The Spik O The Lan (46 Scots Poems) Poem by Sheena Blackhall

1.The Spik o' the Lan

The clash o' the kintra claik
Rins aff ma lug, as rain
Teems ower the glaissy gape
0' the windae pane.

The chap o' the preacher's wird,
Be it wise as Solomon,
It fooners on iron yird
Brakks, upon barren grun.

Bit the lowe o' a beast new born,
The grieve at his wirk,
The blyter o brierin corn,
The bicker o birk,
The haly hush o' the hill:
Things kent, an at haun
I'd harken tae that wi' a will.
The Spik o' the Ian!


2.Pastoral

Toun-fowk, wi' their cant o' couthie fairms
0' reid-cheek't bairns, an hamely fare
0' reemin brose bowls, sickle an the seed,
Hinna the stab o' the ploo
In their hairt's bluid.
Like rattens i' the strae
They glean the best o't.
Niver keepit vigil in a byre
At the bare back o' midnicht,
Bane-weary, numb-neived, cauld.
Ruggin a new born breet
Frae its shudderin mither's sides,
Girth wallopin an weet,
Intae the darksome stall.

It's then, at the chap o' the deid oors,
Like a foreman's sweir,
The door o' the barn tit-tits.
Ootbye, the mune-struck hills are a stair.
Oh, gin I cud, I'd climb them Up till the stars, that hing
A frostit furrow, in the air.
Back till the crack o' Time, back lang
As the fowk that vrocht afore,
Wha kent that naething maitters
0' the hale jing bang,
Bit the muckle hills, an the grun,
Braes, beasts, an hairsts,
An' the win's sang.


3.Dispossession

`See yon bit fairm on the brae-heid
Stracht's a cock's caimb?
Craw-wheeled biggins, cauld as leid,
Reid, in the sun's flame?
Wir fowk aince vrocht yon lan,
Kent ilkie stick an steen,
Dour, dub-dyked parks,
Tod-haunted wid,
Like the back o' their haun.'

Blawn strae, the bairns' heids
Face the fairm, sae near, sae far.
Thinkin't a gey queer mither-spik
That delves in princeless fairy-tales:
Swaps glamourie fur glaur.
Last link, o' the harness, brukken.

A chiel bedd there, fierce in his faith,
Fechtin a losin fecht, wi the Reaper, daith.
A stinch man, steeped in Holy writ,
Wha thrashed his loon,
For mockin the Lord's script.
Cried, `Doon the road, ye orra jaad! '
Fin he catched a servin' lass wi a pleuman lad
Coorse, for a man like yon, in his heicht o' prime
Tae be gart leave, turn ower his wife, an wife
Tae a halfin loon, an a graceless grieve.
Cut doon, afore his time.

It's ill, tae think deep o' the deid.
Ghaist claes are hungry thochts
That wid devour ye whyles,
Comin unseen, unsocht.

Lang, in the corbie wid, I daurna staun',
The win' plays tricks wi wirds,
Risin chill frae the grun...

`Aa ma tyauve, an care
Gaen ower, till a stranger's haun.
Ye thankless, thankless, stock:
Gin I kent then, fit I ken noo —
It wis as fur nocht.'


4.Land Hunger

A dreep on the trough faas doon,
The gate o' the cattle- coort wallops ajee,
The herdsman's hishin the latchy kye till the byre,
Sottar an tyauve, are the terms o' a fairmer's fee.

The plyter tit-tittin his steps,
Haudin him back, is biddin him bide.
There's mony's the dreel wints turned
Or he wins till his ain fireside.

Oh lan — ye hae bled the reid frae his cheeks,
Ye've rypit his pooches o' siller,
Ye've bladded his bride,
Ye've made him yer servant,
Ye've strappit him hard, till yer side
Gart him think yer his ain.
Ye've gaen him fur pyement
The scoor o' the sun,
An the wearisome wheep o' the rain;
This — ye canna gainsay.
Oh tell me — fit mair'll ye hae?

Oh I'll hae his youth, an his manhood,
The swyte o' his broo,
I'll hae me the strength o' his airm,
Cleekit ontil the ploo,
An syne, at the hinner-en,
Fin the wirk grows mair nur a body can thole,
An he's happit wi yird,
As deep as a doon-lyin mole,
I'll hae me his seed, an his soul.


5.The Funeral

Jock an Sandy rigged fur kirk —
They vowed, they wadna missed it.
Twa chiels tae bid a third adieu,
The dear departit, kistit.

Quo Sandy — 'He's awa frae't aa,
His gear is easy pairtit,
Fur sic a spen'thrift chiel wis Tam,
A thummel-heid wid cairt it.'

Bit Jock said — 'Man, an open haun
Is better nor a grippy.
Tho Tam wis bare o' aa bit friens,
I wyte, ye hidna ony.'

Said Sandy, (wha'd nae luck wi quines
Through lack o' luiks, an fooshian) —
'Gin I'd a preen, fur ilkie deem

Tam wooed — they'd stap a cushion.'
Jock tholed the accusation derk, Bit keepit unca quate,
(For roon the nick he'd tirred his sark,
Ae nicht, wi cripple Kate)
Ay, Jock an Tam hid aa the luck,
Weel-ben in houghmagandie,
A curled snoot, wi' oot a doot,
Wis aa the jaads gaed Sandy.

An ben the hymns, the sundry sins,
Agin Tam's name wis listit,
As Sandy spak, Jock sat an grat,
At thocht o' Tammie kistit.

`Afore ye set anither steen, upon the cairn o's name
Quo Jock, 'We're nane o's perfect —
Ye'd dae weel redd up yer ain.'

I hope, fin Daith comes chappin,
An I'm boxed, afore the fowk,
God disna think like Sandy,
Bit he taks the side o' Jock!


6.Doric's No Dodo... For Cuthbert Graham

Fowk spik aboot Scots
Ay, wir ain Doric leid
As if 'twis a dodo
Wha'd drappit doon deid!

As mad tae conserve an preserve the auld wirds,
As a gleg taxidermist, wi putrifeed birds,
They wrangle ower spellin, gash gulls wi their gab,
Ower a muckle weet haddie streekt oot on a slab.

I've news fur them —Scots disna bide in a buik!
It's alive, an it's kickin,
Gin they wid bit look.
Tak a keek frae the waas
0 their ivory tower,
Tak a traivel ben Buchan,
lnbye, an' oot-ower,
They'd ken it wis livin,
A weel-haunelt shelt,
Fowk spik it wi niver
A thocht foo it's spelt!

A buik fur a tongue?
It's a boon fur the few!
We ken it b'hairt
We've a tongue, in wir mou!



7.Horse Hurl: for Andrew Watt, Farmer, New Deer

`Ye'd sic a hurl on him, as far's the gate?
Ah weel, he's foonert noo, an quate.'
A hard-vrocht haun, scrat-fu o girse an strae
Heistit me hine ower whin an dyke,
Ontil the braid back o' couthie Pegasus.

Horse-heich, the warld wis sma,
Masel the smaaest thing ava,
Thon fearsome feet, like muckle ashets,
Skitterin skirps o' dubs at ilkie stride.
Wids, parks, an clouds,
At ilkie dirdin doon,
Gaed showdin, side b'side.
The strang, warm, horse's smell
Brocht heezin midgies
Dancin roon his tail.

Syne, knottin baith neives
Ticht, intil his mane,
For jist ae span o' Time,
He wis a prince's stallion,
Neth a warrior Celt;
A dreamin bairnie,
On a brukken shell


8.A Mither Tint: Isobel Booth, Hillhead of Cairnie, Skene

The mistress o' Tipperton, couthie and kind,
She winted fur naething that siller cud gie,
Wi only her chuckens, an calfies till tend,
There's nane hid as raft a doonsittin as she.

She'd a boddomless ladle, fur tinks on the scraun,
(Tho the nickums, she kent, waurna safe near a hen)
Faur ithers wid show them the back o' a haun
She'd smooth doon her peenie, cry, 'Come awa ben.'

Ilkie snocherin geet fand her door wis ajee,
For bannocks, or bosies, or buits gainst the wither,
An mony's the sharger, fin term-time fell tee,
Thocht, 'Lord, 'twid be gran tae hae yon fur a mither.'

Bit fyles, in the dark o' the strae in the laft,
In the bield o' the byre, oot o' sicht o' the fowk,
As the kye licked their littlins, tender an aft,
The Mistress o' Tipperton grat like a gowk.

Her briest niver suckled, her care niver missed,
She thocht on a cradle, o' squallichin teem,
0' hope, lang laid by, like the shawl in the kist,
An the wecht o' the thocht, wis the wecht o' a steen.

Buskit wi garlands, an happit wi yird,
`Fit sorra? ' fowk said, 'for she niver kent wint.'
Bit the auld clockin hen, though it spak ne'r a wird,
Kent the richt an the wrang o't — a guid mither, tint.


9.The Spae Wife

Hidden awa, in a neuk o' the fair,
Slicht, an sleekit, an sly,
The spae wife sits, in the spae wife's tent,
Watchin the fowk gaun by.
Hidden awa, in her lang-luggit lair,
Her skill, the gift o' the gab,
The spae wife sits, in the spae wife's tent,
A wyver, wyvin her wab.

Her een's twa lichtit spunks o' fire,
Her hair's a corbie's wing,
She's steep't till the core, in the Black, black airt
Her truth's a birlin ring.

Fur Misery's a mairket place,
That's trade fur as the sizzens,
The spae wife kens, the fly auld jaad,
That Hope sells mair nur besoms.

Her Ace o' Trumps is promises,
She's skilled at the hinneyed lee,
Thoombin the cairds o' Fortune
Tae ken fit weird ye'll dree.

Fur fit's afore, ye'll nae win by,
Bit a nod's as guid as a wink,
An some wid sup wi' the Deil himsel,
The Ace o' Spaads tae jink.

As iron boos i' the blacksmith's haun,
As meal mells wi the miller,
The lassie's thochts on a pyock o' dreams
The spae wife's thochts on siller.


10.Letter from a Distressed Auntie

Dear Brither —
Jist a note tae say,
He's settled doon rale fine...
Forbye's a twa, three thingies —
He's a maist inquirin mind!
He's fichered wi the knobbies,
Till the tractor winna start,
He tint the monthly milk yield
Fin we took him tae the mart.
The bull is fair ferfochen,
Since he lat the beastie free,
It's served fully fifty heifers
0' the Charlie pedigree:
Nae coontin 19 Herefords,
It wisna meant tae cover,
14 Friesians,16 Ayrshires,
20 Guernseys, an wir mither!

The binder twine is raivelled;
Aa the cats hiv run awa;
He drapt them frae the stable reef
(Tae see foo far they'd fa.)

The inferno wis a peety,
Noo, we hinna ony strae,
Bit we've taen awa his matches,
The insurance comes the day.

The wee sowel fed the calfies,
Bit he gaed them as the scoor,
He fulled their pails wi kirnfus
0' turpentine an floor!

He's fair increased the egg returns,
The hens jist hear him come,
An they fire oot double yokers,
Like the pellets frae a gun...

The killin hoose collecktit them,
The sheep, frae aff the road,
An foo wis he tae ken,
They'd niver learned the Highway code?
For his neist years Simmer holidays,
Please — sen' him tae the Boers:
He's mair nur flesh an bluid can staun;
Dear Brither,
Ever yours!


11.The Gowk and the Star
His kyte's weel happit,
Fed an wattered reg'lar;
His sheen are blaiked,
His galluses are buttoned.
He kens tae pairt his hair,
If there be wint, that wint,
Is nae fur claes.
It's Reason, that he's tint.

Teem lauch, in timmer heid,
Far wits are scarce,
As hyacinths in heather.
He sweeps the sna,
An reels aff sangs he's heard
At some fireside,
Lang smored in aisse,
0' parks, straucht plooed
B' horse, an clinkin braisse.

His brukken logic's queer,
A clock that disna tick,
(It niver wis wun up) .
Time only chimes for fowk
Like me, wha canna swick
The wheep o' winter's storm,
It's whyles a thocht, for me,
Tae face the morn.
Bit ilkie day till him
(The favour in the flaw)
'S a bairn new born.

Is it some Bethlehem star
That mak's his wye seem easy,
Mine, seem waur?

He tak's life as it cams,
A dreel tae howk;
Sae tell me
Fa is wise,
An fa's the gowk?

12.The Country Doctor... For Dr. L.K.Dawson

He's a merriege guidance cooncillor,
A dominie, a priest.
It's like Jehovah's judgement
Yon forbiddin cry o'Neist! '

Wee Jimmy's got the bellyache?
D'ye tak me fur a feel?
Wi half an ee, it's plain tae see,
He disna like the skweel.'

`Noo.. Mistress Millar. Come on ben,
Yer braithless, like tae pech?
An sae wid onybody be,
That's five steen overwecht!

Yer man's bin poorly?
Yon's a shame...
He's hoastin, like a stirk?
Weel — stop his baccy ration,
Gie the siller tae the kirk!

An ye've bin melancholic?
Faith, ye've surely mair adee...
Gae hame an scrub the kitchie, lass,
An nae waste time wi me.'

`Sen' in the neist.
Nae ye again —
Forsweir the demon drink!
Ye'll niver be a granfaither,
It's later nur ye think.'

Nae pills dispensed, bit muckle sense
A wird, a news, a powk;
Auld-farrant, country doctor,
Half his skill
Is kennin fowk.


13.Fishie's Van

Aladdin's cave, the fishie's van,
Lions hug the seerip tin,
Jars, wi pearly clouds o' bubble
Pickelt ingins, soor as sin.

The fishie's fuskered like a walrus,
Hauns as steeny-cauld's a hake,
Een like fog-lichts, hair o' dulse
An elver's tongue, a lug fur claik

A face as lang's a weet wikken,
That anely brichtens, gin ye spen
The price o' fillet, fry, or eggs,
Shrimps like birrsled divils' legs

Gawpin mous, an ringel een,
Scales o' herrin, saxpence roon
Labsters, reid, wi nesty nippers
Sun-tanned kippers, Asia broon
Netted, gutted, battered, dried
A sitter shoal wirth ilkie poon,
Heidless, so's ye'd niver ken,
Fit wrathfu' fishies think o' men.


14.Dalriggin

Dalriggin wis sleekit — he'd teeth like a meer's,
A snicher tae match them — a tongue like a shears,
That'd clip ye tae size — he'd the braidth o' yer claith,
Ye'd be thrimmles an thrummles afore ye drew braith.

He'd the cut o' yer character — doon tae the mark,
Frae the tip o' yer coat, till the tail o' yer Sark,
Far ither's ramgumption stops short at their neive,
(Or the soles o' their buits, like the sype frae a seive) ,
His hoose, like his heid, wis an ill rowin pirn,
Ye'd ging in wi a grin an cam oot wi a girn.

His stories wis legion — ill thochted forby,
Fa bladded the cattleman's wife, an the wye
That yon tink o' a tractorman swickit the grieve,
(Fin dirt's in the diggin, fowk's quick tae believe)

The pot an the kettle, bein' baith o' them black,
He'd claith fur the cuttin frae abody's back.

The neater the needle, the sairer the stob,
The wyver's bin wippit as ticht as a wob,
Noo there's nae clippit cloots for Dalriggin tae heed,
Daith's winnerfu skeely at snippin the threid.


15.Balmennie's Nell

She'd a lip wi' a mowser,
Balmennie's wife Nell,
Wi' a tongue that gaed clack,
Like the haimmers o' Hell.
A pirn-taed, obstreperous deem,
Wi' her dander sae easy caad up,
Like the stoor frae a breem,
An her grumphin an girnin
As sherp as the stob o' a preen.
She wisna a belle,
Far frae it, a clort o' a quine,
Wi jist the ae suitor, Balmennie himsel,
Bit she suited him fine.

`For certes, ' quo he, 'beauty bides bit a day
Afore that ye ken it, ye'r auld, an ye'r gray
Nell rises wi' me, taks her turn i' the byre
Syne redds up the kitchie, an kinnles the fire
Na — Venus is bonnie, bit fickle an fykey,
She'd niver consent tae be filin her nightie
B' herdin the nowt i' the park.'
An here, he aye paused, wi' a lauch, an a lear
(Bit whispered it saftly, lest Nellie cud hear)
'Ye'll ken the auld spik? ' (An afore ye cud speir)

`It's as sure as the birk tree is biggit wi bark
It's bin true sin' the day they walked ooto the ark
Be they plain as a spurgie, or lissom's a 1ark
There's nae muckle odds, fm they're happit bi dark


16.Noah

The Lord looked doon on Noah,
Said 'Turn ilkie stick an stane,
An capture ivery kind o' beast
Afore it sterts tae rain.'

They nippit up the gang plank,
Strippit, spottit, black, an broon,
Syne Noah hystit anchor,
Till the water dwinilt doon.

The Human race diversifeed —
Nae wan o' them's the same,
They're a niver endin story
That ye've aye tae learn again.

Ye think ye ken them?
Deil the bit!
Ye've anely scratched the tap,
There's aye the ither layer
Aneth the currant on the bap.

Neist time the Lord grows wrathfu, Noah,
Dinna be a gowk,
Tak ae boatie fur the animals,
Anither fur the fowk.


17.Jist Dan

Stringin the wirds thegither,
Like a blin man threidin beads,
Fu's a puggie, hyterin happily
Breeks bumshayvelt, spayver lowsed
Ae fit forrit, three steps back:
Deef, tae peety or blame.

Abody's pal, his happiness chaiply bocht
Corked, in a bottle o' hooch.
A pint o' oblivion,
Stappt in his waistcoat pooch,
Nae quite co-ordinatin,
Half-hung-tee,
A leaky craft, in a stormy sea.
Nae giein' a hoot,
The stars skweejee,
An him wi a drooth
That wid drain the bree
Frae sharny cloot.

Sky tapsalteerie,
Grun nae level,
A coracle, facin a force ten gale
Jist Dan gaun hame, puir divil.


18.Halloween

A chap at the door — a lichtit neep
Rikken o' cannel-flame.
The pitterin-patt o' feery feet;
Guisers, thrangin the lane.

The fleggit myowt o' a lanely bairn,
Wha kens that aa's nae richt,
Wis yon a cat — or a midnicht hag
Wi her black, black back arched ticht?

Nocht bit a whigmaleerie?
Fowk say, that tombs are teem,
That the deid are walkin eerie
Wi rypit stars for een.

A chap at the door — or wis't the win
Scrattin the windae pane?
The pitterin-patt o' fairy feet
In ghaistly claes; or rain?


Four Bairn Sangs

19.The Bat

The Bat's a midnicht falderal,
An upside doon asleep,
Umbrella at a funeral,
Hung in the kirk, tae dreep.

Oh blin-eed, blearie, fleein moo
We canna as be bonnie,
Bit fin the Lord dispensed guid
He didna gie ye ony!


20.Rain

The rain's a busy washer wife,
Her clouts, the clouds sae high,
She wrings them oot in thunnerstorms
Syne hings them up tae dry.


21.Caterpillar

Caterpillar, in the strae,
Fit a lot o' feet ye hae!
It maun tak frae dawn till dark,
Jist tae walk across the park.


22.Wee Hootie Owl

The wee Hootie Owl
Has a neb like a scurl,
Een like fog lichts,
Heid on the furl.

His taes turn in
An his lugs cock oot,
Like a wee choochin ingine,
He gings, 'Hoot, hoot.'


23.Points of a Compass

A village voyeur,
Blearie beldame,
Lifts the screen on scandal.
She's maistered the drapped suggestion,
The sleekit question.
Sookin up sklaik,
Auld slorrach,
Horny-gollachin her wye
Ben creepy-crawly chinks
0' disrespectability.
(Gie Satan an inch,
An whaur'll it as end?)

Ae snifterin, rain-duntin Setterday
She backslid intil the mools.
Hard ben
Frae a lassie, notably
Saft wi' men.

The auld yew haps them baith,
Jawer an jaad:
Twa pints o' the compass,
Baith facin North.


24.Gloaming: For the folk of Muick, Gairn and Tullich
In the queer half-licht o' gloamin,
The dreich win hauds its braith,
It's then that fowk walk wary,
An the birk stauns still as daith.

In the queer half-licht o' gloamin
1 watched, frae the open door,
A bairn at play, b' a ruck foun,
In the weety, wintry smore.

An roon an roon the rugged rucks
As iver a rascal ran,
Played 'teet-bo-Geordie, ' as her
An 'catch-me-gin-ye-can.'

`Dis naebody cam, tae cry ye in,
That ye keep ootby sae late?
Chasin the win, like a tinkler's quine
Sae queerly, an sae quate? '

'My hame's as far as Paradise,
An there, the sna faas free,
The hills an howes are fite's a rose
The burns rin ebony.
An coorse the day, an curst the
I left yon high country.'

In the queer half-licht o' gloamin
The nicht wis a wattery meen,
Naething alow, bit the bare, braid parks
Masel: the bairn I'd seen.


25.Nicht Fears

Fin dweeble dwines the day awa,
The meen's a yalla, rikkin ring,
Steerin the cauldron o' the gloam,
The howlet's horror, on the wing.

Sherp-clookit futteret leaves the dyke,
The bat's sma screich's a widow's wail,
The snocherin brock pads ben the path,
An slivvery slips the snail.

The murderin tod stravaigs the ditch,
Twa sprigs o madness are its een,
A soople, sleekit, stalkin wraith,
The Daith amangst the breem.

Nicht lays her clammy haun ower aa,
The fears, that wi' the daylicht hide,
Creep frae the hidey-holes o' dark,

Crawl frae the mind, an wanner wide.
A craven moosie, coorin doon,
I've chittered on the ferny floor,
Nae kennin fit may staun ahin,
Fit lies in wait afore.


26.The Tea Pairty...For Robbie and Esma Shepherd.

English bedd in the wireless.
We let it oot, whyles,
Turnin a knob, fur a bit diversion.
Min', we hidna a doonricht aversion til't
It jist didna belang;
Keepit fur Sunday best,
Like an auld psalm.

Cam the day o' the pairty.
'Ye'll enjoy't, ' quo mither,
Hale an hairty.
'Say please an thanks.
Dinna be quanter,
Ye canna gae wrang.'

The genii wis oot o' the wireless...
Somebody'd clapped a bin-lid
Ower the Scots.

There wis a rowth o' fancy pieces, I mind that,
An a wummin, dragon-dreidfu, in a green frock
Speenin broon saps, intil a dish.
'Fit'll ye hae? ' she speired,
(The genii did some sma translation
Takkin peety on a stranded fish) `
'I'm easy. I'll tak onything.'
An did the dragon nae blaw rikk?
Reid's a labster, near ower ill-natured tae spikk?

`A conscious decision, ' quo she, is little tae ask
Efter aa my scutter.'

'I'll takk the mochie mousse, ' I managed tae hubber.
`Wis't a nice pairty? ' Speired ma mither.
`Fit wye are ye kickin the wireless? '


Twa Bairn Days

27.Ile on Troubled Watter

Five years auld.
He caa'd me 'Wee pudden'

I caa'd him ower,
Neived his wirds intil a ticht knot,
Knuckled wi' Biblical accuracy,
Richt intil his left ee.

It moved, a jeely knob
Aneth ma fist.

He grat like a burst main.
Efter, it wis blue, green — a stain
The colour o' scaled ile,
Sliddery as butter,
Spreadin ower his face.
Ile, on troubled watter.


28.Games

Last at the dell's a wee roguie,
Goodies gang tae heaven,
Baddies tae Hell.
The dice is loaded.
The game's a bogie.
Sic lang ledders!
Look oot fur the snakes!
Heids or tales,
Hogarth's Rake,
Or Pilgrim's Progress,
Strictly aff the cuff,
Cairds on the table
We're as pawns:
Fortune's Blind Man's buff.
Eetle ottle, I'm oot.


29.Wirds

Crusty, compact as a crab
The thorn o' wir hale confab,
We canna lay hauns on't easy
Niver say dab.

Ruggin compliments frae us
Is nae mean feat —
Pairtin a sookin bairn
Frae its mither's teat.

Awkward as new sheen,
Libbit labsters, Teuch tae crack.
We loe in sma letters,
Aathing in thummelfus,
Ay haudin something back


30.Ophelia

Watter ay jives, leaves nae untidy seam.
A salmon loup's bit a haun's clap,
The neives knit ticht thegither,
Haudin sic thochts! Derk, as Excalibur.

Cast in a random steen,
A muckle, gapin wound, instantly healin.
So saw Ophelia, as she slipped her sorra doon,
Her raivelt wits washed clean awa,
As clear's the meen,
A mirror, saftly sweemin.


31.The Reiver

Gin I cud haud the peesie in her flicht
An catch the sang that hovers in her throat
Gin I cud track the leverick ben the nicht
An reive the liltin limmer o' her note
I'd hae a sang wirth singin.

Gin I cud sclim the lift, an nae be cowed
An swick the Lord o' derkness o his meen
Gin I cud hairry simmer o' her gowd
Or cowp misfortune's creel till til it war teem
I'd hae a ploy wirth playin.

Gin I cud spik wi eventide an speir.
The wye she peints the glimm on the glaur
Gin I cud rype the lochan o' her lear
Tae draw the wispin haavers o' the haar
I'd hae a darg wirth daein.

Gin Daith cud be the reistin o' a craw
A faldin wing, on tyauve, an wirdly care
As saft's the doonwird drappin o he snaa
The lowsin o' an arra on the air
'Twid be a peace wirth haein.


32.Doon an Oot

A doon-an-oot. A wino.
Her face wis minkit.
Lord, she stank tae High Heaven
Tart's nails, beetroot reid,
Braith, sickly sweet,
Fit scaffie's bin
Forgot tae pit the tin Lid on her?

I tell ye
I hid tae move ma seat.
The state o' yon,
Sittin in an Art Gallery!
Some fowk's nae sense o decency.

She's nae alane.
Van Gogh gaed doon the drain
Abody liked him...postumously,
Fame's a funny thing.

Me? Fit wis I there fur?
Tae see the picturs, naturally
Hogarth wisna on view.
His 'Gin Lane's' maist affecting,
An yon chiel, Degas, hard tae beat,
Peintit an absinthe drinker
Sae real, ye'd nearly greet.

Fit happened tae the wino?
Yer surely nae in doot?
Realism's best ahin a glaiss,
Nae face tae face.
They pit her oot.


33.Condemned Building
Peint wirks winners,
Happen a crack here,
A death-watch beetle there...
The 'For Sale' sign's doon,
Naebody'd buy. Structurally spikkin,
It's nae in a guid wye.

It niver wis soun, i' the first place.
Aa granite,
Nae grace.
A moose his chittered the books.
Up in the laft,
There's a slate loose.

Body o' mine, nae hope o' a shift,
Hivin bedd in ye noo
Langer than thocht'll permit,
Ower coordy fur quittin,
We'll grit it oot,
Till the bitter en'.
Daith'll arrange the flittin.


34.The Thwarted Suitor

That ony quine sud bring me doon,
I' faith — it's maist provokin,
I'm saft's a bap fin Belle's aroon,
She disna gie a docken!

I'd like tae fauld her tae ma breist,
(An muckle mair beside)
Bit dour's a rock — a crawless cock,
Ma hauns an tongue are tied.

I'm aff ma meat — I canna sleep,
It's coorse tae be sae thwarted,
Sin Belle got on fur dairy-deem,
I wish she'd niver started!

I caimb the toozles frae the tyke,
Its coat's the colour o' her hair,
I hap the calfie ower wi' strae,
An wish hersel wis lyin there.

I waited fur her, b' the kirk,
A rowth o' bonnie wirds I'd gaithered,
She stopped — bit I wis dry as dirt,
An, like a halflin, hummed an haivered.

She's speired the grieve gin I be ill?
(For hide nur hair o' me she's seen)
I'll fork the bales, I'll kepp the bull,
Bit canna face the dairy deem!


35.Tinker's Sang

The tinker sang aneth the meen,
0' Love gaen wrang, the auld lament,
0' aathing tint, an aathing taen,
As if its sorra he hid kent.

As birdies wheeple roon the gean,
An pree the cherries frae the tree,
Nor winna shift till as be daen,
Then list ye, sae it wis wi' me.


36.The Serpent's Sang For A. Maker.

Gin I wis ivy I wid twine
Yon lang, lean limbs, unyieldin's stare,
Sear laggard thocht — a kinnelt vine,
Wi' leaves o' langin fill his een.

He'd learn tae loe me, quick eneuch,
Gin he war bane, an I war bluid
A flytin tide, I'd draw awa,
Leavin him pale, as I am reid.
I am the serpent in the stoor,
Tho lower than the dust I lie,
I haud the knowledge o' delicht,
Oh wha daur pass me by?
A thoosan-fauld they crush my heid
I hissin rise an multiply.


37.Miss McBrodie

Hard on the meenit-heid
She snibs her buik.
Her schule-marm suit,
Sterched stiff, in Bible black,
Nae fripperies o' stertlin fite
For the bairns' distraction.

Perjink — 'Ye'll write yon oot again! '
Skeely at the frozen wird:
Repression's proselyte.

Dreams ding doon the paragon
At nicht, agin her single-sarkit barrenness.
A black bull snorts foriver at the gate,
An cloven-hooved, rampages
Ben the byewyes o' her laneliness.

Neist morn, pink-chikkit,
Pittin on her Sabbath face,
Miss McBrodie, spinster o' the parish,
Primly doupin doon within the pew,
Adds her collection meekly till the plate,
Prays fervent for a minor miracle.
Nae burnin bush or movin mountain,
Anely, a blythe bed, an a sturdy mate.


38. Breem Beddit

The wids are wide, the heather's thick,
It wraps her roon, a bonnie plaidie,
The bracken winna clype nor cheep,
The lea-lang nicht, he held her steady.

An fin auld age creeps in twa-fauld,
Maks o' a maid a dottled deem,
She'll hug it tae her, like a shawl,
Yon nichts she beddit, i' the breem.

Buik learnin's gran — a puckle lear
Pits pith an pouer in yer powe,
The lips were vrocht for kittler cheer,
Set on anither's cracks a lowe,
Caa's caution, rikkin ower the whin,
The bluid gangs soondin like a drum,
Braith braks on braith, a boundin linn,
An searin hett's the brand's owercome.

Love sunders lad an lass in turn,
Can ne'er be brukk, nor broukit,
Aince pree the wave, yer doon the burn,
Yer ower the heid, an drookit.


39.Narcissus

Gin Narcissus hid bin human,
(Insteid o' a wee powder puff o' whimsy)
He'd nae been mesmerised b' mirrors.
Mebbe the chiel wis real eneuch,
Findin Reality a thochtie teuch,
Forgot tae dicht his glaisses
Or tint them, aathegither.

Him an me,
Birds o' the same feather.
Eros teets ower ma showder, scunnert.
He wid hae bidden aince, the breet.
Fit's waur, if the degeneration wis complete,
I'd be the better able tae pit up wi't.
The spirit's nae sae sweir,
Still ettles tae walk barfit ower a muir,
Bide oot o' nichts, an watch the horned meen,
Staun, star-struck, in a wid i' the win's steer,
Kick aff the bridled years like a colt —
If body aged wi' mind,
Then I cud thol't!


40.Lot's Wife

Luikin back, she saw her maiden-sel;
Her sma breist, warm
In the palm o' his langin,
The sliddery girse, the broon yird
Movin aneth them.
Twa in ain,
A Beltane jinin,
Makkin a wummin
Oot o' a trimmlin quine,
An wee an far abeen
The branchin wid,
Booin its airms in blessin.

The waddin ring held constant,
Time didna twist the circle,
Naething cud grind it doon,
Wechtit gowd.
Lord, it wis sweir tae shift.
Ye wid hae thocht twa fowk,
Wi the early pech o' passion spent,
Cud still luik at the road afore,
An nae tak scunner.
She swithered, luikit back.
Aathing she did, gaun forrit,
Wid be a fa't.
Sae wis't a winner,
The first, steen tear,
Frae her hardenin hairt,
He wid neither heed, nur need,
Hid the taste o' satt?


41.Winter Wooin

Smoorichin saftly throw the fir
A wooer in a silken veil
Is the sleety smirr,
The doon-scud, i' the burnie's dreel,
Dird-dirlin roon frae tap till tail,
Is the fiddler's reel.

The birks staun ootlinned, chitterin cauld
Quines, clad in cassen claes,
At a Ne'erday Ball.

The blinterin, blichtit sun's a faithless lad,
Whas fickle favour blears ower hoose an ha,
Bracken's a glekit, feckless, tummelt lass,
Cowpt ower, roch-wooed, amang the secret sna.

O Love's a bigsie burn that's naething blate,
Wormin its viper's wye till the brae's breist,
Or wild an wanton, terrible in spate,
Wad wed, withoot the blessin o' a priest.

As ice crack tinkles sherp afore the thaw,
So, cauldrife Winter brakks the Simmer's lyre,
The clook within the eagle's sweengin claw,
Love's bit a yowie, sneck't on barbit wire.


42.The Holocaust

The futterat an the cooshie doo
Looked doon frae Bennachie,
An saw a skyrie mushroom,
Growin hine up frae the sea.

`Gweed sakes an Lord b' here, ' they cried,
'Fit queer-like ferlie's thon?
I'd sweir that I saw Aiberdeen
Bit fin I blinked, she'd gone.'

'A contermashious lot, are men, '
(Said futterat tae the doo)
'We winna miss them muckle here,
We'll bigg the warld anew.'

She heezed her wings, an dippit doon,
Tae seek her cosy nest,
Bit as the wids hid turned tae dust
An ashes wi' the rest.


43.The Roundabout

Each man's an embryo-cell,
Each mither cairries,
A livin waa o' bluid,
Limits wir scope,
Sneckit within,
The derkness o' heredity.

Bairnhood swaps ae confine
For anither.
Tethered ahin
The apron strings o' hame,
Genetics haud us,
Ticht as ony wame.

Schule fences aff wir culture,
Rooms us roon wi' edicts,
Displaced refugees
We learn tae unlearn,
Wirds, an faimly patterns,
Desperate tae please,
Wir latest jylers.

Brick b' brick the kirk,
Boxed in its Sabbath grey,
Immures us, preachin
Adam's gairden's sin,
An as the fruits o' Paradise therein.

Pacin wir sma perimeter o' time,
Wirk biggs anither gate.
We mairry, clappin fetters on a mate.

The roundabout gaes on, foriver furlin,
An orbit set, an we the starnies birlin,
Till lanely, nyaakit,
Coffined, cribbed, an trimmlin,
Immortal spirit caged in bane an flesh,
The trap is sprung,
The spirit freed in Daith.


44.Time Scale

Gin the clouds war teemin graves,
Scalin the horde o' humanity,
Back, till the hinmaist generation,
Aa their pith an pooer,
Doon in a steep rain,
'Twid be a short shower, tummlin.

Ye may rin tae the fower airts,
The hale o' a puny grit in a strainin sinew,
Peched, b' the sweir endeavour.
There's aye a new horizon, foriver
A new begeck, a second hummlin.

New growth comes faist ahin a burnin heath,
The cruel years ootrin ye,
A weary stag, gralloched
B' snappin teeth.
In the braidth o' Creation
Anely the hills staun siccar,
Sure o' their station.
The yetts o' wirdly ambition's
A prood castle, a circlin craw,
The heicht o' a nettle,
Wavin its firey banner
Ben a forgotten ha'.
The past, the future's
Watter,
Screived on a crummlin waa.


45.Bull

Hinnered b' dark,
I gaed unsteady fittit.
The steadin's bulk, moose-squeakin
In the cat's paw, o' the torch.
It fixed a hingin towe,
A scaled sack,
In its selective clook.
The kent road wrang,
Stanes risin as impediment,
I saw, bit dauma look.

The black, byre muck, cradlin
Ilkie step.
Swallowed, Like ony Jonah,
I kent anither dark,
An panic rose, sharn-weet,
As cauld's a halter,
A ticht band
Grippin Reason b' the sark.

He felt ma step intruder
Viewed me,
Fand me wintin,
In the scales o' his beast's measure,
His chine rattled,
Hate in ilkie tether,
The meenlicht, queerly glintin.

Slow, hefty, murd'rous,
In yon crass, creashie fatness,
He kent I feared him,
Spat contempt an spittle,
A midden-Minotaur.
The matchstick legs o' me,
Rampagin tae be aff,
His maleness, sinister.


46.Towser

Towser — got on a wirkin bikk,
The Lord kens whaur,
B' a sire that wis three quarts wolf,
Touch, gin ye daur.

He'd seek yer haun, sud the humour suit,
A roch, weet tongue, an a powkin snoot,
At a stranger's fit, his birsse wid rise,
Bare his teeth, at their unkent wyes.
Mell like a wraith, wi the oorie nicht,
Teem his plate, wi a thankless dicht.

Towser missin — a yowe miscairriet.
Brunt o' the blame — wis't him that hairriet?
Back o' the byre — will he cam this gait?
A gun on the airm..a lang, lang, wait.
Back o' the byre,
A tail wags blate,
A shot i' the dark,
And a wild thing, quate.