Chapter 10

Stewarton's poets

It was only at the beginning of the 19th century that poets in Stewarton began to become known. Local rhymers no doubt existed earlier but as education was not compulsory nor free, few could read or write. Therefore while poems and ditties are likely to have been composed, they would not be committed to paper.

   One of the early scribes was' a young lad named John Gilmour of Clerkland who wrote poems of excellence. He died in 1828 at the age of 18 and it has been said  that had he lived he would have brought name and fame to his native place. After his death a booklet of his works was published and a commemorative stained glass window was placed in Stewarton Parish Church.

   About the same time, one, Hugh Kerr, was making a name for himself as a clever writer of verse. Born in 1815 the son of a handloom weaver, he received only an elementary education. He was a shoemaker to trade and latterly a bonnet dresser. In 1884.the man who was known locally as Poet Caur had a booklet of poems published by a Kilmarnock firm. He died in 1893.

   Two other men who liked to write about their home town, its residents, and occurrences were Bobby Deans and John Haining whose efforts embraced wit and wisdom, and a knowledge and love of their home-town.

   Torn Kerr was a boy prodigy in the 1920s and '30s who wrote under the name, T. McFee Kerr. A prolific rhymer and writer, he published several booklets of poems  which  today  have  become collectors' items.

   Other Stewarton poets include William Watt, James Graham, Mary Crowther and Tommy McGuinness. One young man who is   currently   writing   poetry  is   Robert Conning who shows promise -

   The following is a very short selection of the works of Stewarton poets. Lack of space  prevents the inclusion of more poetry.

STEWARTON 

0 how I love thee, lovely village, where

Our bonnet manufactur boasts its rise;

For winding Annick, tuneless stremlet, there

Received me oft o'er head, and ears, and eyes.

Aye! there I loved to laze My boyish frame,

While moments passed unheeded as they came.

Unsung, alas! though Annick's Waters flow,

Flow thou with them, my unpretending strain;

Else may my bosom, never, never know

The raptures of celestial song again!

For there, in boyhood's first unconscious glow,

My lot was cast among the madcap train.

But certes, far the meanest slave I ween.

To carol in rude lays my native scene    

                 John Gilmour

     THE WEE CLASPING BIBLE 

This wee clasping Bible, my mither's wee Bible,

My ain faither bocht when he made her his bride,

And when she gaed frae me, she handed tae me,

And hoped I would study to make it my guide.

The auld chair she sat on, and mony times grat on

When thochts o' the dead, brought the tears in her e'e,

And a' round the dwellin', dear, dear to a callan

This wee clasping Bible is present with thee.

This wee clasping Bible, this teardrappit Bible,

I've borne at her side to the Kirk wi' the lave,

When ofttimes she sauntered, until the Kirk entered,

And mournfully gazed on my father's green grave,

Her voice sweet and calm aye, I hear in the Psalm aye,

It comes like the tone of a spirit sair vexed,

I still see her lean wi' her haun's on her e'en,

And the spearmint leaf slippit in at the text.

This wee clasping Bible, this precious wee Bible,

In dark dusty corners haun never be cast,

There's jewels within it, and treasures infinite,

Will buy you all crowns when life's trials are past.

Bairns, let it direct you the world may neglect you,

Still firm on its promises ever rely,

This battle well over, bright spirits may hover,

And hail you a conqueror home to the sky

                                    Hugh Kerr

        AULD MARY LAIRD

A douce honest wuman was auld Mary Laird

As each Sunday cam rocm she left the Kirkfaird

To worship her Maker, his pardon to seek

And be kept fae all evil the oncomin week

But this is the story, they tell it an smirk

Ae Lord's day auld Mary arrived at the Kirk

In the block laft she sat gay spare put about

There was wind in her stomach that couldnae get oot

It pressed on her hert wae mony a pang

An doon through her wame it murmured alang

"There's nay cure fur the wind like a peppermint drap"

Bel's Jinnet whispers and put yin in her lap.

But things to a head were comin on fast

The minister cam to his sermon at last

"My subject dear brethern is light as the heart"

Nae further he got for loud was the fart

A glaiket young hissey was forced to laugh oot

An Jean fae the Broom sat haudin her snoot

A primsy auld maid wliae was sixty or mair

Hid her face in her haiins as if say in a prayer

The wee beadle murmured: "the durty auld clod

Tae come tac the kirk and her wind couldnae haud"

An elder aye threeked and swore twas the truth

"A smile hovered roon the minister's mooth"

A big country chiel wha was feed at Mosside

His bible let la and his mooth open wide

Auld Adam fae Kennox looked doon at the flair

And wished himseld oot fur a braith o fresh air

Though years have gone bye and auld Mary Laird

Alang wi the lave now sleeps neath the swaird

They speak of it yet, tho aye wi a smirk

The scene that took place in Stewarton's auld kirk

There's naebody has mind o the sermon that day

Or sermons since I'm sorry to say

But auld Mary's memory never can fade

From the bonny wee toun whaur the bunnets are made  

                                                         Bobby Deans

 THE CENTENARY

One hundred years have sped away,

Since this became a Burgh Toon,

And here in retrospective mood,

Before the fire I set me doon.

To ponder o'er the distant past,

Recall the changes I have seen,

I see me wander o'er the braes,

Through wooded groves and pastures green.

Here first I saw the light of day,

And further never wished to roam,

It's here I spent youth's sunny days,

Then settled down and made a home.

There may be brighter fairer scenes,

In distant lands across the sea,

But none of them possess the charm,

That dear old Stewarton has to me.

So now on this centenary year,

May industry its acres fill,

And as the population swells,

With mighty Glasgow's overspill,

Let progress be the common aim,

While man attempts to reach the moon,

May peace and joy and life and mirth,

Grace our dear old Bonnet Toon.

                          John Haining. (1968)

THE FIRST STEWARTON FESTIVAL (1933)

The "Bonnet Toun" her splendour all unrolled,

And in the festive day her noble tale retold,

In sunshine sweet, good Nature's gift supreme,

By galaxies in almost endless stream.

The CorsehiU Burn, where oft the faithers played,

Whose fair pools wat the feet o' weans wha strayed

To fish wi' jelly jar or twisted preen,

For that braw burn is ca'ed the gala queen.

And noo the public square is mair than thiang,

The schule choir leads the joyous crowd in sang:

And on conspicuous platform, high and grand,

The Bonnet Guild and worthy Councillors stand;

An eager silence grips the waiting throng,

"The Queen arrives," the word is passed along,

Then slow the regal dais they ascend

The gracious court in many stately curtseys bend;

Upon her maiden head is placed the crown.

Rejoicing then the train parades the town,

The War Memorial they at last surround,

Respect and honour grace that hallowed ground;

Each thinksof lads,the bravest ofthe brave,

Who fought for Stewarton's homes e'en to the grave.

And as our nation's dirge is slowly piped,

A host of tearful tender eyes are wiped.

And well aware of heavy debts we owe

To those who stayed the onward rushing foe,

We turn our thoughts from awful guns' report,

And end the blissful day in merry sport.

The noisy weans, their tinnies a' ashine,

With bags of buns sit on the grass and dine.

While envying the aulder folk look on,

And ca' the crack ofguid auld days bygone;

Then what wi' races,jumps and greasy pole,

Swift Time is tempted in the race to roll.

At last at gaudy shows and roundabouts

The evening air is filled with happy shouts

Which fade when guidfolk hameward trace their ways

And peacefully concludes a day of days.

                                         T. McFee Kerr (1934)