James McLeod Wyllie
Certificate of Service
Corps or Regiment
Summary of Service
Bletchley Park 1942 - 1945. Mansion, Research Section. Worked with Bill Tutte on German Lorenz teleprinter ciphers. Compiled Wyllie's Cryptographic Dictionary of specialist terms used in Cryptanalysis, in 1943.
Commemorated On The Codebreakers Wall
Lexicographer. Worked on the Oxford English Dictionary pre-war, editor of the Oxford Latin Dictionary 1933 - 1954.
Poems by James Wyllie
Home Sickness Written in the Doric dialect of Scots, as spoken in north-east Scotland. O send me a waucht* o’ the life-givin’ air That blaws ower the uplands o’ Barras so bare, That waves the green corn, an’ soochs* through the trees An’ truly deserves the name of “a breeze”. For the win’s of the Sooth hiv nae freshness ava; In the w...inter they’re cauld, but they seldom bring snaw. It’s fog when they’re saft; when they bluster it’s rain; And their sharp better edge aye cuts to the bane. They ken nae the snaw-drifts o’ Barras that line The fields and the hillsides for weeks at a time; That mak’ the land fair as the clear lift* abune* , And sparkle like gems in the licht o’ the mune. And send me a drap fra the grassy-banked rill That rins past the schule frae its hame in the hill; That ripples an’ bubbles an’ splashes wi’ glee Through the den, ower the waterfall, into the sea. For the streams hereabout hardly ken hoo to flow; They’re sedgy and smooth, but they’re muddy and slow; Nae soun’ do they mak’; they’ve nae pebbles to turn; They lack a’ the life of a Scottish hill-burn. O sair to I miss things I aften ha’e seen Without ever thinkin’ hoo much they could mean. There’s bonny scenes here, but naething’s the same. Ye maun* – oh, ye maun – send me something frae hame. Waucht - quaff or draught Soochs - rushes or rustles Lift - sky or air (cf German 'luft') Abune - above Maun - must The Canal at Simpson Outside another joyous day Of golden sunshine and warm sleepy airs Passes all but unheeded while the brow Sweat-beaded, furrow-lined is bent upon The latest problem, till the beating brain Worn out with ill-success can think no more. How pleasant then, when evening cools the sky To wander easefully along the side, Of this deserted waterway, to feel The quiet strength of waters deep, to smell Wafting of scent from flowers and to hear The rustling of the dry dead grass, the shrill Buzzing of gnats a-jostling in the air And now and then the plops of feeding fish, Or sparrow flurrying from the hedgerow to see The timid moorhen scurrying from the bank Breaking the water’s magic surface till At length she struggles into heavy flight And voices her protest in jarring notes. The dragon-fly gliding on rigid wing This way and that along his hunting-ground The fat black slugs in search of food or love And tiny looping caterpillars that cross Vast spaces twixt the blooms of ungrown fruits Of patient blackberries; sometimes to watch The jerky flitterings of clumsy moths, And solemn stare of moist skinned squatting frogs; To mark as night falls in the western sky (Once gold and pink, now purple, blue and grey) The coldening hues of sunset then to turn One’s steps for home through the dewed meadow grass Where cattle lie and chew with sleepy eyes, Unfurrowed brows, and large soft luscious mouths In easy rhythmic motion where from afar The plaintive calls of lambs, soon reassured By low-pitched soothing, baas of ewes, are heard, And distant cooings of smooth-throated doves; So rested and refreshed in soul to lie In dreamless slumber till a new day dawns.