Scots Poems From Wylde Cattie Poem by Sheena Blackhall

Gear
Ma bairnhood hame wis young wi Queen Victoria
I grew up wi ma granma's auncient gear
A lowe that spirkit reid-flamed in the hairth
A double bed, a horse-hair stappit cheer

A braisse coal scuttle, wee shovel fur coal
Braisse kist fur logs, wi jumbos etched aroon
Fire tings, a poker, brush, a caunle snuffer
Wee Willie Winkie caunle hauder, goun

A windae luikin ower a cobbled street
Wi widden shutters, wechty velvet drapes
A chimin clock, a fite cheena gizunder
A mantlepiece wi three wyce ivory apes

Twa wattercolour lanscapes frae the glens
O Heilan kye aside a misty ben
A derk aik press, tae haud ma granny's claes
Her semmits, sarks, her bra, her whalebane steys

A crystal dish held hairgrips, a horn caimb
A pyoke o mothbaas, sprigs o lavender
Kept her drawers swete an aa her hankies hale
A mini fusky bottle soothed her slumber

An in her cupboord, a coat, astrakhan
Wi hat boxies, blaik hats fantoosh wi feathers
Blaik velvet choker, crochet work for cheers
A jewellery case, jet beads, scarfs fur aa weathers

Blaik polished sheen, genteel wi siller buckles
An thick grey hose. Licht glentin in a glaiss
An shaddas lowpin fearie frae the lowe
The jungle o Ceylon shone oot in braisse


Ma Forebears Herdit Kye
Ma forebears herdit kye,
Plooed the derk yird o Deeside

Their harns an makk
Vrocht bi the turnin Sizzins

Their consarns bedd inbye the leemits
O their dour parks.
Till they made the short wauk
Tae the mools

Some wore the khaki
Tuik the lang sleep in Arras

Ithers vrocht hyne awa in Ceylon
Grew auld in the tea plantations
In the cloudy Heilans o thon pearl drap kintra

I grew up hearin tales o their ongauns
Wi their sons an dothers aroon them
Wi their sharny buits an hackit hauns
Wi their brose bowls an Jews' harps
Wi their hawkish nebs
Wi their hens an yowes an ceilidhs
Their braid clean skies
Wi Lochnagar in the Heivens


Nativity Sang: Tune: My Bonnie Lies Over the Ocean
A baby wis born in a stable
A baby was laid in the strae
A baby wis born in a stable
An angels aa gaithered tae pray

Chorus
Baby Jesus wis born upon Christmas Day-ay-ay
Baby Jesus wis born upon Christmas Day.

The cuddy, the yowe an the kittlin
Looked doon at the bairn in the strae
The cuddy, the yowe and the kittlin
Aa gaithered tae praise him that day
Three Kings cam frae hyne awa countries
Tae visit the bairn in the strae.
Three Kings cam frae hyne awa countries
Tae visit the bairnie that day

Three shepherds came doon frae the fermlans
Tae visit the bairn in the strae.
Three shepherds came doon frae the fermlans
Tae visit the bairnie that day.


Bairn in a Manger
Littlin o Mary
Ootcast and fremmit
Laird o' aa
Bairn fa inherits
Aa oor ill-daeins
Aa o oor coarseness
On him fa

Royals hae genteel
Weel coddled bairnies
Brocht up in glamorie
Vauntie an blythe
Daith shall sune connach
Honour an beauty
Pleisur shall dwinnle
Aneth daith's scythe

Bit the maist holey
Bairn o salvation
Douce-like an hummle
Bedd in the hey
Noo as oor winnerfu
Michty redeemer
See him the winner
Ower ilkie fae

Prophets foretelt him
Bairn o bumbazement
Angels waatched ower him
On his throne
Wirthy oor saviour
O aa their praises
Blythe-like firiver
Aa his ain


Yule at Coull Kirkyaird
The kirkyaird wi its wreaths luiks gay an bricht.
Maist lairs hae flooers, cerclin the grey heidstane.
The sun sheens doon, a gowden heivenly licht.

At Yule nae corp is left tae bide alane,
Their ken hae cam, a whyle tae meet an greet
Fowk fa hae left, untae the unkent gaen.

The seelence here is reverent an sweet
Hyne an awa, the antrin car wheechs by
Ower Lochnagar, the hint o cauld an sleet
The kirkyaird tho, bides walcomin an dry;
A flooery bouer that's gledsome tae the sicht,
The ruined castle quaet an calm nearbye

The line tween deid an leevin here is slicht
There's nocht at Coull tae scunner or affricht

At the Panto
The theatre guffs o juice an pee
O sweets an ice cream. Here's aa glee
As littlins lowp an skirl an daunce
On stage, aa's fun, flumgummery

The dame's a loon, the loon's a wife
Fur adults, jokes are unca blue
(abune the heids o bairnies' ken)
In Panto, gender's aa askyoo

Wis it funny? Aye it wis!
Wis there sangs, an flashin knickers?
Aye there were, an thon's showbiz
Pleasin aa the ice cream lickers!


The Kist
I opened the kist an I saw
A wattergaw in Glencoe
A coo wi a sharny tail
A bairn wi scurlt knees
A slivvery snottery snail

I opened the kist an I heard
The cheep o a cutty bird
The splash o an anchor drappin
The sough o a winter galea
A branch on the windae chappin

I opened the kist an I felt
The silky fur o a mappy
The prods on a hurcheon's back
A haggis, hett an sappy

I opened the kist an I tastit
A moufu o Cullen skink
A plate o Buchan stovies
Some Irn Bru tae drink

I opened the kist an set free
Dreams o a teenage quine
A shelt frae a dubby park
The prayers fae a Buddhist shrine!


Ben Nevis
Fit his bin left on Ben Nevis?
The hauf o a lavvie seat
A milit'ry flare, a wheen underwear
A kirk organ. Fit a treat!

A fa could forget the gairden gnome
Or the plastic ironin boord
Fit wid the morn's archeologists
Makk o sic an unca hoard?

Wylde Cattie
Nae mony chuse tae bide in her lanely airt,
Hame o the whaup, the erne, the antrin tod
Cercled bi touerin Bens an ferny howes
Here meeker breets wauk feart, the Hunter's god

The win soughs like a hurtit bairn
The peetiless rain dings doon
Blatterin whin an fern

Wylde cattie's bield's amang birk trees, laricks, firs
Swatches o muir an bog, the darksome wid
Far the caperkailzie whirrs

Her spunky kittlins play-fecht in the gloam
Their sherp wee fangs like spikes o brukken glaiss

Their mither pads on vauntie paws wi her prize
Hung frae her mou, a sonsie skewered moose
She'll teir its heid aff, sook its bluid
Catch mair tae feed her littlins
Suppies o bird's life-juice

Their hoose is beeriet in a rickle o stanes
At nicht they drink frae a burn, its midnicht goun
Hauds reams o starnies on its back
As it breenges doon ram-stam, tae the glen's foun

Wylde cattie kens nocht o eco-worrits
As lang as snaw taps her bens
An the lift is cranreuch-siller
An the dun deer drinks frae the loch
Her sma warld is eneuch. She's fine an crouse,
Smaa Heilan Tiger, sherp cleuked huntin puss


The Lanesome Ghaistie
A ghost tuik a wauk in the dark
He flegged a wife ooto her sark
Bit fin he said ‘Fit like? '
Postie fled on his bike
An aa that wis left? A skidmark!


Twa Wee Robins
Twa wee robins
Reestit on a thorn
Oochya! cried the first robin
Ma bihoochie's torn

Weel, quo the secunt robin
Luik afore ye sit
I saw fit wis comin
Sae I did a flit


Doric Owersett o Ceist na Teangan/ The Language Issue: bi Nuala Ní Dhomhail

I pit ma hope on the watter
In this wee boat
O the leid, the wye a body micht pit
A babby
In a creel o wuvven
Iris leaves,
Its boddom pruifed
Wi bitumen an pitch,
Syne set the hale thing doon amang
The sedge
An bulrushes bi the edge
O a river
Anely tae hae it cairriet backwird an forrit,
Nae kennin far it micht eyn up;
In the lap, mebbe,
O some Pharaoh's dother.


Doric Owersett o Brief reflection on accuracy bi Miroslav Holub
Fish
Aywis richtly ken far tae meeve an fan,
An likewyse
Birdies hae a correck in-biggit time sense
An direction.

Humanity, hoosaeiver,
Wintin sic instincks faas back on scientific
research. Its natur is shawn bi the follaein
on-gaun

A partic'lar sodjer
Hid tae fire a cannon at sax o'clock sherp ilkie evenin.
Being a sodjier he did sae. Fin his accuracy wis
Luikit intae he quo:
I gae bi
The aathegither richt chronometer in the windae
O the clockmakker doon in the toun. Ilkie day at seeventeen
Forty-five I set ma watch bi it an
Sclim the knowe far ma cannon stauns ready.
At seeventeen fifty-nine exack I step up tae the cannon
And at eichteen oors sherp I fire.

An it wis siccar
That this wye o firin wis aathegither perfeck.
Aa that wis left wis tae check thon chronometer. Sae
The clockmaker doon in the toun wis speired aboot
His instrument's richtness.

Och, quo the clockmakker,
This is ane o the maist perfeck instruments iver. Jist think,
For mony years noo a cannon's bin fired at sax o'clock sherp.
An ilkie day I luik at this chronometer
An aywis it shaws sax exack.


Doric Owersett of Creative Writing by Miroslav Holub
On the faist train tae Vienna
She screives in her diary
Jottins aboot Rome an Naples.

Ink merks like parthenogenetic aphids,
Pages like bluid skytes
O homin cushie doos

She's alane, gray, adjustit,
A Leda lang eftir the swan's depairture,
Odysseus retired at Lotophagitis.

Back hame, in Maryland,
The jotter will be beeriet
In the archetypal drawer,

Amang the yallaed luve letters,
Amang the bairnie hair curls,
Amang the dried adult flooers,
Nearhaun the cushion far the libbit cat dwaums
Whyle Mahler's foriver foriver foriver
Smores in the green waa paper.

It's her message tae imagined wee sons;
It's her memmership in the club
O Swifts, Goethes, Rimbauds, Horatiuses an deidwatch clockers

It's her monument ootlaistin bronze,
Five-dimensional reality, the hinmaist scrattin
O primeval man on reindeer bane,

The hinmaist drap
O the fluid sowel
Afore it cheenges tae rikk.