Biography of Hugh MacDiarmid
Hugh MacDiarmid is the pen name of Christopher Murray Grieve (11 August 1892, Langholm – 9 September 1978, Edinburgh), a significant Scottish poet of the 20th century. He was instrumental in creating a Scottish version of modernism and was a leading light in the Scottish Renaissance of the 20th century. Unusually for a first generation modernist, he was a communist; unusually for a communist, however, he was a committed Scottish nationalist. He wrote both in English and in literary Scots (often referred to as Lallans).
Hugh MacDiarmid Poems
It requires great love of it deeply to read The configuration of a land, Gradually grow conscious of fine shadings, Of great meanings in slight symbols,
Ae weet forenicht i' the yow-trummle I saw yon antrin thing, A watergaw wi' its chitterin' licht Ayont the on-ding;
The Bonnie Broukit Bairn
Mars is braw in crammasy, Venus in a green silk goun, The auld mune shak's her gowden feathers, Their starry talk's a wheen o' blethers,
'Scotland Small? '
Scotland small? Our multiform, our infinite Scotland small? Only as a patch of hillside may be a cliché corner To a fool who cries ‘Nothing but heather! ' where in September another Sitting there and resting and gazing around
The Little White Rose
(To John Gawsworth) The rose of all the world is not for me. I want for my part Only the little white rose of Scotland
Under no hanging heaven-rooted tree, Though full of mammuks' nests, Bone of old Britain we bury thee But heeding your unspoken hests
The Sauchs In The Reuch Heuch Hauch
There's teuch sauchs growin' i' the Reuch Heuch Hauch. Like the sauls o' the damned are they, And ilk ane yoked in a whirligig Is birlin' the lee-lang day.
The Eemis Stane
I' the how-dumb-deid o' the cauld hairst nicht The warl' like an eemis stane Wags i' the lift; An' my eerie memories fa'
Aulder than mammoth or than mastodon Deep i' the herts o' a' men lurk scaut-heid Skrymmorie monsters few daur look upon. Brides sometimes catch their wild een, scansin' reid,
The Little White Rose
(To John Gawsworth)
The rose of all the world is not for me.
I want for my part
Only the little white rose of Scotland
That smells sharp and sweet—and breaks the heart.