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(18/8/1947 / Aberdeen)

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Pirrins and Magnus (5 Scots Poems Thrawn Janet et al)

1. The Thocht

Neil Sangster wis a wummanizin cheil
Fond o a dram, his pye, peed aff the waa
His wife, lang sufferin, hid her sorras weel

His siller tongue cud cherm the verra deil
His wumman friens aa thocht that he wis braw
His wife tho, scraped the pot fur ilkie meal

His littlins niver kent an even keel
Fin foo, he’d be a boozie, luvin daa
Fin sober, they’d tae bide aneth his heel

Noo an again, she’d takk the driver’s wheel
A treat, gaun tae the Bens fite- tapped wi snaa
The littlins paiddlin in a Heilan puil

She climmed a brae, an watched three bodies kneel
Twa lassie hikers, ane wioot a bra
War dowped aside him, tender-saft as veal

He liked them younger. She cud see him peel
His jaiket aff. She heard ae lassie squeal
He’d kittlet her. His wife began tae beil

The littlins tuik nae tent, lowsed frae the skweel
They didna see her face turn blaik’s a craa
Her man stood near the linn, it’s steep doonsweel
Ae shove, an he’d be cowpit clean awa

The meenit passed, the murder thocht wis real
Bit wi her luck, he’d sweem like ony seal



2. Life on the Border, Scotlan,1298

We’re ower near the edge fur comfort
Gin borders cheenge,
Will rules be rippit up?
Will the kirk be cowpit?
Will a new kirk powk its neb in oor affairs?

Whit aboot fermin an fishin,
The laws o trade?

Nailin it richt doon tae the brods,
Whit’ll becam o the ordnar chiel?
Whit about brigs an fords,
Ferries, cuddies an coos?

Whit o the chapman cairryin the news?
Will new maisters makk justice a rale consarn?

Whit o wir leid?
Will the wye we spikk be banned?
Will oor weemin be ill-used,
Oor bairns an halflins slauchtered?

Siller…will there be ony left tae spen?
Will oor whisky stills be dung doon,
Oor laddies conscriptit for wars?

Gin we bide leal tae fit has gaen afore
Will oor weird be gweed or waur?



3.The Daffs frae a Native’s Owerview: Scots Owersett of a ‘The Daffodils from a Native’s Perspective’ a poem by Sia Figiel (American Samoa) , born 1967.

Affa sorry, Maister Wirdswirth
Bit I wanneret lanely as a cloud as weel
Fin first I heard yer wee poem,
Form 3, Literature class
That floats on heich ower
Glens an Bens.
She gart us larn ye bi hairt!
Alang wi tiger tiger burnin bricht in the wids
O yer ither 19th century Romantic friens.

Fin aa at aince she’d rug ma lug
Ilkie time I glowered at the alice buss
Neist tae the mango tree ootby.
Bit in the hinnereyn I grew rale smert
On yer gowden heeze o daffs
Aside the loch
Aneth the trees
Flichterin an dauncin
Unner the piulo tree.

Eftir skweel
Singin, singin
The daffs,
Yer precious daffs
Ma precious daffs
Ma anely gear at 15
The anely ferly I didna hae tae share
Nae kenning fit wis flichterin
Fit wis dauncin.
Bit dinna fash
Fitiver they maun hae bin
They maun hae bin eildritch
Beglamoured mairower
Because
They pit a lauch in ma mou
Finiver I lie on ma mat
Aften in thochtfu mood
Ettlin tae win some blitheness o aloneness
Noo an then withoot the
Dugs, the roosters, the eyinga,
Ma eyinga, the clachan
Ma clachan, the airt
Ma airt, the neebors
The neebors’ radio,
Their TV,
Their lood moued aunty, fa sweirs at the bairns
Because they hinna sterted suca
An it’s already 5 o’clock at nicht.
Losh be here, I hatit thon wumman!
Bit smile at her onywye,
The anely wye for us tae watch Days o Oor Lives
Dae ye ken fit I mean Maisrer Wirdswirth?
Dae ye ken fit I mean?


4.Myndin: A Scots Owersett o the poem Memory by Nguyen Bao Chan (Vietnam) born 1969

Myndin is playin I-spy
Wi the things ye myne on

It fins a timmer dall
An dwaums o the wid

It heists up a shell
An hears the sea

It sees the mornin sunlicht
An feels warm kisses

It straiks nyaakit skin
An is brunt bi luve’s cinners

It sups the nicht dyew
An kens the auld drooth again

It straiks the river
An the waves rin aff

It hides itsel
An unhaps the lift

It turns aroon
An faas inno the void


5.Thrawn Janet A ballad based on Robert Louis Stevenson’s Tale of the Same name

The Reverend Murdoch Soulis
Bedd in the Glen o Dule
In the Pairish o Balweary
Hell-fire o the Calvin schule

His manse wis a lanely biggin
Aneth the Hingin Shaw
An his sermons roared frae the pulpit
Terrifeed ane an aa

Nearhaun, there wis a cassie
Aside a dowie burn
Hauntit bi hyne-aff ferlies
Spun frae the Black Airt’s pirl

Langsyne as a preachin callant
Wi a Bible claucht in his haun
He cam, a spleet new meenister
Tae bring the Lord tae the lan

He hired him a queer auld limmer
Janet McClour her name
Sib tae the Deil, the Godly thocht
Bit he lichtlied her ill-fame

The guid wives o the kintra
Ettled tae droon the witch
Bit the carline focht like a hound o Hell
The meenister saved the vratch

Neist morning, throwe the clachan
She wauked, like her neck wis thrawn
Wi niver a hale wird in her mou
Bit styte like the Deil micht spawn

At the eyn o July thon simmer
Nae a braith o win ower the lan
Kye, bairns an men war dwinin
Tricks ill tae unnerstaun

Seeven craas flew ower the kirkyaird
There sat a heich Blaik Chiel
Fin the meenister neared, he fled awa
Tae the wids wi brimsteen heel

Dumfounert, he socht his biggin
Tae swallae a brandy glaisse
Thon nicht wis hett as Hell itsel
Near meltit steen an braise

He lichtit a trimmlin caunle
Fand Janet, strung up deid
Hung frae a nail on her chaumer door
Bi a strand o darnin threid

An waur, he heard her fitsteps
Plod, ploddin doon the stair
An lood he skirled ‘Begone ye witch
Tae the Foul Fiend’s fiery lair! ’

Mony’s the day the meenister
Tossed in a fevered fret
Bit the Deil’s awa wi Janet’s soul
An it haunts Auld Soulis yet

Submitted: Monday, December 23, 2013


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