Whit the Quey Heard

Whit the Quey Heard
A Song in Literary Scots
DANIIL LAZKO
Tuapse, 28 September 2026
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Whit the Quey Heard

Whan kye were in ahint the yett
An mirk had drappit doon,
Cam Kirsty wi the lantren het,
Clart-deep in faither’s shoon.

“Ye’re here afore me, Wull,” quo she,
“I micht hae kent ye wad.
Is it the quey ye’ve come tae see? —
She’s no that bonnie, lad.”

She hung the lantren on its nail
An rowed her sleeve abune,
An ran her luif frae heid tae tail
Wi some hauf-mindit tune.

She pressed my haun ablow her ain
Upon the beast’s warm side,
An there, like knuckles on a pane,
Was life that wadna bide.

Her haun bade on the back o mine
Lang efter it was still;
We didna speak; the lantren’s shine
Lay smeekit on the sill.

She tellt it tae the quey, no me:
“Come Martinmas, ye gang.
He’ll gie nae second fee tae ye —
He’s seen ye look ower lang.

“Auld Rennie o the Mains cam ben
On Sabbath efter kirk;
He prayed ower lang abune the hen,
Syne priced oor ae guid stirk.

“He’s forty acre, an a pew
Near whaur the gentry sit;
An we’re twa terms ahint, it’s true,
An I’m the price o it.

“Ye needna glower — he isna hard,
He’s feart, nae mair. He saw
Auld Paton’s gear set in the yaird
An rouped, bed, pat an a.”

“Then come. The Paisley mills want hauns,”
Says I; “we’ll flit by nicht,
An cry in some strange kirk oor banns,
Wi Rennie oot o sicht.”

She leuch — but no the wey she leuch
In simmer at the hay:
“My mither’s hoast is ill eneuch
Wi a the peats we hae.”

The hoose-door swung; its licht was spread
Lang yellae ower the close;
She nipped oor wick, an in its stead,
Her mooth. Her cauld wee nose.

Her faither, at the door-cheek, cried;
“It’s only me,” says she,
As calm’s the Sabbath; an she lied,
Her haun upon my knee.

The door gaed tae. She lit the wick,
She dichtit at her mou,
Syne clapped the quey: “Come on, be quick,
Ye thrawn wee limmer, noo!”

“Gin it’s a bull-calf,” Kirsty said,
“I’ll ca it efter you.”
She didna say wha she wad wed.
The lantren burned doon blue.

They tell me she gaed tae the Mains
At Whitsun, wi her gear,
Auld Rennie hunched abune the reins,
An, at the tail, a steer.

They say it winna shift a fit
For Rennie’s stick or cry;
But Kirsty says a name — an it
Comes lowin hame in-bye.

Tuapse, 28 September 2026
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FORM
Genre: narrative love song. Theme: forbidden love, with love set against duty, debt and reputation. Form: seventeen quatrains. Metre: Common Metre (8.6.8.6), iambic, with lines of four and three beats alternating. Rhyme: ABAB throughout. Language: rural literary Scots of the Lowlands, conversational in the dialogue.
GLOSSARY: SCOTS TO ENGLISH
Scots English
a all (bed, pat an a: bed, pot and all)
ablow below, beneath
abune above; up, higher (of a rolled sleeve)
ae one, a single
afore before
ahint behind; in arrears (twa terms ahint: two rent terms behind)
ain own
an and
auld old
bade stayed, remained (past of bide)
ben into the inner or best room of a house
bide wait, stay
bonnie pretty, comely
ca call, name
cam came
cauld cold
clart-deep deep in mud (clart: mud, dirt)
close farmyard; the enclosed yard of a farm steading
cry proclaim (the banns of marriage); also call out, shout
dichtit wiped
didna, isna, needna, wadna, winna did not, is not, need not, would not, will not
door-cheek doorpost; the side of a doorway
drappit dropped, fallen
efter after
eneuch enough
faither father
feart afraid
fee an engagement to serve on a farm for a term; the wage for that term (gie a fee: hire)
fit foot (winna shift a fit: will not move a step)
flit move house or leave one’s place, especially at a term day; remove secretly
frae from
gaed went; gaed tae (of a door): shut
gang go, depart
gear goods, belongings, household possessions
gie give
gin if
glower stare, scowl
guid good
hae have
hame home
hauf-mindit half-remembered (mind: remember)
haun, hauns hand, hands
heid head
het hot, warm
hoast cough
hoose house
in-bye inward, towards the farm buildings
kent known (micht hae kent: might have known)
kirk church
kye cows, cattle
lang long
lantren lantern
leuch laughed
licht light
limmer rascal, jade; used playfully of the heifer
lowin lowing
luif palm of the hand
Mains the home farm of an estate; here, Rennie’s farm
mair more
micht might
mirk darkness
mither mother
mooth, mou mouth
nae no
nicht night
noo now
o of
oor our
oot out
ower over; too (ower lang: too long)
pat pot
quey heifer; a young cow before or at her first calving
quo quoth, said
rouped sold by public auction (roup), especially a tenant’s goods for debt
rowed rolled
shoon shoes
sicht sight
simmer summer
smeekit smoky, smoke-dimmed
steer a young castrated ox
stirk a young bullock or heifer, a yearling
syne then, afterwards
tae to; (after a verb) shut
tellt told
thrawn stubborn, contrary
twa two
wad would
wee little
wey way
wha who
whan when
whaur where
wi with
yaird yard
ye, you you (ye unstressed, you stressed)
yellae yellow
yett gate

CUSTOMS AND PLACES
Term days. In Lowland Scotland, Whitsunday (15 May) and Martinmas (11 November) were the term days on which rents fell due and farm servants’ half-yearly engagements began and ended. A servant whom the master did not re-engage had to flit at the term. Wull’s dismissal is therefore not a quarrel but a date on the calendar.
Fee. A farm servant was fee’d for a term, often by agreement at a hiring fair. To be refused a second fee was to lose both wage and lodging.
Roup. A roup is a public auction. When a tenant fell into arrears, his stock and household goods could be rouped in his own yard. Auld Paton’s roup is the precedent that governs every decision Kirsty’s father makes.
Pews. Seating in a parish kirk was allotted by rank, beginning with the heritors (the landowners of the parish). A pew near whaur the gentry sit is a public, weekly statement of standing.
Banns. A marriage in the Kirk required the banns to be proclaimed, or cried, in church on successive Sundays. To cry oor banns in some strange kirk is to marry among strangers, beyond the reach of one’s own parish.
Paisley. A town west of Glasgow whose weaving and later thread manufacture drew labour from the countryside from the late eighteenth century onward. To a farm servant it offered wages without a master’s fee, and anonymity.
The Mains. The home farm of an estate, often the largest holding in the district. Rennie’s farm name is itself a mark of his position.
Setting. The farm, the characters and the events are invented. The customs they move among are those of rural Lowland Scotland in the late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries.
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LITERARY ANALYSIS
Shape of the Narrative
The poem tells a whole story in a single night, followed by a coda. Seventeen stanzas move from an ordinary farm chore to a separation that neither lover chooses. The first five stanzas contain no conflict at all: a young woman crosses a farmyard in her father’s boots to look at a heifer near calving, and a young man is already waiting in the byre. The reader learns that the love is forbidden in the same way the speaker does, from Kirsty’s own mouth, and she says it not to him but to the animal: She tellt it tae the quey, no me. The title takes its name from this displacement. The heifer is the only witness to everything that is said, and the one creature in the poem that cannot repeat it.
From that point the poem falls into four movements. Stanzas 6–9 set out the obstacle: a lost fee, a wealthy older neighbour, two terms of unpaid rent, and a neighbour’s roup. Stanzas 10–11 give the lovers’ choice: Wull proposes flight to Paisley, and Kirsty refuses in a single line about her mother’s cough. Stanzas 12–15 bring the risk: the house door opens, the light goes out, the father calls, Kirsty lies, and the lantern is relit. The last two stanzas are hearsay, reported from a distance at the next term day, and end on an image rather than a statement.
The Obstacle Made Concrete
The prohibition is never stated as a principle. It is built out of objects and dates: the term day, the fee, the pew, the forty acres, the rent, the roup. Rennie is not a villain but a solution to a debt, and Kirsty’s father is not a tyrant but a frightened tenant who has seen a neighbour’s bed and pots sold in that neighbour’s own yard. Kirsty names her own sale and, in the next breath, defends him: An I’m the price o it. That line is the poem’s moral centre, and it is spoken without self-pity. The economic order does not need to be condemned in the poem, because the reader has watched it being priced.
The same logic governs the satire. Rennie is exposed by two actions placed side by side, a long grace and a quick valuation: He prayed ower lang abune the hen, / Syne priced oor ae guid stirk. The phrase ower lang returns in the previous stanza as the father’s charge against Wull: He’s seen ye look ower lang. One man lingers over his prayers and is thought respectable; the other lingers over a girl and is dismissed. The poem makes no comment on the comparison.
Two Lovers, Two Wills
Kirsty carries most of the dialogue and most of the decisions. She teases (She’s no that bonnie, lad), explains, defends her father, refuses the elopement, puts out the light, lies calmly to her father, relights the wick, scolds the heifer, and names the calf. Her refusal is the emotional turn of the poem, and it is made through a practical detail rather than a declaration: her mother’s cough is bad enough even with all the peat they can burn. The reader supplies the rest of the chain from stanza 9: flight means arrears, arrears mean a roup, and a roup means a sick woman without a hearth.
Wull speaks once, and his one speech is a plan: work in the mills, a secret departure, banns in a strange kirk. His agency is real but outmatched. He offers wages and a future; she answers with an obligation that already exists. Neither is wrong, and the poem does not decide between them.
Desire Through Touch
The poem’s sensuality is carried by hands and by the animal between the lovers. Kirsty presses Wull’s hand under her own against the heifer’s flank, where the unborn calf knocks like knuckles on a pane, an image that also recalls a lover’s signal at a window. Her hand stays on his lang efter it was still. The kiss itself is never named. The light goes out and the stanza offers only two fragments: Her mooth. Her cauld wee nose. In the dark there is no scene to describe, only sensation, and the syntax breaks accordingly. While she lies to her father, her hand is on his knee; when the door has closed, she wipes her mouth.
The Lantern and the Calf
Two objects hold the poem together. The byre lantern appears in the first stanza, warm in the cold air; it lights the sill, is pinched out at the moment of danger, is relit when the door closes, and finally burned doon blue, the colour of a guttering flame and, in folk belief, an ill omen. It measures the life of the secret.
The calf is the future the lovers cannot have in their own persons. Kirsty promises to name it after Wull if it is a bull. By the next Whitsunday it follows her to Rennie’s farm, tethered at the tail of the cart he drives: a steer, gelded, so that the namesake will father nothing. The final stanza gives it the last word. It will not move for Rennie’s stick or voice, but when Kirsty speaks a name the reader already knows, it comes home. The love has not survived as a marriage. It survives as a habit of obedience in a beast, and as a name spoken on another man’s farm.

THE STYLE OF ROBERT BURNS IN THE POEM
The poem does not borrow a line, character, refrain or stanza pattern from Burns. It takes up the general qualities of his poetry and puts them to work in a new situation.
Vernacular Authority
Burns showed that Scots could carry the full weight of feeling, argument and comedy, not merely local colour. This poem is written wholly in Scots rather than in English with Scots words added. Its syntax is Scots (Come Martinmas, ye gang; He’s feart, nae mair; She didna say wha she wad wed), and its vocabulary comes from farm work and domestic life: byre, quey, stirk, luif, hoast, roup, yett, door-cheek, in-bye. The Scots register is plain rural speech raised to song, which is the register of Burns’s best love songs rather than of his more Augustan English verse.
Song Metre
The poem is written in Common Metre: alternating lines of eight and six syllables with four and three beats, rhymed ABAB. This is the measure both of the ballad and of the metrical psalms sung in every parish kirk, and Burns knew both. The choice has a double edge here. The story of a man who prays long over his dinner and then prices a girl like a stirk is told in the metre of the psalms he sings from his pew every Sabbath.
The Farm-Servant’s World
Burns wrote as a working farmer who knew hiring terms, rent days and the labour of cattle and harvest. Many of his love songs are set among rigs, stooks and byres rather than in an idealised pastoral. The poem keeps to that ground. Love is conducted around a calving heifer; the lovers remember haymaking together; the rival’s wealth is measured in acres and a pew; the heroine arrives in her father’s muddy boots.
Sympathy for Animals
Burns repeatedly gave domestic and wild creatures moral presence, addressing them as fellow sufferers and witnesses. Here the heifer receives Kirsty’s confession, is scolded as a thrawn wee limmer, and gives birth to the creature that ends the poem. The animal is neither a symbol nor a pet, but a working beast that happens to carry the story.
Satire of Respectability
Burns’s sharpest satire was aimed at the gap between public piety and private conduct in the kirk and its elders. The poem stays in this tradition but uses a lighter touch, through juxtaposition rather than monologue. Rennie is never allowed to speak. He is seen praying, pricing, sitting near the gentry and hunched over the reins, and the reader draws the conclusion.
Humour Within Tenderness
Burns’s love songs often let wit and feeling share a single line. Kirsty’s first words tease Wull about the heifer’s looks. She lies to her father as calm’s the Sabbath, turning a religious commonplace against its own seriousness. She hurries the calving with a mock scolding. None of this undercuts the sincerity of the love; it is how the lovers speak to each other.
Where the Poem Departs from Burns
Burns’s love lyrics often speak their devotion openly and end on an affirmation. This poem withholds both. It never says that the lovers love each other and never passes judgement on the father or the rival. Its most intimate moment is rendered in verbless fragments, and its ending is hearsay about an animal. That restraint, and the montage-like cutting between the night in the byre and the Whitsun coda, belong to a modern poem written within the tradition rather than to a pastiche of it.

UNIQUENESS AND MEANING
The poem’s underlying question is what happens to real love when it collides with duty and debt. It does not answer with escape, defiance or tragedy. Kirsty stays and marries the man who can pay the rent; Wull leaves at the term. Nothing in the social order is overturned. What the poem registers is the cost of that order, and the small, stubborn forms in which feeling persists under it.
Three things make the poem its own. The first is the displacement of speech. The most important words in the poem are spoken to a heifer, and the most important name is never spoken on the page at all. What cannot be said openly between the lovers is routed through the animal, from Kirsty’s first confession to the calf that answers her call.
The second is the economic precision of the tragedy. Kirsty’s value is set in the same terms as the stirk’s: acres, arrears, a price. An I’m the price o it is not a metaphor. By Whitsunday she and the steer travel together to the Mains as part of the same transaction, one on the cart and one tethered behind it.
The third is the ending. Instead of a lament, a vow or a moral, the poem closes on a stubborn beast that will not move for its owner but comes when a woman speaks a name. Love here is not triumphant and not destroyed. It survives as a name, and the name survives in an animal that answers to it and to no one else.

A NOTE ON PERFORMANCE
The poem can be sung to any tune in Common Metre (8.6.8.6), including the Scottish psalm tunes of the seventeenth century. One practical caution about tune names. The melody printed in the Scottish Psalter of 1615 as the French tune was published by Ravenscroft in 1621 as the Dundy tune, and modern hymnals list it as DUNDEE or FRENCH. Tune names in Scottish and English collections do not always correspond, and the same name may denote different melodies. When looking for a setting, identify the tune by its source collection and notation, not by its name alone.