at Sea 2. “ ‘Twas a fearful night R.D. 3. “Lines in Memory of the Crew” W. Jarvis 4. “The Gourdon Harbour Disaster” Dave Ramsay 5. “The Scottish Maid” Unknown 6. “The Loss of the Scottish Maid” Unknown 7. “In Memoriam David Wylie” H.K. 8 “The Sea Shall Yet Give Up Its Dead” George Reid 9 “Lost at Sea” Unknown 10. “In Loving Memory” Mrs Hean 11. “The Loss of the Morning Light” Cecilia (Celia) Craig 12. “The Storm” Unknown 13. “ In Sweet Remembrance” Jeanie Leask

5 6 8 9 10 11 12 13 15 16 17 17

Poems of War 14. “The Bella” Dave Ramsay 18 15. “In Memory of my Brother Joseph” Alexander Craig/Alex 19 16. “Fraternal Memorandum” Alex Craig 20 17. “ Mearns Lassie “ James (Jim) Stewart 20 18. “ The Wreck of the Disperser” Alex Craig 21 19. “Parting” Alex Craig 22 20. “Malta Convoy” Francie? Smith/John Cbristie 23 In Praise of Gourdon and the Maggie Law 21. “ My Hame” 22. “Gourdon” 23. “Gourdon” 24. “Gourdon by the Sea” 25. “The Maggie Law” 26. “The Home of the Maggie Law”

Jim Stewart Alex Craig Gourdon school/D.Ramsay Dave Ramsay/Parton Music Dave Ramsay Gourdon School/D.Ramsay

25 25 26 27 28 29

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In praise of a Gourdon Childhood 27. “Can You Remember” 28. “Gurden Herber” 29. “A Gurden Childhood”

David Fotheringham Celia Craig Celia Craig

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In Praise of Gourdon Men and Women – Daily life in Gourdon 30. “Betsy Souter” 31. “My Uncle Jock” 32. “The Rapid” 33. “The Negie and the Zander” 34. “Memories of the Past” 35. “The Baiter” 36. “The Old and New” 37. “To Roy Souter” 38. “To Mrs Roy Souter” 39. “The Partan” 40. “Village Visitor” 41. “Pleengs” 42. “The Fisherman’s Prayer” 43. “The Gourdon Fishermen” 44. “Death Row”

Eileen Townsend Alex Forsyth Alex Craig Alex Craig Jacqueline McLean Raymond Craig Jim Stewart Isles Burness Isles Burness Celia Craig Celia Craig Celia Craig Dave Ramsay Gourdon School/Ramsay David Craig

34 34 35 35 37 39 39 40 40 40 41 42 43 44 45

APPENDIX 1 Obituary : Mr James Mowatt, Boat Builder, Gourdon Boat Builder of the “Maggie Law

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APPENDIX 2 Award : Hugh Lownie Ritchie : Gold Medal Award

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Acknowledgements and Bibliography

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Foreword Nearly all the poems in this Anthology were written by residents and former residents of Gourdon, past and present, poems dating from the last decades of the 19th century to 2013 : a few were written by non-Gurdeners. All the poems relate to Gourdon, the daily lives and work of the people of Gourdon, to themes and issues relevant to Gourdon, including the Maggie Law, surf boat. The poems offer significant insight into fishing, fishermen and their families, their thoughts and feelings as they faced disaster, death and adversity as well as recording their joys, happy times and social interaction, expressing the rich heritage and traditions of the village at different periods of its history. The extended website version will contain a number of additional related poems on the theme of the sea and fishing for purposes of comparison with the purely Gourdon poems, along with illustrative photos and notices and more detailed information on the contributors and background where available.

The Anthology is arranged both chronologically and thematically, beginning with an extract from one of the earliest of the collected poems, John Kerr’s “Reminiscences of a Wanderer”, describing Gourdon in 1890 as a busy, bustling, well-appointed place, progressing through poems concerning disasters and tragedies – Lost at Sea, followed by War poems generated by the First and Second World Wars, to three categories of poems In Praise of – Gourdon and the Maggie Law, a Gourdon Childhood and Men and Women of Gourdon - Daily Life in Gourdon - each arranged chronologically within each category, including more recent poems, inspired directly by the Mearns Heritage Project as related specifically to the Maggie Law Maritime Museum regeneration, some written by Gourdon School children. Some of the poems were located among the papers already submitted to the Maggie Law Museum in its earlier days.

Researching poems for the Anthology was both enriching and rewarding. In particular locating the “Morning Light” poem about the loss of the boat belonging to the family of my great grandfather, Alex Mowatt who lost four sons in the disaster, was enlightening and moving. The people of Gourdon were, as usual, very helpful. For example, Alison Ingram gave me a copy of her father, Jim Stewart’s poems; Raymond Craig wrote down on the spot one day his poem about his Granny baiting and worked on the spelling needed to convey the Gourdon pronunciation of the words properly: Libraries and Archives were also helpful. Others e-mailed poems to me on request or went to the bother of looking through family effects, long stored in the attic. Then there were the poems written by the pupils of Gourdon School, under the inspired guidance of Dave Ramsay, the project Manager as well as his own poems and songs. There were many other equally helpful actions, phone calls, e-mails. I was led to the first poem in this Anthology – Kerr’s “Reminiscences” by my friend, Alice Elder who had become fascinated by Kerr’s extraordinary ramblings and writings, and later I was loaned a copy of his works by other friends, Meg and Andy MacKenzie. The loss of a Gourdon boat in the Great Storm of 1848 is noted in Roy Souter’s invaluable book “A Wild and Rocky Coast”. Towards the end of the process David Smith, Bobby Gowans and John Ritchie provided originals and copies of poems, two of which we had found only in fragments, in response to a press call by Dave Ramsay, (Celia Craig, August 2013).

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The Maggie Law Maritime Museum Poetry Anthology A Ramble Through Kincardineshire to Gourdon - possibly the earliest poem about Gourdon.

An Extract from “Reminiscences of A Wanderer” (published 1892, composed 1890) by John Kerr, Book Agent, Laurencekirk. (Note the reference to the Boatbuilder, probably James (Jeems) Mowatt who built the Maggie Law At Gourdon fishing village now, We find the line, does it pass through; Before we enter we survey Fish-curing stations by the way; Some six or thereby we may find, About the seaport if inclined.

A Life-boat station does appear, Well-manned wi’ shipwreck savin’ gear; A public hotel and an inn, Supplying whisky, beer and gin.

Twa Pubic Halls for lectures, preachin’, For Foresters’ and Templars’ teaching; A Boatbuilder, a Blacksmith too, And lots o’ Coopers work pursue; A Flescher, Souter, China store, And Grocers fully half-a- score..

A Coastguard station will be found, A Public school, too, stands its ground; Artillery Volunteers likewise, And Odd Fellows there improvise; Hunders o’ active fishermen, Their labour in the sea sustain; A Railway Station Agent, too, And Porters all find work to do.

And in the Harbour oft we find, Some scores o’ ships an’ boats combined, Sometimes the herrin’ fishin’ near, They in a crowded state appear; Maist o’ the buildins there appear, A modern size and shape to bear, Some o’ the auldest, great and sma’, For equalizin’ seem to ca’.

But a’thegeither, street by street, They seem commodious and neat, Though while gaen up and down the braes, The road’s gey sair on rainy days.

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Now onward by the links we try, The route to Bervie to descry Upon the right we find the sea,.

The railway on our left will be.

Near it a rocky ledge appears, Like what St Cyrus coastside bears; Onward, we find a grassy brae, Whaur sheep an’ cattle feed an’ stray; We reach the Bervie Batteries now, Big guns, or pounders thirty- two, The Magazine, Artillery Stores, Wi’ cannon balls laid up in scores An’ westward, on the braehead through, We find the Ha’green Castle now, The Battery near it, there might sweep, The bay from danger long to keep.

Lost at Sea – poems commemorating fishing boats and fishermen lost at sea “ ‘Twas a Fearful Night” The poem concerns the Great Storm of August 1848 and was printed in the Montrose Review 25th August 1848. It is subscribed Stonehaven, August 22, 1848, initials R. D. An un-named Gourdon boat was lost in that storm ‘Twas a fearful night when the storm-fiend strode Forth o’er the deep from his dark abode!

Stealthy he came in his power and pride But his deeds of death he sought to hide; For he veiled the moon and the starlit sky, In the black’ning clouds that flitted by, With the speed of the eagle’s downward flight When he darts on the prey from his eyry’s height.

‘Twas a fearful night! for the rain came down Like the cat’ract’s dash, in the tempest’s frown; While bursting from out their corally caves Came the mighty rush of the mountain waves, Curling their crests o’er the barks so frail, That were toss’d like leaves in the autumn gale; While anon they broke, enshrouding in foam Full many a man in an ocean tomb.

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‘Twas a fearful night on the surf beat shore, Where the piercing cries above the roar Of the waves were heard, as the anxious sought Their absent friends in each stranded boat; And as the wind on the waves drove past The upturn’d keel and the broken mast, Their wind shrieks wilder and louder grew, For they told the fate of some ill-starr’d crew.

‘Twas a fearful night for the fisher’s wife, Who had lost in the fierce, unequal strife The dearest ties that she held on earth, Who so lately left her home-lit hearth – A husband dear, and her offspring too, Who exchang’d a fond, but last adieu With her that eve; but alas! – since torn From her heart, and left her alone – forlorn.

‘Twas a fearful night of despair and dread In the fisher’s home; for the fiend had made His motherless children orphans all, While he held on the deep his carnival; And oh! ‘twas a sad, sad sight to see The unconscious babe on the stranger’s knee In his merry play; while in frenzy dire The others call’d on their absent sire.

Poor mourners! they wept and cried in vain; For ne’er in the vacant chair again Will they see their sire, nor upon the hearth Will he mingle more in their joyous mirth.

He hath gone. But a father still they have – A father here and beyond the grave; For Thou, O God! in the evil day Are the widow’s shield and the orphan’s stay.

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The Gourdon Harbour Disaster of October 1875 “Lines in Memory of the Crew, William Wyllie, Skipper, Alexander Ritchie, Walter Ostler, Hendry Ostler, and George Milne, who lost their lives through the foundering of the boat, “Fisher Lassie”, off Gourdon Harbour, on 14th October, 1875”. (W. Jarvis : Bervie, 16th October, 1875).

The crew of the other boat involved in this tragic incident “The Annie Wyllie” ME 44, survived. They were: Robert Gowans, Skipper; Alex. Gowans; Joseph Craig and Alex. Moncur.

The morning was fair, scarce a cloud in the sky To warn our friends that a tempest was nigh.

The small craft was launched, prospects bright as before, The sails set with hope, and they leave the fond shore.

All’s well for a time, the landmark is won, The storm roars aloud ere the work is begun; The sea, once so calm, rolls now mountains high, They run for their safety, look on home with a sigh.

We watch them approach, and we tremble to view The signs of distress of our once buoyant crew; Husbands and fathers and brothers are there – Oh! how awful the thought, “Shall we see them nae mair?”

We trace them within but one furlong from land; The last scene to describe, we no words can command.

The frail bark gives way to the merciless wave; Our friends, five in all, meet a watery grave.

A father, the eldest of our hapless crew, Whom a kind and affectionate parent we knew, Went down; while a son, his joy and his pride, At the age of fifteen, went along by his side.

Another a father, aye loving and kind, Perished too, leaving a widow and three children behind; Five more little ones lie below the green sward, Whose names are recorded in the lone churchyard.

Still another, a father, numbers one of the five, Who, too leaves a widow and six children alive Besides father and mother who sadly mourn, The loss of a son, never more to return.

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Yet another, a youth, the last of the crew, Leaves father and mother, and friends not a few.

Oh! to fathom we cannot nor will pen e’er reveal, The measure of grief each fond bosom must feel.

A warning important the scene gives to all To be up and be ready, prepared for the call; For tomorrow, nay today, there may lower in the sky A storm, with the summons for us from on high .

Take comfort, bereaved, wipe nature’s soft tear That morn shall yet dawn, and the time may be near When our friends we shall meet on yon distant shore, Where storm and where tempest shall part us no more.

“The Gourdon Harbour Disaster” (Dave Ramsay), commemorating the loss of the “Fisher Lassie” ME 28 with all her crew at the harbour mouth in October, 1875. The crew of the other boat involved, “The Annie Wyllie” ME 44, survived.

Details of the disaster can be found in Roy Souter’s invaluable book, “A Wild and Rocky Coast”.

From the east coast port of Gourdon, in 1875, That October day five fishermen, were tae gie up their lives.

In the morning Gourdon harbour saw 40 boats put out tae sea.

The hale fleet it wis sailing, the line fishing grounds tae gae.

Now four or five miles off land, shifting canvas, shifting sail, The wind it changed frae East tae South, worked up tae a gale, Five smaller boats they ran, and got back safe in time The bigger boats were trapped, as they’d just shot their lines.

Tae enter Gourdon harbour in the teeth o’ an easterly, Takes all a skipper’s skill, learned by years at sea.

The channel is sae lang and narrow, ‘tween the East and the West Ness, Tae navigate this in a gale could be a skipper’s final test.

The fleet had run for shelter after hauling in their lines..

Maist had made the harbour but six boats ran oot o’ time.

Jist twa o’ the larger boats, made it tae the harbour mouth, And fower ran for Jonner, the next village tae the South.

The “Annie Wyllie” she pitched up, like matchwood by the sea, A mountain of a broadside threw her men intae the sea Alex Moncur made the shore, and scrambled up the rocks sae fast.

The ither three men of the crew, floated in, on the ship’s mast.

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Now another boat, the “Fisher Lassie”, ME 28, Was following the “Annie Wyllie” tae the harbour gate.

She was hit by a huge broadside, lifted clear above the waves, She grazed the “Annie Wyllie”, she was impossible tae save.

The “Annie Wyllie” crashed on tae the rocks, up on the West Ness, Robert Gowans, Alex Gowans, Joseph Craig had a’ been blessed.

They’d survived the raging seas, and made it tae the harbour mouth, Never thinking they’d be scuppered by the “Fisher Lassie’s bow.

Now the “Fisher Lassie” sank, sadly with all of her hands.

The hale village turned out, and helpless they did stand, Tae see their loved ones perish, right before their very ee’n, The biggest village tragedy, the Gourdon port had ever seen.

The crew o’ the “Fisher Lassie”, were swept off frae the helm, Alexander Ritchie, William Wylie, Geordie Milne, Walter Ostler lost his son, Charles, a lad o’ just fifteen.

Tae watch his young lad drown was the last thing he’d ever seen.

Nae rescue could be mounted, the village stood and watched in vain.

Three widows, 14 children were left tae bear the pain.

Twa bodies they were washed ashore, the following morn.

Twa mair they were recovered frae the calm after the storm.

The “Fisher Lassie” and the “Annie Wyllie” were sunk on that October day, And left behind the grief and pain which never ever fades A fishing village once again gied its men up tae the sea, On that fateful day in October, of the Gourdon tragedy.

“The Scottish Maid” – Lost with all hands off Catterline on 15th December, 1890 (Author unknown : original provided by Bobby Gowans, November 2013, possibly with missing verses at the end).

A poem in Remembrance of Alexander Gowans, who supported an aged mother; William Douglas, who was married in September of this year; Robert Douglas, aged 18, brother of the above; Hugh Gowans, also aged 18 years.

There’s nae a cheek in Gourdon dry, There’s nae a heart but’s sair, There’s no a hame in a’ the place, But has o’ grief its share.

There’s no a bairn in a’ the street, But kens there’s something wrang, There’s no a lad but hings his heid, An’ hushed the maiden’s sang.

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The sough o’sobbin’ hearts is heard, In a’ the place around The very bairns in the street, Hae ceased their merry sound.

For lichtsome hearts at Morning rise Ere nicht are chilled by gloom, For four brave lads that left the shore, Hae met wi’ sudden doom.

The “Scottish Maid, a craft as trig, As ever cleft the wave, Through many a storm had reached the shore, That round her wildly rave.

The Loss of the “Scottish Maid” (Author unknown) December 15, 1890 (Verses missing at the end).

“And, behold, there arose a great tempest in the sea” (Matthew viii, 24), and four Gourdon fishermen were drowned.

“And I saw a new heaven and a new earth; for the first heaven and the first earth were passed away; and there was no more sea.” (Revelations, xxi, 1).

Gone to the grave is our loved one, Gone with a youthful bloom; Lowly we bend, schoolmate and friend, Passing away to the tomb.

Chorus We are going through the valley The deep, dark valley; We’ll see their faces never more, Till we pass through the valley, The dark, death valley, And meet them on the other shore .

Oft we have mingled together, Sometimes in prayer and song; Now when we meet, this one we greet Never again in our throng.

Sweetly the form will be sleeping Under the cypress shade; Sad though we be, fondly will we Cherish the name of the dead.

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Down in the valley they’re going, Down to the other shore; But with the blest – fair land of rest – Weeping will come never more.

“In Memoriam: David Wylie (Fisherman. Kincardineshire)” (Author : H.K.) Who lately, in a storm, was swept overboard by the mainsail boom of the vessel and drowned. Aged 32 years – Was dutiful and kind to his aged widowed mother, who lost his father in the identical same manner. The following is by request of his widow and three young children.

Woe is our home since thou art gone, And left us here to mourn; And to that shore where silence reigns, From whence there’s no return.

Gone from us in the morn of life, When cheer and hope was bright; Now gloom and sadness is our lot, Day seems as turned to night.

We miss thee in the early morn, At noonday and at night; There’s none can cheer our humble home, Or make our hearts so bright.

While they, our children, mourn in tears, And do what seemeth best, To cheer dear mamma in her grief, And soothe her troubled breast.

Rest, husband rest, thy toils are o’er, ‘Midst dangers of the sea; No more amidst the howling winds Thy lot to live shall be.

And here again thy cheering smile Shall greet our eyes no more; But Hope, who is our comfort still Points to a brighter shore.

So may it be; that happy land Shall be our home at last, Where sighs and tears and blighted hopes Are numbered with the past.

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Such is our hope, our humble prayer To him who rules the spheres, Whose hand benign can succour lend And dry our silent tears.

In Loving Memory of James Mowatt who was drowned 3rd December, 1894, aged 20 years (George Reid, Montrose, 6th May, 1895).

“The Sea Shall Yet Give Up Its Dead” He sleeps not where the daisies grow, Nor where the roses bloom, Nor skylark’s warbling notes are heard Above his lonely tomb.

No loving hands the flowerets sweet, Intwined in wreath so fair, Are laid to mark the resting place, And tended with fond care.

But in the great blue cemetery, With many a sailor brave, The lad of our affection Has made his lowly grave.

For him our hearts are aching, Our tears no solace brings, For aye his smile and loving voice Round memory daily clings.

We linger by the deep blue sea, And watch the heaving wave Roll in upon the old grey rocks, Come from our loved one’s grave.

Alas, we know not where he sleeps, Nor can we mark the place Where in the bloom of youth he sank, And ended life’s young race.

The fragrance of this bright, young flower For earth was far too sweet, Now in a region fairer far His bloom shall be complete.

We’ll think of him in yonder land, We will not mourn him dead; But in the realms of the blest With Christ the living head.

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Day after day we will think of him, And view his vacant seat; Day after day we think we hear The sound of James’s feet.

And as the shadows flit and pass Across our window pane, We see the smile upon his face, And think he’s home again.

But the stillness is unbroken By the voice we loved to hear, And the days they bring no token Of James’s coming near.

Alas, to us he cannot pass, But we shall join the throng Of white-robed ones in glory bright, And sing redemption’s song.

‘Tis but a few short years at most, When we shall meet again, And, James, we’ll see thee face to face, Where death has lost his claim.

For once inside the pearly gates, Beside Immanuel’s feet, All long lost ones are found again, All unions are complete.

“Lost at Sea”: a poem written to commemorate the foundering of the “Morning Light”, a Gourdon fishing boat which was engulfed by a high sea on the morning of 22 October, 1909, with the loss of the whole crew of four brothers: William Smart : aged 43 years : Skipper and half brother Alexander Mowatt : aged 36 years David Mowatt : aged 33 years Graham Mowatt : aged 29 years “Lost at Sea” (author unknown) Lost at sea! From Gourdon village, Four brave men, all full of youth; Brothers, sons of aged parents Can these words be very truth.

Lost at sea! Will not some tidings, Reach us of the “Morning Light”?

Can it be her crew lie buried, Gone so soon from mortal sight?

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Lost at sea! We needs must face it, Must believe that ne’er again, In this world shall we behold them, All our watch for them be vain.

Lost at sea! How sad, pathetic, Are the scenes these words call forth, Weeping eyes, hearts well-nigh broken, Empty homes and shadowed hearths.

Lost at sea! The active mother, Needs no more their lines prepare; Never need the fond old father For their comfort have a care.

Lost at sea! Two sad lone widows, Feel for them life’s lamp gone out; Words will never tell them fully, All their anguish, grief and doubt.

Lost at sea! Two little orphans, All unconscious of their loss, Know not of their sad bereavement, Cannot share life’s heavy cross.

Lost at sea! All in a moment, A bright young life has shadowed been, Fondest hopes lie rudely shattered, Gone for her love’s golden dream.

Lost at sea! But not their virtue, Not the brave, leal, loving hearts, Not the souls of Christ’s true followers, Not the goodness Grace imparts.

Not what made them sons worth having, Husbands such as few possess, That which made them true examples, That lives on without recess.

In fond hearts they live forever, Nought will e’er their worth efface, Yea, the rather they’ve grown dearer, Since we saw their empty place.

And in heaven, what here was lovely, What in them was good and true, God shall bring to full perfection, Also give them graces new.

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Lost at sea! Their loss is ours, Ours the want, the sorrow, pain, Ours the lonely nights of weeping, Theirs is the eternal gain.

Blessed Saviour to thy keeping, We our loved ones would resign, Help us not to grudge them to Thee, Nor for them too much repine.

‘Twill not be for long this parting, Gone soon for us life’s little day, Then in yonder many mansions, Where earth’s tears are wiped away.

We again shall greet our loved ones And our bliss shall fuller be, Than when here, because dear Saviour, We shall be at home with Thee.

There the meaning of this sorrow, We in heaven’s own light shall see; The “Man of Sorrows” will interpret The mystery of this loss at sea!

“In Loving Memory” – commemorating the loss of the “Morning Light” (Mrs Hean, West End, Johnshaven).

A boat sailed off from Gourdon shore, One morning fair and bright, Four men upon her in their bloom, They called her “Morning Light”.

Alas how soon their fate was sealed, The wind and waves rose high.

Their little barque they could not wield, They in the sea now lie.

Tho’ these young men were stout and strong, Their lives they could not save, Tho’ struggling hard to reach their home, They found a watery grave.

The one that heaved that awful wave, He claimed the gallant four, Their work was done – Their race was run, Their toil on earth was o’er.

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They left their wives and parents here A sweetheart young and bright, To mourn their loss, and bear their cross, Until “Eternal Light”.

When all will meet – each other greet, If only kept the plan, That Jesus drew, ‘tis ever new, Then all be joined in one.

“The Loss of the ‘Morning Light’” (Cecilia/Celia Craig) I saw the picture on my Granny’s wall – Of her four brothers lost at sea, that day The “Morning Light” went down, swamped in a gale.

Alex and David and Graham Mowatt With Skipper, William Smart, half-brother, Leaving two widows and a bride–to-be, The aged parents, two sisters And a whole village grieving.

The seas were high, high as the railway bridge.

A lump of water had engulfed the boat, Just back from Scarborough fishing herring.

A scull, a flag buoy and a box or two, Marking the spot while gulls swooped at the catch.

Years later came another grievous loss – My Uncle Joseph, Granny’s youngest son Torpedoed, off Iceland, just 23, Serving his country, 1943 My year of birth.

I think too of my father, a near miss, Swept with his crew past Gourdon, in a gale, Making the next harbour, safely.

Aye, they that go down to the sea in ships.

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In Loving Remembrance of ANDREW COLIN MOWATT, MASTER, JOHN RITCHIE, ANDREW RITCHIE, AND JOHN TAYLOR …. Crew of the MAYFLOWER, who were drowned at Gourdon on the the 2nd day of November, 1911 (J.L. Gourdon) The Storm The morning was bright and the sea was calm, And the fishermen rowed so cheery and gay; Love of wives, and mothers, and children dear, Was the aim and hope for the toils of the day.

But in a few short hours the clouds grew dark, And high winds blew over the sea, And smooth waves rose high as in anger they dashed The boats, and fears rose in the hearts on the sea.

“To the Harbour!” they cried, and soon set their sail, And bravely they rowed for the shore, And were welcomed by loving ones weeping with joy, But one boat returned no more.

And all eyes were watching and looking for her To return like the others to home, But cries of anguish and sorrow were heard – For they sunk ‘neath the wild billows’ foam.

Poor mothers, and widows, and children dear, Will miss their dear loving friends; But God will provide, His mercies are sure, And day by day richest blessings will send.

1d each

Proceeds to be devoted to the Casualty Fund

‘ In Sweet Remembrance of Our Dear Son, David Anderson who was drowned in Gourdon Harbour on the 17th August, 1921, Aged 12 Years (Jeanie Leask) The angels sang their evening hymn While stars shone bright and clear, And our dear boy – a darling child – Listened that song to hear.

An angel saw his eager gaze, And lovingly took his hand, And led him to the pastures fair To join that heavenly band.

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His mother’s heart yearns for her boy At eve and early morn, And his vacant seat at the fireside Stands cheerless and forlorn.

No sea! no darkness now!

But Heaven’s everlasting light!

O safe retreat for weary souls!

In that city all is bright.

When morning breaks and shadows flee Loved ones will meet again In joy, in peace, in a Saviour’s love, And in that land remain.

Poems of War “The Bella” (Dave Ramsay) Fae her hame port of Gourdon the Bella set forth Wi’ a crew of six men they steered a course for north.

It was 1916 wi’ the country at war But the lads of the Bella they didnae get far.

Line fishing it was the task of the day As they shot their lines just off Catterline Bay To hunt fine silver fish and tae Gourdon tae sell When the fisherman became the hunted themselves.

A German U-boat had surfaced and came closing in Took command of the Bella and all of the men.

Wi’ the crew taken prisoner by German marines, The Bella was blown in the water intae smithereens.

There was skipper James Ritchie, Auld Brimy by-name, His son Jimmy Ritchie, a fine lad o his ane, James Freeman Ritchie, William Ritchie and a’ On that German U-boat they were ta’en awa’.

Auld Johnny was the tee name for old John Cargill And Davity, his son was ta’en prisoner as well.

In the morning six fishermen were working and free And by nightfall they were sailing for far Germany.

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Now what was the sense in such an event?

Fower Ritchies, twa Cargills tae Germany went.

As prisoners of war for two years they stayed For fishing that day in Catterline Bay. When they returned tae their hames and in Gourdon set foot, I’m sure they oft wondered whit it wis a’ aboot For the whole German Navy and yon Kaiser fellah Scared o’ six Gourdon men and their boat called the Bella.

“In memory of my brother Joseph” Killed in action – 11th April 1943 (Alexander Mowatt Craig) We do not need forget-me-nots Or your picture on the wall To remind us to remember Or your youthful days recall.

You will always be just as you were You will never older grow.

As the years go by we’ll remember you As our faithful brother Joe. As we grow old and our eyes grow dim Our memory may sometimes fail But love in unforgetful hearts For you, will ever prevail.

When that day the sad news came It rent our very hearts And life’s blood seemed to trickle down From souls half torn apart.

Grief and anguish rent our souls Our wishes were in vain Alas, alas, upon this earth We’ll never see you again.

We loved you well, you loved us too And wherever we may go The engraven memory in our hearts Will go, dear Brother Joe. We hope you are in the Happy Land Away from earthly strife Where God is good And Jesus Christ, gives everlasting life.

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“Fraternal Memorandum” (in memory of Willie Cargill) (Alex Craig) My heart is sad and full of grief In my eye there springs a tear When I remember my old pal, A friend I loved so dear.

It was on board the Carnarvon Castle Down South Atlantic way He was killed by a piece of flying shell And buried at sea that day.

It seems so hard, but it is true We will ne’er see him again.

They buried him in a watery grave Somewhere on the Raging Main.

He was so young and full of life, An ideal blooming rose.

That flower was plucked while in the bud And now rests in sweet repose.

There will always be a spot, dear Bill, Left in my heart for you.

The world may, but I’ll ne’er forget A pal so good and true.

“Mearns Lassie” (Jim /James Stewart) (A Petty Officer from the Mearns, now on duty off the coast of Normandy, dedicates these lines to all Mearns’ lassies) Mearns lassie, once again we face the German foe Upon the coast where fields of lovely poppies grow And while the roar of gunfire rends the air I humbly try to offer up a prayer That he who guards us and our every way discerns May guide me through to safety in our beloved Mearns.

Mearns lassie, I will do my very best To face up to this onslaught’s grimmest test And venturing over tracks which many leave For destinations where no war shall grieve I’ll find sweet solace in the thought that ever turns To be with you once more in our beloved Mearns

21

Mearns lassie, I had never thought or planned For war clouds hov’ring o’er our pleasant land Nor partings for such years as these have been With few short spells to bridge the gap between.

Yet from his roamings to and fro this wanderer learns To love no place so dear as his beloved Mearns, Mearns lassie, filtering through this barrage haze Appears a hope for bright and happier days When we shall once again renew our lease Of home which breathes of friendship, love and peace, The sanctuary for which this heart forever yearns And hungers to be back, in its beloved Mearns.

“The Wreck of the Disperser” (Alex Craig, then stationed in Kirkwall Bay, Orkney, WWII) We strolled around the deck one night, After our work was done, Little thinking of the dangers, And horrors that were to come.

The air that night was cold and damp: It was cold enough for snow.

The sky seemed like an approaching storm Although not an air of wind did blow.

Away to the north the sky was red ‘Twas a sign of wind and rain And before the clock struck 12 that night It blew a hurricane.

Some ships were lying in the bay, Some tied up at the pier.

When the wind blew hard, they tossed their heads It seemed as if in fear.

How the wind did blow that night!

The seas came mountains high And five of the ships that lay in the bay Were washed up, high and dry.

The storm did last an hour or two, Then went as quick as it came And everything seemed quiet once again – No snow or wind or rain.

22

Though everything was still once more, Everything was not well – Five ships ashore, one ship sunk – ‘Tis a mournful story to tell.

For in that bay the “Disperser” lay.

She had seemed so safe and sound But the sea had filled up her hold – She sank - and ten of her crew were drowned.

“Parting” (Alex Craig) I was leaving a lovely girl at home But the parting was not sad ‘Cos it was only for a day or two Because of that I was so glad.

It was over a job to guard a ship That came in just that day.

She was under suspicion, therefore held Captive, in Kirkwall Bay. But e’er I was away an hour.

My heart was longing for The girl that I had left behind, The girl that I adore.

As I went on guard that night, Guarding those foreign men, The only pleasant thought I had, Was, I’ll soon be back again.

Now I am back on watch once more But ‘tis the setting sun I see.

‘Tis the same said sight but not so good, As when watched by you and me.

As I watch I feel all alone, For without you here, my dear, This lovely sight is wasted For you and me, I fear.

So hurry on, you dreary hours.

Let’s see what tomorrow will bring For I long to roam with the girl I love O’er the fields where the skylarks sing.

23

“Malta Convoy”

(Francie? Smith and John Christie : Gibraltar August 1942)

Our gallant Malta still stands fast, a fact our foes will rue, But guns and planes and ammunition must keep going through.

The Huns and Wops have done their best to make her bite the dust, But Malta stands the champion of all that’s right and just.

One August day a convoy sailed to answer Malta’s plea The escort was the greatest force that ever put to sea.

The battleships were NELSON and the mighty RODNEY too, And aircraft carriers, five in all, a glorious sight to view.

INDOMITABLE, FURIOUS, VICTORIOUS and **** too, With EAGLE bringing up the rear, how proud their ensigns flew, And seven cruisers, KENYA, CAIRO, PHOEBE, CHARYBIDIS, NIGERIA, SIRIUS and MANCHESTER – a thrill I wouldn’t miss.

And thirty-one destroyers screened this mighty naval force, A screen of ocean greyhounds, fit to guard our eastward course.

This force will surely reach in spite of Wops and Huns And bring to Malta all she needs to feed her hungry guns.

We reached the Med. in dead of night and passed on through the Straits, And every man is ready for the hell we know awaits.

There’s something fine about this force that steams with baited breath, Towards the east and heading into the jaws of death.

The Wops have called this sea their own and this they try to prove, When all at once a sub appears and things begin to move.

The EAGLE is torpedoed and that gallant ship goes down, For her the war is over but she’s won undying fame.

The tension now is broken and for that we are mighty glad, The EAGLE’s loss is felt by all but now we are fighting mad When the bombers come at last we give them all we’ve got, For every man has made a vow to cancel that first blot.

We keep them off throughout the day and shoot down seven at least, And all the time we are creeping on and on towards the East.

The night is short and soon the dawn is on us once again, It shows the upturned faces of our eager, watching men.

We aren’t disappointed for with the morning’s first faint light, The first attackers show themselves within our straining sights.

Once more our guns are roaring, spitting forth their streams of death, And on that morning many a Nazi breathed his dying breath.

24

All through that day the foe attacked in waves both large and small, All day the guns keep at answering each and every call.

The U-boats too are busy but we keep them all at bay, Until the sun goes down and brings an end to one more day.

At dusk the battlefleet do leave, NIGERIA takes command, With KENYA, CAIRO, MANCHESTER, and destroyers of sterling brand.

But stay: as darkness falls a pack of U-boats closes in, They’re banking all on this attack, they’re going out to win.

The CAIRO’s hit, NIGERIA too, the foe we cannot check.

INDOMITABLE gets two bombs upon her long fight deck.

The convoy’s in confusion but KENYA’s fighting still.

Her Captain takes command, the convoy can go through and will.

But KENYA doesn’t miss it all, torpedo tracks we see, The Captain turns at one to Port, with still avoiding three.

The fourth one hits us for’d. Is our luck to turn at last?

But no, we stagger onward, for the moment danger passed.

All through the night the convoy steams along Tunisia’s coast, Impossible to get through here, the Wops and Huns all boast.

Their E-boats and their submarines attack from dusk till dawn.

In dead of night they score a hit and MANCHESTER goes down.

The KENYA is the cruiser left, the only one of four.

She carries on though damaged, past the enemy’s very door, And in the morning Malta’s seen and what a welcome sight It seemed like home when we recalled the horrors of the night.

The CHARYBIDIS has joined us now, the local escort too, The convoy’s handed over, but we’ve STILL A LOT TO DO. The enemy will try to stop our force from getting back, We’ll meet their planes and E-boats and their lurking U-boat pack.

The channels’ safely traversed but the bombers swarm like flies.

Their bombs screech down, our guns reply and clamour fills the skies.

The KENYA’s very nearly hit, the engine room’s on fire, But on and on we fight, each man determined not to tire.

For hours and hours that hail of death is poured upon our ships, And many a brave man trembles, a prayer upon his lips, But rest is coming and at last the battlefleet we see.

We’ve found our way through hell and back and now once more we’re free.

Another convoy’s safely through, the Navy is proud today, But KENYA’s proudest of them all – for she went all the way, And Malta’s once again equipped to stand against the Hun. She’ll always stand, a fortress and isle, until this war is won.

25

In Praise of Gourdon and the Maggie Law “My Hame” (Jim Stewart) Gie me the wee placie that nestles sae close O’re the edge of the Braes whar the wild billows toss Unspoiled by the cantrips o’modern art, Rekindlin’ sae aften a warmth in my heart.

Down yonder I’ve pleasures mid sunshine and faem; In hillock, in hollow I’m countit the same.

Nae place in Warld’s like Gourdon my hame.

“Gourdon” (Alex Craig : written during WW II) A little village called Gourdon, On the North East coast doth stand, And although it’s small it is to me, The best place in the land.

Situated at the foot of a hill, Its shores washed by the seas, It bears the stormy winter’s blast, Enjoys the summer breeze.

When the stormy winter comes, And with it, the South East storm, The raging seas dash on the streets.

Ah, then it is forlorn!

But when the glorious summer comes, And in the morning when you arise, You look around, and then you see, A place like Paradise.

If you leave this dear old place, You leave the salt-sea air.

Then, you realise the place you’ve left Is a place beyond compare.

Some folks have left this dear old place And left it with good will But something seems to draw them back To the place at the foot of the hill.

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“Gourdon”

(Words: Gourdon Primary School : Music: Dave Ramsay)

Chorus Gourdon is a fishing village down by the sea, Gourdon is a special village and it’s hame tae me, A harbour full of fishing boats catching hauls of fish, Deep fried in batter, aye, they make a tasty dish.

Gourdon has a harbour, facing to the south, Rocky and stormy, just at the harbour mouth, In days lang syne gone by, Gourdon had the Maggie Law, The finest inshore surf boat that you ever saw.

Chorus I like to watch the sea, splash high upon the pier, On a bright and sunny day, the water is sae clear, I like to see the seaweed, washing up against the shore, When I have my fish and chips, I always want some more.

Chorus There are boats doon in the harbour, chained tae the dock, Sometimes when a boat comes in, it might hit a rock, That’s when the lifeboat, went out on a shout, Bravely saving fishermen, all without a doubt.

Chorus I live in Gourdon, I live up the brae, The best view in the world, looking right across the bay, Gourdon is my hame, where the wind blows in my face, We a’ think that Gourdon is a really special place.

Chorus (Recorded on the Tales of Gourdon and the Maggie Law CD 2010 at the Links Hotel and Gourdon School)

“Gourdon by the Sea”

(Words: Ramsay : Music: Parton Music Inc.)

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G-0-U-R-D-O-N spells Gourdon by the sea, The best wee village on the hale east coast, ‘tween Jonner and Bervie, There’s fish hooses, smoke hooses, public hooses, a’ nestled aroon’ the quay, If it’s quality ye seek, get yirsel doon tae Keek for the best fish you’ll ever see.

I wis oot wan day doon Johner way, seekin’ lobster frae McBay, I says is it fresh, he says och yes, it’s just walked up frae the quay, I sniffed at its tail and I went quite pale, I says tae him this thing smells high, If it walked frae the sea, richt up tae yer quay, it must have stood on something on the way.

Chorus

G-O-U-R-L-I-N-E for the best fish you’ll ever see, Wi’ shops in Stanehive and Montrose, and a posh one in Banchory, There’s never any doot when ye’re fishin’ aboot, for something fur yer tea, It’s nae that far frae the Harbour Bar, the best fish shop on the quay.

Chorus Rick Stein, Tom Weir, Fyffe Robertson, are just a few celebrities, Tae bring Gourdon’s name and Gourdon’s fish on tae oor TVs, But there’s a famous chef I’m pleased to say, has gone and changed his name today, He’s the chef that swears, but dae we really care, he’s now called Gourdon Ramsay.

Chorus Now the Gourline shop sells a’ kind o’ things, there’s a rich variety, A’ kinds o’ fish tae mak’ a fine dish, for yer dinner or yer tea, But if it’s culture ye want then Keek’s yer man, for the local history.

It’s nae bather at a’ tae see the Maggie Law, ye’ve jist tae ask him fur the key.

Chorus Noo this wee tale is near at an end, as the evening draws tae a close, We’ve made a wee bit money, had wee bit fun, that’s whit we wanted I suppose, But let’s remember for a meenit or twa, brave men who’ve passed awa’ So let’s a’ strive tae keep the memory alive o’ the surfboat, the Maggie Law. Chorus (For Susan. The song was performed for the first time at the Maggie Law fund raising concert in the Crown Hotel Inverbervie on 21st August 2009 in the Year of the Homecoming)

“The Maggie Law “

(Words and Music by Dave Ramsay, 2007)

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Kincardine’s wild and rocky coast Wis well known for its dangers more than most Wi’ reefs and rocks and cliffs sae steep Many ships and sailors came to grief.

Chorus The Gurden surf boat the Maggie Law, The Gurden surfboat the Maggie Law. Now the answer tae saving fishermen’s lives Wis tae build a boat that could match the tides A surf- boat that could ride the foam And bring shipwrecked sailors and fishermen home.

In the month of March 1890 The fishermen of Gurdon they did agree Tae build a boat and pay the fee A penny in the pound was the price agreed.

James (Jeems) Mowatt wi’ boatbuilding skills Made a craft that would fairly fit the bill A finer boat ye never saw The Gurden surf-boat the Maggie Law. 30 feet in length and a beam of 6 feet She rowed six oars steered by a long sweep Wi’ throwing line and life-saving gear She took pride o’ place at the eastern pier This proud surf-boat as her record tells Battled the sea in squalls and swells In 40 years tae be precise She saved a total of 36 lives.

As she sits today in her Gurden shed Proud of the men she plucked from the dead Ye can feel gey humble, spare a thocht or twa For the brave crewmen of the Maggie Law.

“The Home of the Maggie Law” (Words: Gourdon Primary School : Music: Dave Ramsay : Amended 10th May 2010)

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Chorus Oh Gourdon is the place tae be The men out fishing at the sea x2

Gourdon is our village, it fills oor hearts wi pride It really is a fine wee place, there’s naewhere else I’d bide, Walking by the harbourside, watching tides and breakers race, Wi’ the salty spray fare Gourdon bay blawin’ in my face.

Chorus Rough waves they crashed against each face o’ Gourdon’s pier, People stood there troubled, and their eyes were filled wi’ fear, Oh we really need a lifeboat, for the safety of our men, And a crew o’ six tae man her oars, penny in the pound we’ll spend.

Chorus Jeems Mowatt took their orders, built the men their boat, A surfboat, that would brave the seas, a reliable lifeboat, Wi’ the finest gear for saving lives, the fastest they can be Bringing Gourdon men back tae the shore, safe then from the sea.

Chorus The Emma Kathleen ‘n the Harvester, twa names that come tae mind, Frae Gourdon fleet in the early days, until the present time, Those early fishermen took their lines, frae the harbour sailed awa’ Safer, wi’ mair peace o’ mind, watched ower by the Maggie Law. Chorus Now she didnae fish, she had nae nets, but saved near forty men, Spare a thocht for her brave crews, battling wind and rain, As she helped the Gourdon fishermen, in those far off days gone by, Tae keep alive her memory, we’re all obliged tae try.

Chorus (Verse to be used in live concerts) Noo the Gourdon fleet and fishing, it has sadly changed, Landings, net size, quotas, noo they’re all arranged, The lifeboats they’ve got better, new technology and a’ But their job today is jist the same, as the men o’ the Maggie Law

\#

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In Praise of a Gourdon Childhood “Can you Remember” (David Fotheringham, of Gourdon and Dundee) (Childhood – 1940s) Did ye play Catty and batty and Kick the Can, Buy sweeties at Bannerman’s and Lizzie Ann, Sit on the Gurlin stairs wi’ your pals for a yarn, Or boil buckies in a tin at the back o’ the barn, Have you sailed a corker in the big pool, Or made a catty’s tail wi’ odd bits o’ wool, Did you ever make your own podlie wand, Catching podlies at the Gutty was just grand.

Did you ever climb up the Apparatus pole, Or play treacle ower the Warehole, Have you flown aeroplanes at the quarries, Or scrambled for pennies when somebody marries, How often did you cross the widen brig, Runnin’ up and doon when playing at tig, Fa’en smokies – you surely remember the taste, Wi’ hordes o’bairns nothing went to waste.

You might not remember who was on the throne, But you’ll mind Jimmy Cook and the “I’m Alone”, The Margaret Dawson and Maggie Law, And countless fishing boats that are noo awa.

Miss McIntyre and Friday Band of Hope, (With marvellous pictures in Cinemascope?)

No, it was slides projected on to the screen, From Dovey and his magic lantern machine.

Memories to cherish and things to forget, Like those open middens – I can still see them yet, And we must not forget who cleaned them, of course, Andrew Clink and Queenie, his faithful old horse.

Remember the dances in the village hall, Wi MC Andy Simpson always on call, Take your partners for the Patternelly, Happy days before the advent of telly.

How often did you pull the lifeboat oot, (Not everyone got checks who were hanging aboot).

The new dykes are still there but they’re not very new, And the Partan Roadie is overgrown noo.

Jockie Fergie, John Corner, there’s lots more to say, Georgina’s parrot squawking “Frankie” all day.

Mac – the stationmaster – there’s no station, no train, People and places – only memories remain.

But if you can recall just a few of these things, And enjoy happy thoughts remembering brings, Then all I can say is very plain to see, You were surely brought up in Gourdon – the same as me.

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Gurden Herber” (1950s) (Celia Craig) Fin I wis a lassie in Gurden It wis doon at the herber we’d be The hale lang, glorious summer, Watchin the boats comin in fae the sea.

Harvester, Reaper and Happy Return, Star o’ Bethlehem, Quest an aa But the best o them aa wis the Trustful, My father, the Skipper sae braw.

Past the auld, curvin horse-shoe braakwater Syne landin their catch on the pier, Then salesman, and merchants cam clusterin roond At the fish market, makin a steer.

Yellow oilskins, blue een and a smile, My father wis in fae the sea.

The partans and labsters were landit Wi maybe a fry ti wir tea.

It wis gey cauld and dreich in the winter My mither wis baitin the line Fin a gale drove the Trustful past Gurden And she thocht that my father she’d tine.

Soakin weet, they had made the next herber, Then hame, safe and sound in his bed.

Eneuch o thae coorse, drublie winters Bring back glorious summers instead.

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“ A Gurden Childdhood” (Early 1950s) (Celia Craig) It wis bonnie in Gurden in springtime, Yalla primroses specklin the braes.

We githered them, up fae the Cauldwall For wir mithers ti pit in a vase.

There was Warnie and tig in the playgrund And ca-the-rope skippin and ba’s.

Each game hid its sang – say the Alley-O As ropes slapped and ba’s stotted aff wa’s.

On fine summer days in auld Gurden There wis games, games galore ti play, Crawlin across the fitba pitch In deserts – the haill lang day.

There wis hoosies and dallies and shoppies And dashin around on wir bikes There wis cowboys and Indians and others And jumpin aboot o’er dykes The back gairden swing was excitin, My Dad’s Navy hammock gid fun, Lazily swingin and drowsing And the tentie was shaded and dim.

Suragellie water was lovely Though taakin a lang time ti maak, Shaakin the bitties o licorice In a bottle ere a drap ye kid taak.

There wis dookin and fishin for podlies, Bandies in rock pools at the beach, Turnin up steens for crabbies That scuttered awa oot o reach.

Bonnie lemmies were placed in rock hoosies, Then we louped rock ti rock, steen ti steen, Sure-fitted but somedae aye slippit On the seaweed, sae slimy and green.

We played follow-the-leader like dare deils.

We strung syrup cans, walkin on high.

We climbed doon the horse-shoe braak wattter Till recalled by my Deddie’s loud cry!

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We hid stilts o wid – tennis bats, swords, Aa widden – my Uncle wis good And efter a dook in the herber To Granny’s – a shivery bite o food.

We spent oor eftir oor at the herber.

It seemed like the best place to be The haill, lang, glorious summer Watchin the boats comin in fae the sea.

On warm summer nichts in oor village We daundered awa doon the toon Ti watch cricket, play rounders and kick-the-can Till the darkness began ti come doon.

Then alang ti the Den in the autumn For rosehips and haws – plenty there.

We threeded them, maakin fine necklaces.

There were rowan berries ti spare.

Next came guisin and turnip lanterns, The candle grease smellin sae strang, Then awa ti the tattie pickin, Gid fun, though bits were o’er lang.

Then came bangers and squeebs and sparklers, The bonfire flames rising high But already cauld winter was threatnin, Wi snaw dingin doon fae the sky.

Sledgin wis best in the winter, Doon the brae at the back o the Hall.

There wis snawba’s and snawmen and slideys.

Watch oot! Dinna crash on the wall!

We hid perties and concerts and Sinty, Hame-made garlands deckin the wa’s And a new velvet frock, sae bonnie, Wee gold sandals ti dance in the ha’s.

Christmas and Mission Hall services, Hogmanay and First Fittin wis fun.

Then New Year, followed by Burns Nicht Wi Easter soon comin on.

Syne snawdraps heralded springtime, Pale primroses specklin the braes.

We githered them, up fae the Cauldwall Fir wir mithers ti pit in a vase.

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35

In Praise of the Men and Women of Gourdon – Daily life in Gourdon “Betsy Souter” (A Tribute to a noble Johnshaven/Gourdon fishwife) (Eileen Townsend) For forty years she trod the Partan Roadie Frae the Haughs o’ Benholm ow’re the Garvock and into the Howe, Her auld bauchled shoon like herself Worn down wi’ age and long miles travelled, A heavy creel on a back now bent wi’ toil.

Gnarled hands worked the wool on her wires As she made her painful way Up the the path to the castle of Benholm.

Just ‘the auld fishwife’ to those inside, But more noble a soul than any lady Who ever lived within its ancient walls.

“My Uncle Jock” (Alex Forsyth) Just a tribute to a grand old man, a man whom we hold dear, Who has reached the age of eight-five, this coronation year.

He’s set an example to us all, a credit to our race, And if we had more like him, the world would be a better place.

For all his life, let it be said, he always played the game, Throughout the years, good times or bad, he’s always been the same, And life was not always easy for old folks just like him, And at times down there in Gourdon, things were mighty grim.

For many a bad luck story has my father told to me, Of the fight they had in times gone by, to wrest a living from the sea.

Of the hardships and the poverty, and the struggle to survive, But he won through and I’m proud to say, today he’s eighty-five.

He has no grand or fancy airs, no bluster or false pride, He’s been the family mainstay, a true and faithful guide.

His step’s still brisk, his eye still keen, on his face a cheery grin, I only hope at eighty-five I’ll be the same as him.

Just a humble, honest fisherman, with a heart of purest gold, Let’s thank him now for all he’s done, now that he is growing old.

And who is this man with virtues rare, as steady as a rock.

Why, he’s one of nature’s gentlemen, yes, that’s my uncle Jock

“The Rapid” (Alex Craig)

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A clinker boat called the” Rapid”, Pretty well done – that’s true But many a stormy day she had Before her day was through.

Her Skipper was Jim Middleton, A tough old man, I’ll say.

He never blinked an eyelash, Although often covered with spray.

He worked right hard – all day long: He worked just like a slave And many a stormy day he spent; Many a South-West wind did brave But good, old Jim is now retired And round the town doth stroll.

He sits beside the fire at night And smokes up Bogie Roll.

“Put out that pipe!” old Liz doth cry.

“The reek hath such a smell.

It nips my eyes; it nips my throat; It nips my nose as well.”

But Jim just puffs away and says, “Aye min – you’re just a blether” But still he takes her by the hand Because she’s still the flower o’ the heather.

“The Negie and the Zander” by Alex Craig A fellow called the Negie, Bold, blyth and gay, Thought he’d try the fishing, So at the Mill he wouldn’t stay.

Now this young lad did leave the Mill And started off to sea As engineer on board a boat Called “The Craigielea” But alas, alas! He wrongly chose And often he would say, “’Tis sorry I am I left the Mill.

I’ll be sorry to my dying day!”

But the Negie had made his bed

37

And on it he must lie.

Although more often hard than soft, He’d stick it with a sigh.

The boat was small – she had no speed.

She could not punch at all And often through the lack of power, They had to shoot in Gritely Hole.

With lines and creels and cod nets too, I’m sure they did their best And for the Negie and dear old Dad, There simply was no rest.

Now the Negie had a brother.

Zander was his name.

He started the sea, with the “Craigielea”.

It was himself to blame.

Now this is the crew of the “Craigielea – The Negie, Zander and Dad And boldly those three set off to sea.

Many a stormy day they had.

Often they battled with a South-West wind, Often with their tongue – Often, aye, for hours on end, Often till the day was done.

They worked so hard, those three braw lads For their daily livelihood, It didn’t do them ill at all.

I think it did them good.

There came a howling South-East storm In the angry winter time.

The “Craigielea” was sunk by sea And crushed by the foaming brine.

But not to be outdone Another boat those three did buy.

She was some bigger, a wee bit better, So the seine net they did try.

Now as it happens I am the Zander And what I say is true.

There was a day whilst in the bay, We had a glorious set-to.

We fought that day, all three of us While lying in the bay.

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My father swore he’d sell the boat.

Here’s what the Neig did say.

“You say you are to sell the boat.

All right – I’ll buy her – she’s mine.”

The Old Man said, “You’ll get her cheap.”

The Negie said, “That’s fine!”

But for the Neig and Zander, For present those days are done.

They are fighting for freedom and the ones they love.

They are boldly fighting the Hun. Memories of the Past”

(Jacqueline McLean, nee Cargill)

Did you cum fae Gurden And yer father ging tae Sea? Yer mither rise the early oors In the sheddy she wid be, Raking through the garra water Wi her sheel blade in her hand Getting mussels ready Wi Granny’s help wis grand.

Granny sheelt half the mussels Her baiten apprin she wid wear ‘Granny, how di ye ken foo much to sheel?’

‘Eh lassie – till ma shudder blades are sair.’

Baiting boardie to the brim Mussels ready to begin Skull set high upon the horse Gob brimming fu o’ gaithered girse.

Garra bags upon their knees Mussels put on heuks Some in twas, some in threes.

Heukes set doon line efter line1 When wark was feenished A sup tea was just fine.

1

Baiting lines was a daily chore for wives and sweethearts in Gourdon right through to the 1970s and a little thereafter. My mother,Ciss ( Elizabeth), like Jacqueline’s mother, baited the 1200 hook-line (sometimes 900 hooks) daily and either shelled mussels themselves or employed a sheeler. The whole business took many hours a day. The preparation of the line for shooting at sea and then the redding and repairing after it had been fished and hauled took considerable time from the men of the family. A detailed account of the whole process can be read on the Elphinestone Institute of Aberdeen University website in the Oral History Interviews conducted by Celia Craig with a number of Gourdon fishermen, in particular the interview with Andrew Gove Cargill being most extensive.

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Steaming fae the shall water The boaties they wid steer Landing whiting, cod and haddock Now they’d berthed langside the pier.

Kerties made wi auld pram wheels The lines wir pit on board On tap the empty piece box And a fry for up the road.

Dad and deddy busy-redding lines and tipping heuks Beaten threed at the ready to mend the eens that broke.

Deddy, ready-fu he waited To redd the back o’the line mam baited.

Mam’s nearly feenished baiten –she’s on the last hunk noo Granny looks at mam and shaks her heed As she sees the biddum o the basket Wi a gret big sigh – she says, ‘Oh! dear me sirs - eh – lassie – foo we’re tasket!

From time to time, we were sent fir bark To the Sochie off we’ track. 2 We’d kerry it hame in broon paper pokes Sometimes tak the lang road And ging hame ower the rocks.3 Wi the boiler on the firie The bark was couped into dye Lines were left to steep And fir ages they wid lye.

Fan ready they’d be hauled oot Wringing, dreeping, soaking weet Cloved and hung on claes poles Left ready ti dry a week.

Seems they lived that hard way of life Sic a lang time ago.

If speered ‘Fit job wid ye have liked?’

They’d say, ‘Fit aither kid a doh.’

A fisherman’s life was a hard life Ma mither’s hands often sair and roch 2

The Sochie was the Gourdon Fishermen’s Association : the shop, a sort of ship’s chandler for fishermen supplied clothing and equipment necessary to pursue line fishing and seine net fishing as well as accessing and delivering lorry-loads of mussels each day for mussel shelling, ready for the baiting of the line next day. Mussels might be sourced further south from the Tay or north to the Neeburgh.

3 The reference in this verse is to a preservative for a new line – bark.

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Bit I’m still prood to be a fisherman’s dother Brocht up wi the mussel troch. 4

“The Baiter”

(Raymond Craig)

Cauld, callused fing-ers, Sheel-blade-hackit, A peenie roond hir waist, An auld chair back, a baisin, The past ten - twenty yeer she’s faced.

Grey, woollen shawl aroond hir heid, Haiter at hir feet A skull, a line, a mussel troch, Twelve hunder heuks – Oh, what a thocht!

“The Old and New” (Jim Stewart) (Dialogue between an old dancer, “OD” and Gourdon Hall, “GH” when a new floor was put in the Hall) OD Lang hae I heard o’ dancers tiggin’ To use their skill an’ po’ers o’ jiggin’ I’m sic a sair, auld, cankered biggin As thee, dear Ha’ Whaur Lads and Lasses aince were trig in Days noo awa.

GH Oh sair, sair ha’e I aft been dirkit An aften ha’e my een been smirkit Yet tho’ my broo be auld and lurkit I’m hale and stoot An’ like the miller’s soo, weel porkit Baith in and oot.

OD Within thy wa’s there’s mony met Their bonnie lass wi’ her’t sae het An love that they could ne’er forget Cum into sicht But noo, thae freens, dear Ha’ I fret At thee’s ta’en fricht.

“To Roy Souter” (Isles Burness)

4

This is a sentiment with which I most heartily concur.

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Gin you’re inclined in verse or prose, A story to be telling, Beware a certain Gourdon lad, Wha’s daith on dodgy spelling.

Of something, if you’re certain sure, The word you want’s ‘averment’, And aye remember, when ye dee, The end result’s ‘interment’.

His guid wife Liz, accuses him, Of being overzealous, Wi’ eagle eye, he scans the text, And is heard to cry, “that’s hellish”.

Noo wha’s this chield of whom I speak?

He gangs by name o’ Sooter, He used to be a fissureman, And wasn’a bad at footer!

“To Mrs Roy Souter (While Caught When Changing Her Skirt!)

A welcome aye extends to you, At Seaview Terrace, Number 2, But be advised, tak’ care to chap, And gie poor Lizzie time to hap.

‘Cos it’s nae fun without your skirt, (I wonder – was she trying to flirt?).

So if her in dishabille you fin’d, Just close your een, pretend you’re blin’d.

Or use some tact, say “It’s been weeks, Since last I saw sic bonnie breeks”.

“The Partan” (Celia Craig) My father wis a fisherman He took his boat ti the sea, Caa’d the Trustful, ME 132 And a bonnie boat wis she.

Settin creels for partans, labsters In the glorious summer time.

Catchin haddock and cod in dreich winter, Haulin the great lang line.

I grew up and started teaching, Syne on holiday joined as crew.

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We ran aichty creels aa summer And the golden moments flew.

Ae affy bonnie morning We were steerin wi the sun.

The water flouwed by, surgin, As we hauled oor marker buoy in.

Yi’d ti be speedy and yet handy.

Taak the crabs oot o the creel And throw them inti boxes.

Tie in new bait as weel.

I teen hide o ae great big partan But it grabbed my finger and aa.

I cried oot in pain for mi father Fa louped ower and snappt aff its claw.

Quick- thinking saved my finger That crab hid a grip like a vice Sae taak care fin handling partans Follow my hard-won advice.

Eftir, it seemed kinda funny A bit like a comic cartoon Bit if that crab hid mangled my finger I’d been singin a different tune.

“Village Visitor” (Celia Craig) The grave was decked with flowers, wreaths, messages To MUM, to GRANNY, BEST WIFE IN THE WORLD She died so suddenly, aged sixty-seven.

And yet the day was bright; the sun still shone.

Down in the village there was further news Another loss, another sudden death – An older woman, living on her own.

The day seemed duller, yet the sun still shone.

Out in the garden, down beside the fence A robin lay, its red breast bright with blood.

I dug a hole, and covered him with earth And now three deaths were dulling the bright day.

Turning to go, a flutter caught my eye

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A robin lighting on the dyke, above The place where robin one was laid A sudden surge of joy lifted my heart.

Robins fight to the death, or so they say.

Was he the victor or the bird reborn?

Pleengs

(Celia Craig)

The plangent, plaintive pleengie’s plaint Transports me back in time and place To Gurden, To the Trustful, father’s boat To mother’s imitative cries, “They’re hungry. Hungry pleengies”, To my childhood days.

The early morning gulls Who ushered in the dawn After a sleepless night I hear again their mournful cries.

The pleengie on the dyke Oft greeted by my father, “Aye, aye, Edom!”

Deddie reincarnate!

Back to my childhood And to a time when I was safest, Happiest.

And still their cries can ground And anchor me.

“The Fisherman’s Prayer” (Dave Ramsay 2010)

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Chorus: As we haul our nets from the cold North Sea, We ask for your blessing Lord, guidance from Thee.

Like the fishermen of old, back in Galilee, Guide us fishermen home, safe home from the sea.

Chorus: As your guiding care has watched o’er the deep, Brothers, sons and fathers, you’ll safely keep.

As we shoot our nets, and look south- easterly, Each Gourdon man will share a prayer with Thee.

Chorus Now the nets are down, hoping for a good haul, Out there we’re reminded o’ your power o’er all We ask a lot from the cold North Sea, But most of all Lord, we ask a lot from Thee.

Chorus: Sometimes it’s cauld, sometimes it’s rough, Out on the deep, as we ride the trough, We’re reminded of how frail we can be, Without the guiding care that comes from Thee.

Chorus And we’ve hauled our nets, and we head for home, As the storm it blows, battling surf and foam, To make it safe to our Gourdon berth, The Creator’s hand o’er Heaven and Earth.

Chorus: Now the harbour’s near with its welcome lights, We’re safe once more, for one more night, And come the morn sail for the open sea, And put our trust again in the hands of Thee.

Chorus: It’s a sad, sad thing tae selfish be, When we know that some will be lost at sea, How you decide, how you share your care, Save us fishermen please, answer our prayers.

Chorus:

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As we cross the bar for the fishing grounds, I thank you Lord that our faith is sound.

The worried looks from those left on shore, “Take comfort friends, He couldn’t love you more.”

Chorus: He made the sky, the stars, the sea, And all the fish therein, we take from the sea.

Each crewman’s proud to be a fisherman In the safety of your guiding hand.

“The Gourdon Fishermen” (Words: Gourdon Primary School : Music: Dave Ramsay Music 2013. Recorded on CD Tales of the Sea and the Maggie Law)

Gourdon boats at the harbour quay.

Plenty of fish swimming in the sea, Catching fish that swam so free, Bringing them home for you and me.

Chorus Pleens scraiching, fishermen baiting, Getting ready to put to sea, Crabs and dabs, an’ prawns and rans, At Gourdon harbour their catch they land.

Frae Gourdon harbour I can see, Miles and miles right out tae sea, Pleens flyin’ high aroon their boats, Heids and tails and guts they float.

As bairns we searched the wee rock pools, In the holidays and efter school, Haudin’ ticht tae yer deddie’s hand, Wi’ yir bucket and yir podlie wand.

Chorus When I grew up and left the school, Ye went tae sea as a family rule, Yir gansey and yir big sea boots, Hard work for life, ye hid nae doots.

Chorus

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My ambition wis fur my ain boat, Wi’ my crew I’d head for the Norway coast, We wid pit tae sea wi’ wir trust in God As we trawled the seas in search o’ cod.

The fishing’s done, and the harbour’s bare, The Gourdon fleet it is nae mair.

On my harbour bench, I watch the world go by, (Slow) Get a kindly word, and sometimes a fry.

“Death Row” (Words and Music - David Craig) On a bench at the harbour the auld fishermen sit And talk o times lang ago, Reminissin and pittin the world tae its richts But Willie he ca’d it death row.

Efter years at the sea then there’s nithin tae dae Jist sit an while awa time Mindin o storms an big shots o fish Fin they were a in their prime.

As the years they roll on, one by one they get less Jist had enough, so they go.

Nae fishermen left tae replace them that leave.

Aye Willie still ca’s it death row.

Well, lest week wiz bonnie, so I hid a seat Fin Willie says, “Quick min, let’s go.

We’re sittin here yarnin an nae thinkin richt Coz noo we’re the anes on death row.”

Am sittin here noo on a fine summer’s day Lookin like I’m the last ane tae go.

There’s naebody here - jist masel an ma thochts.

Looks like I’m the last on death row.

Looks like I’m the last on death row.

APPENDIX 1 47

Obituary Mr James Mowatt, Boatbuilder, Gourdon Boatbuilder of the “Maggie Law” This week the grave has closed over one of the best known inhabitants of Gourdon, in the person of Mr James Mowatt, Gourdon, who has carried on for over 40 years the business of a boatbuilder, and whose work is to be found in nearly every fishing village in Scotland.

Mr Mowatt was born in Gourdon nearly seventy years ago, but his parents originally belonged to Arbuthnott. At an early age he was apprenticed to the late Alexander Bruce, who carried on his trade in the same shed as deceased worked for many years.

On completing his training he worked for some time in Montrose with a Mr Waddell who was a shipbuilder in that town. At twenty six years of age he returned to Gourdon and took over his apprentice master’s business.

At that time the building of wooden boats was at its zenith, and by his energy and honest workmanship he soon built up a large and profitable business.

So well liked were the boats he turned out that at this period he employed from fifteen to eighteen men. Very often he would have two boats on the stocks at the same time Up to 1900 the boatbuilding continued very brisk, but with the advent of steam drifters with iron and steel hulls the day of the wooden built fishing boat of larger size rapidly passed away. Nevertheless from 1890 to the present day he had launched fifty three boats.

Unfortunately the record of what he built previous tom that date cannot be found.

Deceased was the first boat builder on the east coast to build a decked yawl, and when the late Mr peter bought a motor for experimental purposes, it was Mr Mowatt who prepared the “Willock” and fitted the motor into it. Since then he has had to do with the preparing of practically every boat in Gourdon to receive its motor., as well as many other places, which came to Gourdon to be fitted with motors.

To the design of the Late Mr Hercules Linton, Bervie, he built two steam fishing boats, one for the Firth of Tay, and one that was afterwards used as a launch on Loch Lomond. Latterly his work was confined to preparing boats for motors, and to repair work.

His last big repair job was the “Skylark” of Stonehaven, which was thrown on to the North Pier of that port, and was so badly damaged that it was a wonder she ever reached Gourdon.

Deceased had a severe illness some two years ago, and had never been quite the same since, but at the last had been confined to bed for two days only.

Of a cheery sunny disposition, Mr Mowatt was universally liked and few better known citizens moved about the village. “Jeem’s Sloch” to the east of Cunstray, where he landed his boats will long keep his memory green.

He is survived by a widow and four of a grown up family. There were eight altogether, but four are dead. The survivors are – Mrs Smith (in Australia) Mrs Peters, and Miss Mowatt who lives at home. The only surviving son is Charles, who was associated with his father in the business.

The funeral took place on Tuesday which was largely attended.

It should be mentioned that during the war Mr Mowatt joined the Volunteers, but owing to increasing frailty was never able to drill.

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From the Mearns Leader, December 1920

APPENDIX 2 Gold Medal Award to Hugh Lownie Ritchie The following interesting, historical documents here transcribed record the commendation and award made to Hugh Lownie Ritchie for his brave rescue of a fellow fisherman, performed at sea, 1918, averting one of those tragedies so often recounted in the poems of the period, exemplified in the Lost at Sea section of this Anthology. The documents were supplied by John Ritchie, creator of the Gourdon website – www.gourdon.org.uk

Case 44, 519 Hugh Lownie Ritchie At 5.10 a.m. on the 9th October the motor fishing boat “Grace” was at sea about 4 miles ESE from Gourdon on the Kincardineshire coast going at about 5 ½ knots an hour, the sea being rough and the weather dull and threatening, when a heavy wave broke over the boat, washing one of the crew, Robert Davidson overboard. When the water cleared the man was seen about ten yards to windward.

Fully clothed and wearing heavy sea boots Hugh L. Ritchie at once went after him and bringing him to the surface supported him for nearly half an hour, when the boat was brought round and both were hauled aboard in an exhausted state.

The silver medal was voted to Hugh l. Ritchie Stanhope Gold Medal for 1918 awarded by the General Court.

Committee Meeting of 12th November 1918 Case of Hugh Lownie Ritchie, aged 18 years, who rescued his brother-in-law, Robert Davidson, aged 32 years.

Nomination sent by J.H. Johnstone, Headmaster, Gourdon.

Silver medal sent by post on 29th May, 1919 to the Chief Constable, Stonehaven.

Reported to the Carnegie committee meeting on 14th January, 1919.

Silver medal cases for 1918 were laid before the meeting and case number 44, 519, Hugh Lownie Ritche was unanimously selected for recommendation to the general court for the Stanhope Gold Medal which was awarded.

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Hugh Lownie Ritchie in the front row, wearing a bonnet, later when Skipper of the Bluebell.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

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Special thanks to the following for – contributing poems, written by themselves and/or others, locating and scanning copies of 19th and early 20th century poems, supplying photos and related pieces of interest : Jacqueline McLean (nee Cargill) David Craig (Cravit) Raymond Craig Alice Elder Bobby Gowans Alison Ingram Meg and Andy MacKenzie John Ritchie (Rover) David Smith Patricia Swinborn (nee McDermid) Eileen Townsend Dave Ramsay

BIBLIOGRAPHY Roy Souter: A Wild and Rocky Coast. The book is no longer available to purchase but is available from Stonehaven Library and from those lucky enough to possess a copy of this invaluable store of Gourdon history.

John Ritchie: Gourdon website : www.gourdon.org.uk This website is a valuable resource for Gourdon photos and pictures. It also contains a small selection of poems.

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