Alas a worthy 19^th century resident of a town now called Coatbridge but formerly Cottbrig. Who but a few would recognize her name albeit a poet worthy of being compared to the Bard himself? There is a “ Janet Hamilton Memorial Fountain” adjacent to the West End Park.

A descendent of a Covenanter Janet Hamilton born in 1795 in the parish of Shotts but eventually lived with her parents in the weaving village of Langloan in 1802. Her parents were land labourers on a farm in Drumpellier estate. Most, if not women in particular would well understand the road to female suffrage in Scotland but even more so was the lack of education. So how then could a comparatively illiterate attain the status of a recognized Scottish poet?

From all accounts Janet Hamilton was a self-taught person including teaching herself to read but not write until her middle years. According to some journals she went on to read Milton, Shakespeare, Burns and other worthy poets and writers. Married at 13 years of age Janet Hamilton raised a family of 10 children of whom eventually benefited from receiving her well-earned learning. Needless to say the fear of God ensured that the Bible and words from the catechisms had high priority in the children’s education.
 

In a similar vein to the Burns, Janet Hamilton’s poetry reflects the realities of urban hardship of her era. Again like Burns she did not have much time for humbug and pretence but compiled her poetry of life as seen through her eyes. Most would agree I think that compared with the greats, Janet Hamilton’s poetry to the purist might lack sophistication and indeed like all self taught individuals the lack of a formal education probably becomes apparent in some of her writings. Nevertheless there is an intrinsic integrity in her poetry that cannot be denied.

Somewhere in the Old Monkland cemetery Janet Hamilton’s last resting place could be found. According to a published article by the Monklands Library Services Department on her tombstone are the words inscribed, “ She being dead yet speaketh”. Does she lie forgotten now?
 

As a footnote it should be appreciated that in Janet Hamilton’s lifetime there was no such place as Coatbridge. Burgh status some 100 odd years ago created that name. The maps of 1750 reflect a place called Cottbrig a small steading where the Glasgow / Airdrie road crossed over the Gartsherrie Burn.

It has been written that famous poets and writers of her era visited Langloan to converse with Janet Hamilton. One wonders about the conversation and indeed the dialect difficulty?
 

Now enjoy:-

A WHEEN AUL’ MEMORIES

{Of Cottbrig}
 

Wi’ my haun on my haffit I sit by the fire,

An’ think that for nocht I hae sic a desire

As to gang my auld gates, and see my auld places,

To hear the auld voices, and see the auld faces.
 

When a gilpy o’ nine I was set doon to wark

At the auld spinnin’ wheel, an’ frae morning till dark

I spun, for my mither was thrifty an’ snell,

An’ wadna allo me to jauk or rebel.

O licht was my heart, an’ licht were my heels,

Whan, dune wi’ the birrin’ an’ bumming o’wheels,

I skelpit aff, barefit, the hie road alang,

Wi, a hap, stap, an’ loup, an’ a lilt o’ a sang.
 

There was Willie the wabster. An’ Tammy the douce,

At Merryston Brig they ilk ane had a hoose;

An’ there wasna anither’ twixt that an’ Coatbrig,

But twa theekit dwallins, laigh, cozy, an’ trig.
 

And syne ower the brig to auld Jamie’s we cam,

At the sign o’ twa Hielanders takin’ a dram;

Then auld cadger Johnie’s [we ca’d him Saut Jock],

Four mae bits o’ dwallins, an’ no money fo’k.

Noo min’ what I tell ye, it’s sixty years lang

Since Coatbrig was juist what I said in my sang;

On the south o’ the road wasna biggit a stane,

An’ the hooses I speak o’ they stood a’ alane.

Then up the auld road I gaed scamperin’ awa,

Weel kent I the gate o’ John Jamieson’s raw,

Whaur in at the winnock the roses were keekin’

An’ four bonnie lassies were needlin’ an’ steekin’.

An’ the looms they war rattlin’ an’ blatherin’ awa,

For in that wee shoppie the websters war twa-

Jock Thamson an’ Jamie, a son o’ the house,

An’ wow but thae callins war cantie an’ crouse.

It was there my young fancy first took to the wing;

It was there I first tasted the Helicon spring;

It was there wi’ poets I wad revel and dream,

For Milton an’ Ramsay lay on the breast beam.

At auld auntie’s winnock, whaur the hour-glass aye stood,

I aft keekit in e’er I dared to intrude,

For a woman both gracious an’ godly was she,

An’ the Bible ye seldom wad miss aff her knee,