Hogmanay Poem by Angela Wybrow

Tonecht is th’ nicht ay Hogmanay;
Thes wabbit auld year canne noo stay.

Upon th’ hillside stands a lain croft;
Th’ lecht frae its windae invitin’ an’ soft.

Fowk ur gaitherin’ tae hear th’ bells;
They’re wishin’ thes year a fond farewell.

It is a time fur th’ givin’ ay special gifts,
Bein’ together an’ healin’ auld rifts.

At th’ ceilidh, folk jink an’ sin’ -
Waitin’ fur th’ parish bells tae rin’.

Canty an’ hopeful ur hoo th’ folk feel,
As they jink th’ traditional jigs an’ reels.

A minute tae midnecht, Hogmanay is near;
The clock strikes twal, a’ fowk all cheer.

Th’ bells, they rin’ it one lest time;
Folk join hans an’ sin’ Auld Lang Syne.

Despite th’ hoor bein’ sae late,
Fur their ‘first fit’, th’ revellers wait.

At th’ duir, thaur suin comes a knock,
An’ th’ duir frae inside is eagerly unlocked.

At th’ duir, stands a cheil mirk an’ tall -
Wishing a warm greetin’ tae a body an’ aw.

Tae th’ crofter, he noo hans a peat:
A traditional gift, providin’ some heat.

He also brings whisky - a Scotch single malt,
Some silver, some breed, some coal, an’ some salt.

Coal fur warmth, Salt fur flavoor, breed fur food,
Silver for gear, and whisky tae lift th’ muid.

Within th’ croft, there’s plenty ay cheer,
Noo ‘at Hogmanay is finally haur.