Scots Poems From Pigging Out Poem by Sheena Blackhall

Spell 125 from the Book of the Dead.
Gaun forrit intae the traivels o the deid
Yer life an deeds are judged bi the god Osiris

He's dowpit unner a canopy, weirin a croon
He hauds a cromach an wheep

He is claithed in fite linen, wi patterns on't o feathers
His face an hauns are happit wi gowden foil.

Afore him is a muckle lotus
Far sit the fower Sons o Horus,
Fa guaird the intimmers o a mummy.
Ahin him is Isis, his wife, an her sister Nephthys.

Here, a hairt wis wis wyed agin a feather
Columns set oot the daeins o the deid

Fa could staun in sic a coort
An niver trimmle aince?


The Day that I Chored Nelson's Column
The day I that I chored Nelson's Column
I tuik it tae brichten the lawn
Syne I liftit a statue o Burns
Noo he stands luikin braw at the dawn

I'd a notion tae hurl doon tae Glesga
Wheech Wellington aff, an his horse
It's a weakness I hae, I like ferlies
That are far ower dear fur ma purse

I'm settin ma sichts onno Nessie
If fowk catch her, I'll wyte wi ma net
Thon would gar the neebors takk notice
If a muckle loch monster's ma pet


Magi McGlynn: to the tune of Brian O'Lynne
Magi McGlynn was a man o the road
An prood in his kilt aroon Callendar strode
He wis broon as a berry, weel weathered his skin
'I'm a cheil for aa sizzons, ' said Magi McGlynn

Magi McGlynn wis the bard o Balquhidder
He wis weel wirth the meetin tae stop fur a blether
He'd the bluid o the gangrels, his traivellin kin
An a bender wis hame tae bold Magi McGlynn

Magi McGlynn biggt his bender himsel
The trees kept the secrets o his hermit shell,
Fitever Fate dealt him, he took on the chin
'Life's ower short tae worry' said Magi McGlynn

Magi McGlynn he could sing like a bird
An he chermed the warld wi his quicksiller wird
He'd the win in his face an the sunshine ahin
'Nae brick hoose can haud me' said Magi McGlynn

Magi McGlynn had a hat on his heid
Wi a feather that showed him a pure Heilan breed
An he'll rest far the waters o Earn they spin
Its the widlans o Strowan for Magi McGlynn

Inemuri, The Japanese Art of Sleeping at Work
Fit rare it wid be tae lay yer heid on a brod
Steek yer een, wish coorse pupils tae Hecklebirnie

On a train stappt wi sweiry scunners
On their wye tae a fitbaa fixture,
Foo braw tae blot them oot
Wi sleep, nae hearin a fusper

In the mids o a wearisome lecture
Far the spikker gaes on foriver
I wish like the Japanese
We could lie on the grun an dover


Mrs Frances Andrews, sitter for Thomas Gainsborough
It wis ma man Rob's idea tae hae us peintit
The artist wis mair taen wi peintin the lan than me
Gin ye luik close, he didnae feenish ma hauns

He sklaikit on an on aboot the lift, the clouds, the acres
The River Stour, the wids, the delichts o Essex

Rob luiks like hingin mince in the pictur
An I'm that peelywally, ye'd think I'd wirms.

The artist's daa wis a wyver, ye ken. Naethin byordnar.
He tells fowk he hates peintin portraits
He caas his patrons snobs

The guid thing is, he's faist.
Ma dowp wis growin dottlit sittin thinner


Some Poems need Droonin
Some poems need droonin
Ithers should hae a roon o applause
Fur brichtenin a day,
Or garrin us think on matters a different wye

Some poems need prunin
Like a gairden run tae seed
Ither poems wid be better aff deid

Some poems should be lowsed like lammies
Till they mature
Ithers should be haived on the midden
Jist fit fur manure

Some poems staun on a soapbox
An lay aff their chest
Ithers should be smored or pysoned
An pit tae rest


The Heron an the Angler
The Dee braids her wattery ringlets
Roon the heron's upricht shank
On the tither side o the river
An angler stauns on the bank

The heron is still as a statue
Sleekit, her watchin ee
The angler fichers an footers
Wi some fancy feathered flee

An faa are the better catchers?
Herons or fishermen?
Fur ae fish the angler catches
The heron snatches ten


The Wartime Juror
Ma mither wis a juror in the war
The crime the jury hid tae joodge wis rape
A local quine swore she hid bin attacked
The backgrun tae the case, the war's lanscape

The cheil accused, ane o the enemy
Prisoner o war, Italian, feelins heich
The jury tuik nae time tae seal his fate
Agin the fae, an ally o the Reich

Bit eftir, it turned oot the sentenced cheil
Wis heid o polis in his native lan
Wis kent tae be kind, charitable
The quine that named him, on the ither han

Hid taen a notion tae him, bin turned doon
Tho ithers had bin quick tae be her jo
Justice in war's a fey, unchancy thing
Innocents jyled, the guilty whyles lat go


Bus Station
The bus station's steerin wi fowk
Day trippin pensioners gaun aff on jaunts
Tae Embro, Dundee, Glesga
Hittin the shops, ee tae the main chaunce

The stops fur Deeside heeze
Wi hikers, bikers, sclimmers, humphin pokes
Maistly gweed natured,
Faimlies crackin jokes

The East Coast bus is thrang wi Doric spikkers
A puckle Polish, hired as filleters
A wheen o gaun-hame Broch-based affshore riggers

At nicht it is a different kinno body
Halflins, bleezin, irritatin aabody
Security on haun, if things turn bluidy

An aye the scurries skreichin on the scran
An rypin Gregg steak pasties gin they can


Wee Dooker
Fin I wis wee the highlicht o the year
Wis tuckin up ma skirt intae ma knickers
An toddlin by the blue forgot-me-nots
Reid Admiral its lichtsome wingbeats flichters

Safe, warm, the shalla watter heezed wi bandies
That ye could catch an cairry in a jar
Amids the Dee, the skinklin salmon racin
Doon frae the heather peaks aroon Braemar

An ower the watter, trees that wyved in sunsheen
Craigcoileich, I wad niver sclimm it noo
A bairn sized knowe, that owerluiked Ballater
Wi Coyles o Muick, the Darroch, oot on view

Scots Owerset o Satires bi Juvenal

Satire III: 164-189 It's Hard to Sclimm the Laidder
It's hard tae sclimm the laidder fin tichtenin funds
Block yer talents, bit at Rome the tyauve is greater:
They're dear, fooshty ludgins; ower priced, fittin the stramaches
O slaves; a smaa supper ower dear as weel


Yer affrontit tae ett aff clay ashets, tho ye
Wid feel nae scunner if o a suddenty speerited aff tae a Sabellan
Or Marsian brod, blythe in a puir cheil's roch, blue hood.
Tae tell ye the truith, in maist o Italy, naebody weirs a toga
Unless they're deid. Even on days o major ongauns fin
The traditional farce returns aince mair tae the timmer stage,
Fin the kintra bairn cooers in its mither's lap, at sicht
O a fite glowerin mask, even then ye'll see aabody,
Thonner, still riggit the same, them in the senatorial seats
An them some ither wye. Fite tunics are gweed eneuch fur
The heichest magistrates, as fit tae suit their heich office.
Here oor smert claes are ayont oor means, here at Rome
A wee bit mair has tae be borraed frae somebody's purse.

It's an ordnar faut; here we aa bide in flashy puirtith,
Fit mair can I say? Aathin in Rome cams at a price.
Fit dae ye nae pye sae ye can say: "Fit like, Cossus",
Sae Veiento will gie ye a ticht-lipped luik?
This slave's beard is clippit, thon ane's lock o hair's dedicatit;
The hoose is fu o celebratory cakes ye've pyed fur: takk ane
An keep yer scunner tae yersel. Clients are gart pye
Sic tribute-siller, tae add tae the savins o swippert slaves.


Satire III: 190-231 The Verra Hooses are Unsafe
Fa fears, or iver feared, that their hoose micht faa doon,
In cweell Praeneste, or in Volsinii amang the widded knowes,
Or at plain Gabii, or the braes o the knowes o Tibur?
We bide in a Rome held up fur the maist pairt by dweeble
Props; since thon's the wye management stop the biggins
Faain doon; aince they've happit some auncient yawnin
Crack, they'll tell us tae sleep soondly at the edge o wrack.
The airt tae bide is hyne frae aa thon lowes, an aa thon
Flegs in the nicht. Ucalegon is already sikkin a hose,
Meevin his gear, an yer third fleer's already rikkin:
Ye're unawaur; since gin the alarm wis soundit doonstairs,
The hinmaist tae burn will be the ane a bare tile protecks frae
The rain, up thonner far douce doos coo ower their eggies.
Cordus had a bed, ower wee fur Procula, an sax smaa joogs
O clay tae brichten his press an, aneth it,
A wee Chiron, a Centaur vrocht o thon verra same ‘merble'
An a kist gey auld noo, tae haud his Greek librar,
Sae the coorse moosies chawed awa at aybydan verse.
Cordus had naethin, fa could demur? Yet, puir cheil,
He tint the hale o thon naethin. An the hinmaist tap
O his wae, is that nyaakit an priggin fur maet, naebody
Will gie him a crust, or a haun, or a reef ower his heid.
If Assaracus's muckle biggin is tint, his mither's in murnin,
The heid bummers weir blaik, an the praetor sets aside his hearin
Syne we murn the state o Rome, an we despair o its lowes.
Fin it's still burnin, they're breeengin tae offer merble, already,
Colleck haun oots; ae cheil gies nyaakit glimmrin statues,
Anither Euphranor's maister-wirks, or bronzes bi Polyclitus,
Or antique gee-gaws that aince belanged tae some Asian god,
Here buiks an buik presses, a Minerva tae pit in their mids,
Thonner a howpie o siller. Persicus, wealthiest o the bairnless,
Is there tae replace fit's tint wi mair, an better ferlies.
He's suspeckit, an richtly sae, o settin a lowe tae his hoose.
Gin ye could teir yersel frae the Games, ye could buy
A braw placie, at Sora, at Fabrateria or Frusino,
Fur the annual rent ye pye noo, fur a tenement in Rome.
Thonner ye'd hae a gairden, an a wall nae deep eneuch
Tae nott a towe, sae easy watterin o yer douce plants.
Live as a luver o the hyew, an the maister o a veggie bed,
Frae which a hunner vegetarian Pythagoreans could be fed.
Ye'd be somebody, fitiver the placie, hooiver hyne awa,
Gin anely because ye'd be the maister o a lane lizard.

Satire III: 232-267 An Syne There's the Traffic
Mony an invalid dees frae lack o sleep here, tho the illness
Itsel is caused bi hauf etten maet, that clooks ticht
Tae the fevered kyte; fur, far can ye ludge an enjoy
A gweed nicht's sleep? Ye hae to be unca rich tae fin rest
In Rome. Thon's the soorce o oor sikkness. The eynless traffic
In nerra birlin streets, an the sweirin at stranded kye,
Wid caa Claudius aff his sleep, or the seals on the shore.
Fin duty caas, the crood gies wye as the rich man's hurlie,
Hashes by, richt in their faces, like some muckle Liburnian boatie,
Fin he reads, screives, sleeps inbye, while cairriet on his wye:
Ye ken foo a cheer wi steekit windaes makks ye sleepy!
Yet, he gets thonner first: as I hash on, the tide aheid blocks me,
An the muckle heeze o fowk that follae ahin crush ma kidneys;
This cheil cocks oot his elbuck, thon ane flails wi a solid pole,
This cheil strikks ma heid wi a beam, thon ane wi a barrel.
Shanks with clartit wi dubs, I'm foraye tramplit bi michty feet
Frae ilkie side, while a sodjer's hobnailed buit prods ma tae.
D'ye see aa the rikk that rises, tae celebrate a haun-oot?
There's a hunner diners aa follaed bi his portable kitchie.
Corbulo, thon muckle general, could scarce cairry aa thon muckle pots,
Wi aa the lave that the puir wee slave cairries, on his heid.
Fannin the oven, he rins alang, his body held perfeck.
Recent-mendit tunics are rippit, fin a lang fir log shakks
As it cams nearhaun, fin anither cairt's uphaudin a hale pine-tree.
They teeter threatenin-like ower the heids o thon fowk ablow.
Noo, if thon axle brakks unner the wecht o Ligurian merble,
An cowps an upturned Ben on tap o the steer,
Fit will be left o the bodies? Fit limbs, fit banes will
Survive? Ilkie cheil's corpse aathegither smushed will vanish alang
Wi his sowel. Betimes his hoosehauld, unkennin are scoorin
The dishes; are pluffin their chikks at the kinnlers; are clatterin
The oily back-scrapers; bi full oil-flasks, arreengin the towels.
The slave-loons hash on wi puckles o dargs, while their maister,
Is noo an incomer on the banks o the Styx, chitters thonner
At the ugsome ferry cheil, wioot hope, puir vratch, o a hurl
Ower the dubby river, an nae coin in his mou fur the fare.


Satire III: 268-314 An The Violence
An noo lat's conseeder aa the ither fey dangers, at nicht:
Fit a lang wye it is fur a tile frae the heichest reef tae faa
On yer heid; foo aften a cracked an leaky pot draps doon
Frae a sill; fit a clour fin they strikk the cassies chippin
An brakkin the stanes. Gin ye gae oot tae denner wioot makkin
A will, ye're thocht o as richt careless, nae thinkin o thon
Tragic ongauns that happen: there are as mony wyes tae dee,
As there are open windaes watchin ye, fin ye gae by, at nicht.
Sae I'd makk a puir wish an a prayer, as ye gae, that they'll
Bide blythe wi jist teemin their reamin pots ower ye.
The ill trickit drooth's misfittit if bi chaunce there's naebody at aa
Tae set upon, spennin the hale nicht murnin, like Achilles fur
His frien, lyin noo on his face, an syne, turnin ontae his back:
Since it's the anely wye he can weary himsel; it takks a tulzie or twa
Tae sen him tae sleep. Bit hooiver wirked up he is, fired bi youth
An strang wine, he steers awa frae him in the crammosie cloak, fa issues
A warnin as he gaes on his wye, wi his lang heeze o staff,
An a rowth o torches mairower an lamps o bronze. Yet despises me,
As I gae by, bi the licht o the meen, as aye, or the flichterin licht
O a caunle, faas wick I takk great care o, an cannily takk tent o.
Takk tent o the settin awytin a coorse fecht, gin ye caa it a fecht
Far ane o us strikks oot, an the ither ane, me, takks a threwshin.
He stauns up, an he tells me tae devaul. I've nae choyce bit tae obey;
Fit can ye dae, fin a gyte cheil is giein the orders, fa's stranger
Than ye as weel? "Far've ye binn? " he skirls, "Fa's soor wine
An beans hae ye bin doonin? Fit soutars were ye at,
Stappin yer face wi byled yowe's heid, gorgin on fresh likks?
Naethin tae say? Ye'd better spikk up faist, or get a gweed kickin!
Tell me far ye're bidin: fit hyne aff park are ye prayin in? "
Gin ye ettle tae say somethin, or try tae bide quaet, it's aa the same:
He'll gie ye a batterin regairdless, an syne, still fu o rage, say
He's suin ye fur assault. This is the freedom gien tae the puir:
Fin they're battered, haimmered doon bi neives, they can prig an prig
Tae be alloued tae makk their wye hame efterwirds wi a fyew teeth left.
An thon's nae aa we need tae be feart o; there'll be nae shortage o reivers
Tae spulzie ye, fin the hooses are aa lockit up, fin aa the shutters
Afore the shops hae bin chyned an faistened, aawye seelent.
An, iver sae aften, there's a cyard wi a sherp knife at wirk:
Finiver the Pontine Bog, or the Gallinarian Wid an its pines,
Are fur a whylie made safe bi an airmed patrol, the vratches lowp
Frae thonner tae here, heidin fur Rome as if tae a game reserve.
Far is the lowe or anvil nae made eese o fur makkkin chynes?
The maist o oor iron is turned intae fetters; ye should fash aboot
An imminent wint o plooshares, a lack o picks an hyews.
Ye micht caa oor hyne aff ancestors lucky, lucky thon times
Lang syne, fin lives were lived aneth the rule o Caesars an tribunes,
Thon generations, that witnessed a Rome far a single jyle wis eneuch.

Satire III: 315-322 Sae Fareweel!
I could add a heeze o ither rizzons tae these, bit the breets o burden
Are brayin, the sun is settin. It's time fur me tae leave; the muleteer
Has bin wyvin his wheep, tae signifee he's bin ready tae gae fur a whylie.
Sae fareweel, keep me in yer thochts, an finiver Rome sens
Ye hashin back, fur a rest in the kintra, tae yer ain Aquinum,
Invite me frae Cumae as weel, tae veesit the Ceres o Helvius, an yer
Diana. I'll cam in ma nail-shod buits, I'll cam an veesit yer jeelin
parks, an, gin they're nae aathegither shamefu, I'll lippen tae yer Satires.'