Scots Poems: Fishy Poem by Sheena Blackhall

The Snaa Kirk: After Ballater in Snow: David Smith RSW
Can be sung to the tune of the 19th century Welsh Ballad St Denio, (converted to a hymn by Walter C. Smith b. Aberdeen 1824

Stinch kirk in the clachan, stauns happit in snaa,
Bides siccar, far storms an far cauld breezes blaw,
Bedaizzlin, aybydan, each Ben aa aroon,
Is happit in ermine, its fite wintry goun

Each pathie is snaa clad and seelent, the licht,
O Heiven strikkin stained glaiss, makks a braw skinklin sicht;
At nicht aa the starnies shine bonnie tae see
The kirk in the clachan, bi the derk rollin Dee

Each Sizzen brings treisurs tae gie new delicht;
The boughs o the birk trees shakk deinty an slicht
By the kirk that ben ages in its pews an its staas
Baptizes an blesses inbye its stoot waas

Stinch kirk in the clachan, stauns happit in snaa,
Bides siccar, far storms an far cauld breezes blaw,
Bedaizzlin, aybydan, each Ben aa aroon,
Is happit in ermine, its fite wintry goun


Check me Oot: After Check this Out: Stanley Bird
Check me Oot
I'm a humdinger
A bobbydazzler
A braw singer
A wee stoater
A bough swinger
A faist winger

I'm a cocky birkie
I'm aywis mirkie

Check me oot
I'm snazzy
I'm jazzy
I'm the bees'knees
Jist sheetin the breeze

The Birds' Romance: After Still Life Floor Arrangement: Glen Scouller RSW RGI
A shag flew in frae the cauld North Sea
Seekin a mate tae wed
He perched on a windae near the toun
Bi wheeplin bird-sang led

An thonner he spied a wee fite doo
That pierced his seaman's hairt
Fin she spied him, they baith wir pierced
Bi Cupid's luvin dert

He bides wi her alternate wikks
In her hame fin they bide on lan
An she flees oot the antrin whyles
As they woo alang the stran

An sae the sea an the lan based birds
Hae made a life thegither
Tho the wee fite doo, she wishes whyles
The sea kept better weather


Fower Hennies: After Henhouse & Winter Sun: Glen Scouller RSW RGI
Foo's yer Hennies?
Ay peckin
Fence tod-proof?
Ay checkin

Are they broody?
Ay clockin
Mony eggies?
Oot poppin

Winter frosty?
Feathers cosy

Happy hennies
Hen hoose toasty


The Maquette: After Mijbil Otter Maquette II: Laurence Broderick
The Scottish naturalist Gavin Maxwell took an otter as a pet & named it Mijbil.

A maquette is the ultimate pet
Ye'll nae need a hutch, or a vet
It'll bide in yer hoose
Be as quest as a moose
It'll niver bite, keech or upset
Ony veesitin friens
Be a drain on yer means
Wi a maquette yer niver in debt

Herbour: After Harbour Doors: George Birrell
Afore ye open the door, ye smell the coast
Even the seagulls hoast
Skreich, skreich skreich

Fishermen clean their nets in their yalla wellies
Their denner o shrimps an chips
Sweels roon their bellies
A day skooshin oot fishy guts
Then hame tae watch their tellies

The Bawd's Last Will: After Hare: David Meredith
I leave ma lugs sae saft an warm
Tae makk a luggit bunnet
I leave ma een sae derk an bricht
As preens tae pit upon it

I leave ma speed tae ma rabbit fiers
Sae they micht jink the tod
An I leave ma bree fur a fine gravy
Made frae ma ain hairt's bluid


Gowfer: After Golfer & Junior Caddie: Michael Clark RSW PAI
I am a gowfer, gowf is my delicht.
I gowf in sna, storm, sun, in sleet an rain.
My wife, I think, prefers me, ooto sicht.

I dinna humpf ma clubs aa on ma lane.
I pye a caddie loon tae save ma feet
I gie him pocket money, fur his pain
I am a gowfer, gowf is my delicht
Skelpin a baa aa day, frae dawn tae nicht


Figureheid: After Her Majesty: Gordon Wilson
A fisherman's wife on the front o a boat
Wi a belly as big's a whale
An her hair rowed up in knottit cloot
Stauns fit tae face a gale

Nae storm wid caa her aff her stott
Her dowp is wechtit doon
Wi years o Mars bars, shortbreid, chips
She widnae sink, she'd droon

If the Kraken saw this coastal quine
It wid turn tail an flee
As figureheids gyang, she's stoot an strang
As a daud o masonry


The Sen Aff
The host, fur aince, wis quaet, seemed unaware
The young, fa barely kent him, didnae care

His friens, clean shaven, wore their Sabbath best
Spakk o the wye that he hid aye bounced back
His antics, ploys, his winnin wye wi weemin
A legendary leader o the pack

The auld fowk spakk o ither kin langsyne
His uncles, aunts, wirk brithers, antrin luver
Raiked ower the coals wi sancts an ne'er dae weels
Staunin tae see him aff, shouder tae shouder

It wis a sen aff fit fur ony laird
Mair warmth that he hid kent in his hale life
The piper ootbye playin Flooer o Scotlan
The loss cut ben the murners like a knife

In Memoriam: Prof. Sir Charles Duncan Rice, died February 2022
He wis a frien o lear, champion o truith
He ne'er forgot his Aiberdonian reets
Age didnae cheenge him, ay promotin youth
Helpin the Wird Festival gae us sic treats!

A quaet revolution'ry he wis caad,
He wis a truly philanthropic cheil
If there's a heiven this Sir Galahad
Will win the prize fur pioneerin zeal

He wis a bobby-dazzler, makker, shakker
Wi the Three Muses he wauked cheek bi jowl
He wis a modest man, o douce demeanour
Historian, fa hid a poet's sowel


Rumour
It wis the budgie stertit the rumour
He clyped tae the dug
Fa telt the cattie
Fa spreid it far an wide

Rumours ye ken
Are like feathers
Fleein frae a rippit bowster

Aince lowse, they blaw awa
Nae stopping them


Fa Lues ye Baby?
My da, my granma
Whyles, my bairns
Whyles, ma granbairns tae

It's a queer thing luve
Ye canna buy it
Ye canna chore it
Bit gin ye get it,
Cherish it an store it


Wooed
I wis niver wooed
Nae luver sent me flooers
Or sweeties
Or even a Valentine

Boo-hoo sez you
There's waur wints
Than niver bein wooed

Mebbe sae,
I'll bet that ye wir lued
Eneuch tae be wooed

Bit I'm ayont thon noo
I dinna brood

Owersetts

Stravaiger's Night Sang bi Goethe (1749-1832) : owersett into Doric
Ower aa the taps o bens
It's quaet.
In aa the tree taps
Ye feel
Scarce a braith o win.
The wee birdies are seelent
In the wids
Jist wyte…sune
Ye'll be at rest as weel.


Fowk fa are near me dinna ken bi Rabindranath Tagore (1861-1941) intae Doric
Fowk fa are near me dinna ken
That ye are nearer tae me than they are
Fowk fa spikk tae me dinna ken that ma hairt is full
Wi yer unspukken wirds
Fow fa steer in ma path
Dinna ken that I am waukin alane wi ye
Fowk fa lue me dinna ken
That their luve brings ye tae ma hairt.


Liberté bi Paul Éluard (1895-1952) Owersett intae Doric
Thousands of copies of this poem were dropped by plane over France in WW2

On ma jotters frae schule
On ma brod an the trees
On the san on the snaa
I screive yer nemme

On ilkie page read
On aa the fite sheets
Stane, bluid, paper or aise
I screive yer nemme

On the gowden picturs
On the sodjers' wappons
On the croons o kings
I screive yer nemme

On the jungle, the desert
The nests an the busses
On the echo o bairnhood
I screive yer nemme

On the winner o nichts
On the fite breid o days
On the sizzens thirsels
I screive yer nemme

On aa ma blue cloots
On the puil, mildyewed sun
On the loch leevin meen
I screive yer nemme

On the parks, the hynie awa
The wings o the birdies
On the winmill o shaddas
I screive yer nemme

On the froth o the clouds
On the swyte o the storm
On the derk fooshionless rain
I screive yer nemme

On the glimmerin makks
On the bells o colour
On pheesical truith
I screive yer nemme

On the waukened pathies
On the opened wyes
On the skittered airts
I screive yer nemme

On the lamp that gies licht
On the lamp that is drooned
On ma hoose reunited
I screive yer nemme

On the cuttit up fruit
O ma keekin glaiss an chaumer
On ma bed's teem shell
I screive yer nemme

On ma dug, greedy, douce
On his lippenin lugs
On his awkward paws
I screive yer nemme

On the sill o ma yett
On weel kent ferlie
On the lowe's sacred flow
I screive yer nemme

On aa the flesh that's in tune
On the broos o ma friens
On ilkie haun that raxxes
I screive yer nemme

On the glaiss o begecks
On lips that wyte
Heich ower the seelence
I screive yer nemme

On ma skaithed bields
On ma drappit lichthooses
On the waas o ma scunner
I screive yer nemme

On passionless absence
On nyaakit alaneness
On the merches o daith
I screive yer nemme

On health that's regotten
On danger gaen by
On hope wioot myndins
I screive yer nemme

Bi the pouer o the wird
I regain ma life
I wis born tae ken ye
An tae nemme ye
LIBERTY

Scots Owersett o I Sell My Daughter for 100 Won, by Jang Jin-sung (N. Korea) This poem was written by a North Korean defector named Jang Jin-Sung.
Trauchelt, in the mids o the mairt she stude
"Fur 100 won, I sell ma dother."
Wechty image o sorra
A cardboard plaque aroon her neck she'd hung
Neist tae her young dochter
Trauchelt, in the mids o the mairt she stude
A deef-mute mither
She glowered doon at the grun, takkin nae tent o
The banns the fowk aa cried
As they glowered
At the mither fa selt
Her mitherhood, her ain flesh an bluid
Her tears dried up
Tho her dother, on larnin
Her mither wid dee o a deidly disease
Hid beeried her face in the mither's lang skirt
An skirled, an grat
Bit the mither stude still
An her lips anely trimmilt
Nae kennin foo tae thank the sodjer
Fa slippit a hunner won intae her han
As he telt her
"It's yer mitherly luve
An nae yer dother I'm buyin"
She tuik the siller, an ran
She wis a mother,
An the 100 won she'd taen
She spent on a loaf o wheat breid
She ran tae her dother
As faist as she cuid
An pit a daud o the breid on the bairn's lips
"Forgie me, ma bairn"
In the mids o the mairt she stude
An she grat.

This poem was written by a North Korean defector named Jang Jin-Sung.


Scots Owersetts o 5 poems by Nadia Anjuman: Afghani poetess
On Nov.7,2005, Nadia Anjuman died over the weekend in the western city of Herat after being beaten by her husband, police officials revealed. The death of Ms. Anjuman at age 25 was mourned by colleagues and condemned by the United Nations as a tragic example of the violence that so many Afghan women still face.

I Wish (Ghazal)
I wish I could be reamin wi the wine o his bonnieness
Or, brunt in the lowe o his luve, becam the maister o his hairt
I wish I cuid be a teardrap brierin on the flouer o his face
Or a curl o his scentit hair
I wish I cuid be the stoor dowpit in his path
Or aneth the sun o his luik, melt bittie bi bittie
I wish I cuid be a secret staravaigin afore him
Or becam rare wirds on his quaet lips
I wish I cuid gyang wi ma frien, like a shadda in ilkie braith,
Or bide up til daybrak frae the thrill o his nearness
I'm giein up ma harns tae ma hairt's hope, that brakks frae pairtin
I'm steekin the yett on wae, becamin meenlicht frae heid tae tae

Priggin
O lift, poor doon on this brunt yird-
She is langin fur a drap o life's rain
Her mou is dry, her hairt is on fire
It's like luikin at daith

O cloud, waucht tae this birssled lan
A thoosan fermers luik fur ye
Cam, fur the emerant bens o the toun
Hae worn murner's claes fur ages
O watter, O natur's healer, please cam
Yer wint brakks the flooers' hairts
The gairdens hae nae virr left
Smiles hae dried frae lips
O lord, dinna lat the fermer
Dee drouthy in the lowe o time
Ae drap is an aybydan giftie,
Renewin the fermer's dweeble hauns
O lord, shaw peety tae the dour traivellers
O lord, shaw favour tae the sair hairt o the sea
O lord, tae the spring's birsslin lips
Tae the brunt deserts, poor the sainin o rain

We are affrontit an brukken servants
Drooned in sin, in blinnin derkness
O lord, dinna lat us crine faerrer
Sain us, tho we earned this skaith
Poor watter on us, fur we're in flames
A pucklie watter tae weet the spring's dry ee
This birsslin eirde is yer disciple's chaumer
Dinna lat it birl intae crockanation


Peetifu Tales
O peetifu tales
Ye hae vrocht hames o oor hairts
Thon greetin een, thon sunken yalla chikks
They're the dour merks o yer presence
O branches o sorra!
A hunner springs an autumns cam an gae
Buds dwine wi scoored hairts
A hunner blockades clear an a hunner caravans pass
Pharaoh dees an Nimrod's tale eyns-
Yet yer still green an caller
As if jist frae the gairden's wyme

O birsslin wae
Leave the reaches o oor hairts-
They arenae the anelythings wirth kinnlin
Fur aince, pass throwe anither's hoose
O peetifu tales

Yer company dings us doon
Gin ye dinna sikk a new hoose, takk tent
The morn we'll gae frae the sorrowfu wrack o life-
An ye, skaithed an nyaakit
In the limbo o time
Will be hameless


The Nicht's Poetry ghazal
It's nicht-a poem kinnles ma thochts
Keenness caimbs ma voyce like knottit hair
Fit kinno lowe satisfees drooth?
Fit scent steers up the corp o ma air?

I dinna ken fit ben, fit ben o ma langin
Blaws a caller win ben ma hett solstice
Frae a bricht cloud faas sic pure licht—
There's nae need fur ma greetin
Spirks poor frae ma soughs like starnies
The doo o prayer coories in ma Heiven
Ma wud greets faa on ilkie line o his buik
Luik foo they flow eeseless-ma God
Eftir volumes o ilkie wird, a gaitherin place o ma ilkie thocht,
Cames rebirth efter an era o ma quaet
Mornin, dinna teir at the silk o ma dreams
I sweir tae the nicht-it kinnles ma thochts


In the Company o Spring's Dother
Singin rain brocht ye here
Ye gart ma luiks quicken
The sicht o ye vrocht a stooshie inbye me
Ye brocht cheenge tae ma gairden's dream
Fit trimmlin's inbye ye? Fit harmony, yer makk
That ilkie leaf o ye daunces wi itsel?
Yer amorous buds an shyness an licht an win
Aa work hard, nae kennin o ma luik
Foo dae ye ken the doo sae weel
That it tells ye secrets as sune's yer here?
Fit gin I wir tae ken ye, O smert body?
Fit wyceness daes it tell wi its sang?
Ma hostess, gin ye hae admired ma poem
Sikk me unner the shadda o a cypress tree
Dowp me on a bass o skinklin clover
An gie me twa bunches o sweet basil