Streams of Water
in the South by John Buchan
" As streams of water in the south, Our bondage, Lord, recall.
-PSALM cxxvi. (Scots Metrical Version).
It was at the ford of the Clachlands Water in a tempestuous
August, that I, an idle boy, first learned the hardships of the
Lammas droving. The shepherd of the Redswirehead, my very good
friend, and his three shaggy dogs, were working for their lives in an
angry water. The path behind was thronged with scores of sheep bound
for the Gledsmuir market, and beyond it was possible to discern
through the mist the few dripping dozen which had made the passage.
Between raged yards of brown foam coming down from murky hills, and
the air echoed with the yelp of dogs and the perplexed cursing of men.
Before I knew I was helping in the task, with water lipping round
my waist and my arms filled with a terrified sheep. It was no light
task, for though the water was no more than three feet deep it was
swift and strong, and a kicking hogg is a sore burden. But this was
the only road; the stream might rise higher at any moment; and somehow
or other those bleating flocks had to be transferred to their fellows
beyond. There were six men at the labour, six men and myself and all
were cross and wearied and heavy with water.
I made my passages side by side with my friend the shepherd, and
thereby felt much elated. This was a man who had dwelt all his days
in the wilds and was familiar with torrents as with his own doorstep.
Now and then a swimming dog would bark feebly as he was washed
against us, and flatter his fool's heart that he was aiding the work.
And so we wrought on, till by midday I was dead-beat, and could
scarce stagger through the surf, while all the men had the same
gasping faces. I saw the shepherd look with longing eye up the long
green valley, and mutter disconsolately in his beard.
"Is the water rising?" I asked.
"It's no rising," said he, " but I likena the look o' yon big
black clud upon Cairncraw. I doubt there's been a shoor up the
muirs, and a shoor there means twae mair feet o' water in the
Clachlands. God help Sandy Jamieson's lambs, if there is."
"How many are left?" I asked.
"Three, fower,--no abune a score and a half," said he, running his
eye over the lessened flocks. "I maun try to tak twae at a time." So
for ten minutes he struggled with a double burden, and panted
painfully at each return. Then with a sudden swift look up-stream he
broke off and stood up. "Get ower the water, every yin o' ye, and
leave the sheep," he said, and to my wonder every man of the five
obeyed his word.
And then I saw the reason of his command, for with a sudden swift
leap forward the Clachlands rose, and flooded up to where I stood an
instant before high and dry.
"It's come," said the shepherd in a tone of fate, "and there's
fifteen no ower yet, and Lord kens how they'll dae't. They'll hae to
gang roond by Gledsmuir Brig, and that's twenty mile o' a differ.
'Deed, it's no like that Sandy Jamieson will get a guid price the
morn for sic sair forfochen beasts."
Then with firmly gripped staff he marched stoutly into the tide
till it ran hissing below his armpits. "I could dae't alone," he
cried, "but no wi' a burden. For, losh, if ye slippit, ye'd be in
the Manor Pool afore ye could draw breath."
And so we waited with the great white droves and five angry men
beyond, and the path blocked by a surging flood. For half an hour we
waited, holding anxious consultation across the stream, when to us
thus busied there entered a newcomer, a helper from the ends of the
He was a man of something over middle size, but with a stoop
forward that shortened him to something beneath it. His dress was
ragged homespun, the cast-off clothes of some sportsman, and in his
arms he bore a bundle of sticks and heather-roots which marked his
calling. I knew him for a tramp who long had wandered in the place,
but I could not account for the whole-voiced shout of greeting which
met him as he stalked down the path. He lifted his eyes and looked
solemnly and long at the scene. Then something of delight came into
his eye, his face relaxed, and flinging down his burden he stripped
his coat and came toward us.
"Come on, Yeddie, ye're sair needed," said the shepherd, and I
watched with amazement this grizzled, crooked man seize a sheep by
the fleece and drag it to the water. Then he was in the midst,
stepping warily, now up, now down the channel, but always nearing the
farther bank. At last with a final struggle he landed his charge, and
turned to journey back. Fifteen times did he cross that water, and at
the end his mean figure had wholly changed. For now he was straighter
and stronger, his eye flashed, and his voice, as he cried out to the
drovers, had in it a tone of command. I marvelled at the
transformation; and when at length he had donned once more his ragged
coat and shouldered his bundle, I asked the shepherd his name.
"They ca' him Adam Logan," said my friend, his face still bright
with excitement, "but maist folk ca' him 'Streams o' Water.'"
"Ay," said I, "and why 'Streams of Water'?"
"Juist for the reason ye see," said he.
Now I knew the shepherd's way, and I held my peace, for it was
clear that his mind was revolving other matters, concerned most
probably with the high subject of the morrow's prices. But in a
little, as we crossed the moor toward his dwelling, his thoughts
relaxed and he remembered my question. So he answered me thus:
"Oh, ay; as ye were sayin', he's a queer man Yeddie-aye been; guid
kens whaur he cam frae first, for he's been trampin' the countryside
since ever I mind, and that's no yesterday. He maun be sixty year,
and yet he's as fresh as ever. If onything, he's a thocht dafter in
his ongaein's, mair silent-like. But ye'll hae heard tell o' him
afore?" I owned ignorance.
"Tut," said he, "ye ken nocht. But Yeddie had aye a queer crakin'
for waters. He never gangs on the road. Wi' him it's juist up yae
glen and doon anither and aye keepin' by the burn-side. He kens every
water i' the warld, every bit sheuch and burnie frae Gallowa' to
Berwick. And then he kens the way o' spates the best I ever seen, and
I've heard tell o' him fordin' waters when nae ither thing could leeve
i' them. He can weyse and wark his road sae cunnin'ly on the stanes
that the roughest flood, if it's no juist fair ower his heid, canna
upset him. Mony a sheep has he saved to me, and it's mony a guid drove
wad never hae won to Gledsmuir market but for Yeddie."
I listened with a boy's interest in any romantic narration.
Somehow, the strange figure wrestling in the brown stream took fast
hold on my mind, and I asked the shepherd for further tales.
"There's little mair to tell," he said, "for a gangrel life is
nane o' the liveliest. But d'ye ken the langnebbit hill that cocks
its tap abune the Clachlands heid? Weel, he's got a wee bit o' grund
on the tap frae the Yerl, and there he's howkit a grave for himsel'.
He's sworn me and twae-three ithers to bury him there, wherever he
may dee. It's a queer fancy in the auld dotterel."
So the shepherd talked, and as at evening we stood by his door we
saw a figure moving into the gathering shadows. I knew it at once,
and did not need my friend's "There gangs 'Streams o' Water'" to
recognise it. Something wild and pathetic in the old man's face
haunted me like a dream, and as the dusk swallowed him up, he seemed
like some old Druid recalled of the gods to his ancient habitation of
Two years passed, and April came with her suns and rains and again
the waters brimmed full in the valleys. Under the clear, shining sky
the lambing went on, and the faint bleat of sheep brooded on the
hills. In a land of young heather and green upland meads, of faint
odours of moor-burn, and hill-tops falling in clear ridges to the
sky-line, the veriest St. Anthony would not abide indoors; so I flung
all else to the winds and went a-fishing.
At the first pool on the Callowa, where the great flood sweeps
nobly round a ragged shoulder of hill, and spreads into broad deeps
beneath a tangle of birches, I began my toils. The turf was still wet
with dew and the young leaves gleamed in the glow of morning. Far up
the stream rose the grim hills which hem the mosses and tarns of that
tableland, whence flow the greater waters of the countryside. An
ineffable freshness, as of the morning alike of the day and the
seasons, filled the clear hill-air, and the remote peaks gave the
needed touch of intangible romance.
But as I fished I came on a man sitting in a green dell, busy at
the making of brooms. I knew his face and dress, for who could
forget such eclectic raggedness?--and I remembered that day two years
before when he first hobbled into my ken. Now, as I saw him there, I
was captivated by the nameless mystery of his appearance. There was
something startling to one accustomed to the lack-lustre gaze of
town-bred folk, in the sight of an eye as keen and wild as a hawk's
from sheer solitude and lonely travelling. He was so bent and scarred
with weather that he seemed as much a part of that woodland place as
the birks themselves, and the noise of his labours did not startle the
birds that hopped on the branches.
Little by little I won his acquaintance--by a chance reminiscence,
a single tale, the mention of a friend. Then he made me free of his
knowledge, and my fishing fared well that day. He dragged me up
little streams to sequestered pools, where I had astonishing success;
and then back to some great swirl in the Callowa where he had seen
monstrous takes. And all the while he delighted me with his talk, of
men and things, of weather and place, pitched high in his thin, old
voice, and garnished with many tones of lingering sentiment. He spoke
in a broad, slow Scots, with so quaint a lilt in his speech that one
seemed to be in an elder time among people of a quieter life and a
Then by chance I asked him of a burn of which I had heard, and how
it might he reached. I shall never forget the tone of his answer as
his face grew eager and he poured forth his knowledge.
"Ye'll gang up the Knowe Burn, which comes down into the
Cauldshaw. It's a wee tricklin' thing, trowin' in and out o' pools
i' the rock, and comin' doun out o' the side o' Caerfraun. Yince a
merrymaiden bided there, I've heard folks say, and used to win the
sheep frae the Cauldshaw herd, and bile them i' the muckle pool below
the fa'. They say that there's a road to the ill Place there, and
when the Deil likit he sent up the lowe and garred the water faem and
fizzle like an auld kettle. But if ye're gaun to the Colm Burn ye
maun haud atower the rig o' the hill frae the Knowe heid, and ye'll
come to it wimplin' among green brae faces. It's a bonny bit, rale
lonesome, but awfu' bonny, and there's mony braw trout in its siller
Then I remembered all I had heard of the old man's craze, and I
humoured him. "It's a fine countryside for burns," I said.
"Ye may say that," said he gladly, "a weel-watered land. But a'
this braw south country is the same. I've traivelled frae the
Yeavering Hill in the Cheviots to the Caldons in Galloway, and it's
a' the same. When I was young, I've seen me gang north to the
Hielands and doun to the English lawlands, but now that I'm gettin'
auld I maun bide i' the yae place. There's no a burn in the South I
dinna ken, and I never cam to the water I couldna ford."
"No?" said I. "I've seen you at the ford o' Clachlands in the
"Often I've been there," he went on, speaking like one calling up
vague memories. "Yince, when Tam Rorison was drooned, honest man.
Yince again, when the brigs were ta'en awa', and the Black House o'
Clachlands had nae bread for a week. But oh, Clachlands is a bit easy
water. But I've seen the muckle Aller come roarin' sae high that it
washed awa' a sheepfold that stood weel up on the hill. And I've seen
this verra burn, this bonny clear Callowa, lyin' like a loch for miles
i' the haugh. But I never heeds a spate, for if a man just kens the
way o't it's a canny, hairmless thing. I couldna wish to dee better
than just be happit i' the waters o' my ain countryside, when my legs
fail and I'm ower auld for the trampin'."
Something in that queer figure in the setting of the hills struck
a note of curious pathos. And towards evening as we returned down
the glen the note grew keener. A spring sunset of gold and crimson
flamed in our backs and turned the clear pools to fire. Far off down
the vale the plains and the sea gleamed half in shadow. Somehow in
the fragrance and colour and the delectable crooning of the stream,
the fantastic and the dim seemed tangible and present, and high
sentiment revelled for once in my prosaic heart.
And still more in the breast of my companion. He stopped and
sniffed the evening air, as he looked far over hill and dale and then
back to the great hills above us. "Yen's Crappel, and Caerdon, and
the Laigh Law," he said, lingering with relish over each name, "and
the Gled comes doun atween them. I haena been there for a twalmonth,
and I maun hae anither glisk o't, for it's a braw place." And then
some bitter thought seemed to seize him, and his mouth twitched. "I'm
an auld man," he cried, " and I canna see ye a' again. There's burns
and mair burns in the high hills that I'll never win to." Then he
remembered my presence, and stopped. "Ye maunna mind me," he said
huskily, " but the sicht o' a' thae lang blue hills makes me daft, now
that I've faun i' the vale o' years. Yince I was young and could get
where I wantit, but now I am auld and maun bide i' the same bit. And
I'm aye thinkin' o' the waters I've been to, and the green heichs and
howes and the linns that I canna win to again. I maun e'en be content
wi' the Callowa, which is as guid as the best."
And then I left him, wandering down by the streamside and telling
his crazy meditations to himself.
A space of years elapsed ere I met him, for fate had carried me
far from the upland valleys. But once again I was afoot on the white
moor-roads; and, as I swung along one autumn afternoon up the path
which leads from the Glen of Callowa to the Gled, I saw a figure
before me which I knew for my friend. When I overtook him, his
appearance puzzled and troubled me. Age seemed to have come on him at
a bound, and in the tottering figure and the stoop of weakness I had
difficulty in recognising the hardy frame of the man as I had known
him. Something, too, had come over his face. His brow was clouded,
and the tan of weather stood out hard and cruel on a blanched cheek.
His eye seemed both wilder and sicklier, and for the first time I saw
him with none of the appurtenances of his trade. He greeted me feebly
and dully, and showed little wish to speak. He walked with slow,
uncertain step, and his breath laboured with a new panting. Every now
and then he would look at me sidewise, and in his feverish glance I
could detect none of the free kindliness of old. The man was ill in
body and mind.
I asked him how he had done since I saw him last.
"It's an ill world now," he said in a slow, querulous voice.
"There's nae need for honest men, and nae leevin'. Folk dinna
heed me ava now. They dinna buy my besoms, they winna let me bide a
nicht in their byres, and they're no like the kind canty folk in the
auld times. And a' the countryside is changin'. Doun by Goldieslaw
they're makkin' a dam for takin' water to the toun, and they're
thinkin' o' daein' the like wi' the Callowa. Guid help us, can they no
let the works o' God alane? Is there no room for them in the dirty
lawlands that they maun file the hills wi' their biggins?"
I conceived dimly that the cause of his wrath was a scheme for
waterworks at the border of the uplands, but I had less concern for
this than his strangely feeble health.
"You are looking ill," I said. "What has come over you?"
"Oh, I canna last for aye," he said mournfully. "My auld body's
about dune. I've warkit it ower sair when I had it, and it's gaun to
fail on my hands. Sleepin' out o' wat nichts and gangin' lang wantin'
meat are no the best ways for a long life"; and he smiled the ghost of
And then he fell to wild telling of the ruin of the place and the
hardness of the people, and I saw that want and bare living had gone
far to loosen his wits. I knew the countryside, and I recognised that
change was only in his mind. And a great pity seized me for this
lonely figure toiling on in the bitterness of regret. I tried to
comfort him, but my words were useless, for he took no heed of me;
with bent head and faltering step he mumbled his sorrows to himself.
Then of a sudden we came to the crest of the ridge where the road
dips from the hill-top to the sheltered valley. Sheer from the
heather ran the white streak till it lost itself among the reddening
rowans and the yellow birks of the wood. The land was rich in autumn
colour, and the shining waters dipped and fell through a pageant of
russet and gold. And all around hills huddled in silent spaces, long
brown moors crowned with cairns, or steep fortresses of rock and
shingle rising to foreheads of steel-like grey. The autumn blue faded
in the far sky-line to white, and lent distance to the farther peaks.
The hush of the wilderness, which is far different from the hush of
death, brooded over the scene, and like faint music came the sound of
a distant scytheswing, and the tinkling whisper which is the flow of
a hundred streams.
I am an old connoisseur in the beauties of the uplands, but I held
my breath at the sight. And when I glanced at my companion, he, too,
had raised his head, and stood with wide nostrils and gleaming eye
revelling in this glimpse of Arcady. Then he found his voice, and the
weakness and craziness seemed for one moment to leave him.
"It's my ain land," he cried, "and I'll never leave it. D'ye see
yon broun hill wi' the lang cairn?" and he gripped my arm fiercely
and directed my gaze. "Yon's my bit. I howkit it richt on the verra
tap, and ilka year I gang there to make it neat and ordlerly. I've
trystit wi' fower men in different pairishes that whenever they hear
o' my death, they'll cairry me up yonder and bury me there. And then
I'll never leave it, but be still and quiet to the warld's end. I'll
aye hae the sound o' water in my ear, for there's five burns tak'
their rise on that hillside, and on a' airts the glens gang doun to
the Gled and the Aller."
Then his spirit failed him, his voice sank, and he was almost the
feeble gangrel once more. But not yet, for again his eye swept the
ring of hills, and he muttered to himself names which I knew for
streams, lingeringly, lovingly, as of old affections. "Aller and Gled
and Callowa," he crooned, "braw names, and Clachlands and Cauldshaw
and the Lanely Water. And I maunna forget the Stark and the Lin and
the bonny streams o' the Creran. And what mair? I canna mind a' the
burns, the Howe and the Hollies and the Fawn and the links o' the
Manor. What says the Psalmist about them?
'As streams o' water in the South, Our bondage Lord, recall.'
Ay, but yen's the name for them. 'Streams o' water in the
And as we went down the slopes to the darkening vale I heard him
crooning to himself in a high, quavering voice the single distich;
then in a little his weariness took him again, and he plodded on with
no thought save for his sorrows.
The conclusion of this tale belongs not to me, but to the shepherd
of the Redswirehead, and I heard it from him in his dwelling, as I
stayed the night, belated on the darkening moors. He told me it after
supper in a flood of misty Doric, and his voice grew rough at times,
and he poked viciously at the dying peat.
In the last back-end I was at Gledfoot wi' sheep, and a weary job
I had and little credit. Ye ken the place, a lang dreich shore wi'
the wind swirlin' and bitin' to the bane, and the broun Gled water
choked wi' Solloway sand. There was nae room in ony inn in the town,
so I bude to gang to a bit public on the Harbour Walk, where
sailor-folk and fishermen feucht and drank, and nae dacent men frae
the hills thocht of gangin'. I was in a gey ill way, for I had sell't
my beasts dooms cheap, and I thocht o' the lang miles hame in the
wintry weather. So after a bite o' meat I gangs out to get the air
and clear my heid, which was a' rammled wi' the auction-ring.
And whae did I find, sittin' on a bench at the door, but the auld
man Yeddie. He was waur changed than ever. His lang hair was
hingin' over his broo, and his face was thin and white as a ghaist's.
His claes fell loose about him, and he sat wi' his hand on his auld
stick and his chin on his hand, hearin' nocht and glowerin' afore him.
He never saw nor kenned me till I shook him by the shoulders, and
cried him by his name.
"Whae are ye?" says he, in a thin voice that gaed to my hert.
"Ye ken me fine, ye auld fule," says I. "I'm Jock Rorison o' the
Redswirehead, whaur ye've stoppit often."
"Redswirehead," he says, like a man in a dream. "Redswirehead!
That's at the tap o' the Clachlands Burn as ye gang ower to the
"And what are ye daein' here? It's no your countryside ava, and
ye're no fit noo for lang trampin'."
"No," says he, in the same weak voice and wi' nae fushion in him,
"but they winna hae me up yonder noo. I'm ower auld and useless.
Yince a'body was gled to see me, and wad keep me as lang's I wantit,
and had aye a gud word at meeting and pairting. Noo it's a' changed,
and my wark's dune."
I saw fine that the man was daft, but what answer could I gie to
his havers? Folk in the Callowa Glens are as kind as afore, but ill
weather and auld age had put queer notions intil his heid. Forbye, he
was seeck, seeck unto death, and I saw mair in his een than I likit to
"Come in-by and get some meat, man," I said. "Ye're famishin'
wi' cauld and hunger."
"I canna eat," he says, and his voice never changed. "It's lang
since I had a bite, for I'm no hungry. But I'm awfu' thirsty. I cam
here yestreen, and I can get nae water to drink like the water in the
hills. I maun be settin' out back the morn, if the Lord spares me."
I mindit fine that the body wad tak nae drink like an honest man,
but maun aye draibble wi' burn water, and noo he had got the thing on
the brain. I never spak a word, for the maitter was bye ony mortal's
For lang he sat quiet. Then he lifts his heid and looks awa ower
the grey sea. A licht for a moment cam intil his een.
"Whatna big water's yon?" he said, wi' his puir mind aye rinnin'
"That's the Solloway," says I.
"The Solloway," says he; " it's a big water, and it wad be an ill
job to ford it."
"Nae man ever fordit it," I said.
"But I never yet cam to the water I couldna ford," says he. "But
what's that queer smell i' the air? Something snell and cauld and
"That's the salt, for we're at the sea here, the mighty ocean.
He keepit repeatin' the word ower in his mouth. "The salt, the
salt, I've heard tell o' it afore, but I dinna like it. It's
terrible cauld and unhamely."
By this time an onding o' rain was coming up' frae the water, and
I bade the man come indoors to the fire. He followed me, as biddable
as a sheep, draggin' his legs like yin far gone in seeckness. I set
him by the fire, and put whisky at his elbow, but he wadna touch it.
"I've nae need o' it," said he. "I'm find and warm"; and he sits
staring at the fire, aye comin' ower again and again, "The Solloway,
the Solloway. It's a guid name and a muckle water."
But sune I gaed to my bed, being heavy wi' sleep, for I had
traivelled for twae days.
The next morn I was up at six and out to see the weather. It was
a' changed. The muckle tides lay lang and still as our ain Loch o'
the Lee, and far ayont I saw the big blue hills o' England shine
bricht and clear. I thankit Providence for the day, for it was better
to tak the lang miles back in sic a sun than in a blast o' rain.
But as I lookit I saw some folk comin' up frae the beach carryin'
something atween them. My hert gied a loup, and " some puir, drooned
sailor-body," says I to mysel', "whae has perished in yesterday's
storm." But as they cam nearer I got a glisk which made me run like
daft, and lang ere I was up on them I saw it was Yeddie.
He lay drippin' and white, wi' his puir auld hair lyin' back frae
his broo and the duds clingin' to his legs. But out o' the face
there had gane a' the seeckness and weariness. His een were stelled,
as if he had been lookin' forrit to something, and his lips were set
like a man on a lang errand. And mair, his stick was grippit sae firm
in his hand that nae man could loose it, so they e'en let it be.
Then they tell't me the tale o't, how at the earliest licht they
had seen him wanderin' alang the sands, juist as they were putting
out their boats to sea. They wondered and watched him, till of a
sudden he turned to the water and wadit in, keeping straucht on till
he was oot o' sicht. They rowed a' their pith to the place, but they
were ower late. Yince they saw his heid appear abune water, still wi'
his face to the other side; and then they got his body, for the tide
was rinnin' low in the mornin'. I tell't them a' I kenned o' him, and
they were sair affected. "Puir cratur," said yin, "he's shurely
So we brocht him up to the house and laid him there till the folk
i' the town had heard o' the business. Syne the procurator-fiscal
came and certifeed the death and the rest was left tae me. I got a
wooden coffin made and put him in it, juist as he was, wi' his staff
in his hand and his auld duds about him. I mindit o' my sworn word,
for I was yin o' the four that had promised, and I ettled to dae his
bidding. It was saxteen mile to the hills, and yin and twenty to the
lanely tap whaur he had howkit his grave. But I never heedit it. I'm
a strong man, weel-used to the walkin' and my hert was sair for the
auld body. Now that he had gotten deliverance from his affliction, it
was for me to leave him in the place he wantit. Forbye, he wasna
muckle heavier than a bairn.
It was a long road, a sair road, but I did it, and by seven
o'clock I was at the edge o' the muirlands. There was a braw mune,
and a the glens and taps stood out as clear as midday. Bit by bit,
for I was gey tired, I warstled ower the rigs and up the cleuchs to
the Gled-head; syne up the stany Gled-cleuch to the lang grey hill
which they ca' the Hurlybackit. By ten I had come to the cairn, and
black i' the mune I saw the grave. So there I buried him, and though
I'm no a releegious man, I couldna help sayin' ower him the guid words
o' the Psalmist--
"As streams of water in the South, Our bondage, Lord, recall."
So if you go from the Gled to the Aller, and keep far over the
north side of the Muckle Muneraw, you will come in time to a stony
ridge which ends in a cairn. There you will see the whole hill
country of the south, a hundred lochs, a myriad streams, and a forest
of hill-tops. There on the very crest lies the old man, in the heart
of his own land, at the fountain-head of his many waters. If you
listen you will hear a hushed noise as of the swaying in trees or a
ripple on the sea. It is the sound of the rising of burns, which,
innumerable and unnumbered, flow thence to the silent glens for