11 Poems In Scots From Mongolia To Fyvie Poem by Sheena Blackhall

1.First Wird

Fin ye are waukent
Dae ye takk tent o the souns o the warld?

Ma first wird wis TREE
I spak wi the tongue o a tree
I stude witness tae the risin sang o the mavis
Ooto the chitterin rowan

Oot frae the sheenin fleer o the wids
I watched leaves faa an tummle aroon the kye
In ma uncle’s parks, as they chawed the snawy gowans

Tree reeshlin follaed me hame an intae ma dreams
Fin I steekit ma een, I felt ma ain sap risin


2.Spring

The Mither Kirk o Aiberdeen is thrang
Wi leevin fowk an speerits’ oorie sang
A peaceful neuk tae dauchle, claik an meet
Oot o the steer o traffic in the street

The bells ring oot, the scurries skreich aboot
The sonsie doo stravaigs in’s city suit
O dowie feathers, cluckin roon for breid
The watery sun sheens doon on the spire heid

Here sleeps a meenister, a poet, professor
A Princess, wizard, sodjers, an explorer
A hawker wi a goldsmith neist a warder
An engineer, aa in their hinmaist herbour
The artist wi the constable, the vratch
Aa quaet aneth the mools, their last reef thatch

An by the stanes, the antrin seat’s plunked doon
Tae rest the trauchelt wirthies o the toun.
Here, past an present gaither wi their friens
An tell the tale o their lang beeriet beens


3.The Warld accordin tae the Rev Angus MacFrewn

Hoors an jaads in Hell Fire fry
Papists, Hornie’s prods’ll job ye
Lord, upon yer chosen son
Smile, an bring yer blissins tae me

Hindus, Buddhists Sikhs an Jains
Gie them plagues, on-eyndin rains
Anely save the warld’s Wee Free
We’re the boys tae bide wi Thee

Friars an archaeologists
May ye hodge wi brimsteen burnin
Aa ye moochers bi the kirk
In Hell’s pit ye’ll aa staaun girnin

I’m the servant o the Lord
Come tae soor ye wi a Wird
I’d ban ilkie play an pleisur
Dish oot skaiths in wechty meisur

May ye shakk doon tae yer sark
Clootie’s pit is grim an sterk


4.Smack Heid Debbie

Smack Heid Debbie is ma gaun-aboot name
I hinna got a life an I hinna got a hame
I wis smokin skunk fin I turned thirteen
Takkin meth, crack an huff, afore I wis saxteen

Boomers, beannies, ecstasy an hash
Blue heavens, joy juice, for giein me a rush
Dance fever, magic mushies T.N.T
Gin ye wint tae see a junkie takk a keek at me


5.An Extract from Fyvie, a prize winning play by Les Wheeler &Sheena Blackhall (Scene 2)

In the wids. Twa widlan craiturs, rigged oot heid tae fit in green…feys/hornygollachs…..are rinnin backwirds an forrit in a fine steer

Fey 1: Fyvies wids are derk an deep
Fyvie’s far queer ferlies sleep
Reeshlin trees an rinnin deer
Speerits roon the castle steer

Fey 1: Somebody’s comin!
Fey 2: Somebody’s comin!
Fey 1: Fa can it be?
Fey 2: Fa can it be?
Fey1: I heard he’s a pouerfu shennachie
Fey 2: Foo’ll be ken him?
Foo’ll we ken him?
Fey 1: Wheesht! Here’s oor king and his lady!

Cernunnos, the Horned God o the wids, weirin his stag’s antlers, steps forrit, leadin his wife, a roe deer wi sma horns, ontae the side o the stage

Deer Queen: Oh husband we maun warn our fowk
Tae offer nae discourtesy
He kens the Future an the Past
This Tammas, wi aa-seein ee

Stag King: A michty warlock, ill tae cross
He has the gift o prophesie
An oorie story, wid-fowk aa
In truth, an eildritch history:

Fey 1: The day grows gurly, the sun’s awa
Fey 2: The thunner cracks an the coorse wins blaa

Stag King: He comes, he comes, wife. Quick! Draw back
It’s an ill omen fin the Weather’s black!

The Stag King an Queen boo doon tae touch the grun wi their foreheids. The widlan craiturs cooer awa. Tammas the Rhymer, steps on stage, haudin a heich wizzent stick. He dunts it three times on the grun afore the open yett o the castle. Wi a knell, the yetts swing tee, as the lichtenin rummles an flashes. The warlock turns tae the audience an heists his airms an stick tae the air.

True Tammas: Fyvie, Fyvie thou'se never thrive,
As long as there are three stanes three:
There's ane intill the highest tower,
There's ane intill the ladye's bower,
There's ane aneath the water yett,
And thir three stanes ye'se niver get

Widlan Craiturs circle the warlock

Here sterts the curse o Fyvie’s stanes
Ane is hid in the auldest touer
Ae sits an greets in the charter room
Aneth lies far the Ythan’s waves rin ower

True Tammas knells his staff three times on the grun.

True Tammas: Watch the Future ye will see
Murder, daith an mystery
Widdershins I furl awa
Frae this wid o erne an craa
True Tammas wauks aff, Widlan Craiturs perform a dumb show o the history o the curse:

Stag King: Three stanes war bigg’t in Fyvie’s was
Taen frae the true Kirk’s Haly lair
Until aa three o them gyang back
Nae firstborn loon will be an heir

Deer Queen: The first bides in the Ythan Burn
The secunt stauns in Preston Touer
The third bides in the Charter Room
Kent tae the fowk as ‘Lady’s bower’

Stag King: Born at Dunfermline toon in Fife
Prince Charles I, tae Fyvie cam
An he wis slaw tae spikk, tae wauk
A sickly, shargeret royal lamb

An at his eyn the heids-man’s aixe
Cuttit his thrapple threids in twa
The smitt o Fyvie raxxed sae far
It helped tae bring his sair doonfaa

Deer Queen: Fin Lady Meldrum deed herein
Her body wis sealed in the waa
A secret room in Meldrum Tower
Fa enters, gars a curse doonfaa
She wauks, a lady aa in Grey
A speerit o the itherwarld
Can flit ben misty corridors
Tae ghaistly tricks an cantrips thirled

Fey 1: Syne Lilias Drummond cam tae bide
Sterved in the touer an sae undone
In Fyvie, Sandy Seton’s bride
Because she cudna bear a son
Seen eftir, fin the laird wis wed
A secunt time, on hinneymoon
Ootbye their windae, eildritch skirls
Lilias name, cut upside doon
An fin she wauks in robes o green
The guff o roses fulls the air
For murder disna leave the beens
Tae sattle peacefu in their lair

Fey 2: A ghaistly bagpiper is heard
Fa’s fingers war hacked aff langsyne
An whyles, a phantom trumpet souns
For Tifty’s Annie, bonnie quine

Hermless she wis, an douce as weel
Beaten an kicked like ony sack
For luvin the laird’s trumpeter
Her brither broke the lassie’s back

An noo she wauks ben Fyvie’s wids
Foriver murnin her tint luv
At gloamintime, the leaves amids
Fa coortit her, wi rose an glove

Stag King: A battle bi Montrose wis focht
Wi Irish sodjers in the line
And there, a luvseek captain deed
O luv for a young servant quine

Stag King an Deer Queen merch roon the stage beatin a drum:

Fey 1: There are stains o bluid on Fyvie’s flairs
There’s a murderer’s bust in the Librar waa
There’s a room wi a curse, that’s killed twa lairds
Their wives turned blin in thon fated haa

Fey 2: Tammas the Rhymer, strang, yer curse
Doon the centuries cast its weird
Tammas the Rhymer, warlock, bard
Pouerfu shennachie, famed an feared

Thunner an lictenin crack an aabidy rins fleggit awa

6. Poem Inspired by the painting: Sir James Matthew Barrie,1860 – 1937 by Sir William Nicholson

Tea an Scone wi the Neverlan Lad

Keekin up frae ma pot o tea
Abune ma richt lug
I spy Scotlan’s verra ain Michael Jackson

Jamie, Peter Pan Barrie…
The chiel fa niver grew up
Hauf-bairn, hauf mannikin
A shilip wee craitur
Sair in need o a shave

Shaddas aneth his een
Hint at sleepless nichts
Recedin hair, a hingin luggit mowser
Like a deein hairy oobit

Ye’d takk him fur an unnertakker’s clerk
A neckie like tae thrapple him
A wrunkled, orra sark
An a sleekit luik like a nesty futterat

Jaiket near droonin him
Sma boukit as he is

I sweir I hear Hook’s crocodile
Tickin awa, as I poor the tay frae the pot


7. Tree o the Sìdh

At nicht the hoolet’s skreich dirls on the lug
Afore she wheechs awa, in seelent flicht
The auld meen hauds the young meen in her airms
Foretellin it will be a gurly nicht

The deein leaves are trimmlin on each bough
Rosehips an hawes spirk aa the sheughs wi reid
The cranreuch dyew makks pearls on blades o girse
Langsyne the foxglove trumpets blawed an deed

The chitterin yowes scrat up some dauds o neep
Leave tooshts o oo mangst briers at its reets
Tree o the Sidh. Fin starnies raxx their beams
The eildritch feys frae roon the bent twigs teet

Till mornin brakks. They creep back tae their lair
Inno the cracks an crannies o the bark
Tree o the Sidh, an itherwardly hame
Hotchin wi feys aneth its siller sark


8. Poem inspired by the painting of The Cromartie Fool by Richard Waitt (1731)

The Cromartie Feel

The Cromartie Feel’s got neives like hams
His kail reet’s strang an furly
His broos are thick as thrissle taps
His hudderie heid is curly

His semmit’s as glaury’s a heilan bog
His jaiket’s raggit an torn
His belt’s a towe wippt echt time’s roon
Wis there iver a feel like thon?

He plays the laird at Halloween
The nicht o the restless deid
An a neep howked teem frae the yirdy park
Has mair harns in its heid


9.Fin a Wumman Lues a Chiel: An Owerset in Scots o a Poem bi David Lehman Frae Columbia: A Journal of Literature and Art.

Fin she says Glenmorangie she means Glayva
Fin she says romantic she means onchancy.
An fin she says, 'I'll niver spikk tae ye again, '
she means, 'Pit yer airms aroon me frae ahin
as I staun waefu at the windae'

He's supposed tae ken thon.

Fin a cheil lues a wumman he’s in Glesga an she’s in Kirkcaldy
or he’s in Embro, screivin, an she’s in Dundee, readin,
or she’s weirin a ganzie an sunglaisses in Princes Street Gairdens an he’s
rakin leaves in Cambridge
or he’s hurlin tae Aiberdeen an she is staunin dowie
at the windae owerluikin the bay
far a regatta of mony-coloured sails is on the go
while he’s stucken in traffic on the Steenhive motorwye.

Fin a wumman lues a chiel it is ten by ane in the mornin
She’s asleep he’s watchin the fitbaa scores an ettin pretzels
suppin ale
an twa hours eftir he wakkens up an hyters inno bed
far she bides asleep an affa cosy.

Fin she says the morn she means in three or fower wikks.
Fin she says, 'We're spikkin aboot me noo, '
he stops spikkin. Her best frien cams ower an says,
'Did somebody dee? '

Fin a wumman lues a chiel, they hae gane
tae sweem nyaakit in the burn
on a blythe July day
wi the soun o the linn like a keckle
o watter breengin ower smeeth stanes,
an there is naethin unca in the mappamoun.
Ripe aipples faa aroon them.
Fit else can they dae bit ett?

Fin he says, 'Oors is a faist-meevin era, '
'thon's gey wyce o ye, ' she makks repon,
dry as the wine he’s suppin.

They fecht aa the time
It's a braw plisky
Fit dae I owe ye?
Let's start wi an apology
Ah richt, I'm sorry, ye dickheid
A signs held up sayin 'Lauch.'
It's a seelent pictur.
'I've bin birzzed wioot a kiss, ' she says,
'an ye can quote me on thon, '
thon souns braw in a Glesga accent.

Ae year they broke up seeven times an threatened tae dae it
Anither nine times.

Fin a wumman lues a chiel, she wints him tae meet her at the
airport in a furreign kintra wi a jeep.
Fin a chiel lues a wumman he's there. He disnae girn that
she's twa oors late
an the fridge is teem

Fin a wumman lues a chiel, she wints tae bide waukent.
She's like a bairn greetin
at nichtfaa because she didna wint the day tae eyn.

Fin a cheil lues a wumman, he watches her sleep, thinkin:
as midnicht tae the meen is sleep tae the best lued.
A thoosan fireflauchts glisk at him.
The puddocks soun like the strings
o the orchestra warmin up.
The stars hing doon like pearlins the shape o grapes.

10.Twa Mongolian Poets

This is a Scots Owersetting of 'The Heavenly Sky, ' a song by Danzanravjaa, Dulduityn Danzanravjaa (1803–1856,

The Heivenly Lift

Heiven is hale.
Let's haud an enjoy echt eildritch feasts.
Fin clouds appear an the time o rain cams,
Fit is the difference atween the altar an the yett?
Fin meevement stops an the time o daith cams,
Fit is the difference atween auld an young?

Fin ye plant a moiler tree,
A snake an pyson will cam frae the tree.
Fin ye makk friens wi a coorse body,
Ye’ll learn coorse wyes frae them.

Fin ye plant a spreidin tree,
Frae ilkie branch the fruits will growe.
Fin ye hae frienship wi a gweed body,
Brichtness an wyceness will cam.

Even tho there are mony heivenly starnies,
The brichtest anes are anely ane or twa.
Even tho there are mony eirdly craiturs,
The wycest anes are anley ane or twa.

They say that cauld weather brings a jeelin win,
An that the flooer in the corrie will thrive
Fin ye are blythe.
Tae spikk o wae brings doon wae.
Hae mercy, three sanctly bodies


By Chinggis Khaan (1162-1227)

Gin ma wee body is trachelt
Then let it be trauchelt.
Bit ma great government
Let it nae unraivel.
A michty body can win ae victory.
A michty speerit can win mony!
Dinna be disjaskit that the wey is lang;
Gin ye gyang forrit, ye can reach it.
Dinna be disjaskit that the wecht is sair;
Gin ye heist it, ye can cairry it.

From A Pair Melody of the Stone Monument: An Anthology of Mongolian Poets with selections by G. Ayurzana and translations and commentary by M. Saruul-Erdene.


11.An Owerset in Scots o Twa Contemporar Mongolian Poets
Frae English translations by Simon Wickham-Smith and Lyn Coffin

The Sang o the Stanes bi G. Mend-Oyoo

Gowden neth the blearie sun which fills the ritual urn,
The watters of gweed fortune shooer inno air.
Amangst tears an wae, this is a benediction.

An foo mony siller pieces are there in thon leevin watters?
An are stanes rare on the braid sans o Ongon?
There are gollachs amang thon lucky stanes.
They takk the stanes awa, kittle up the shelts,
An faither’s wheep cracks like lightnin an thunner.

“Hae ye rypit oor lucky stanes?
Pray tae the Buddha an speir forgiveness!
Keep yer lugs open, the current is strang!
Bring on the sang, cry it furth! ”

The flow o bricht smeddum dwines awa,
The voices frichtened aff thon fawn-coloured shelts.
They tuck in their heids far the twa auld bodies are,
They regret foo little they understaun the warld.

This bleezin day meevin the maitter o games,
The splooterin watter is taen aback.
Returnin aa the stanes, I repair ma mistaks
The sang o the gifts cams gurglin.


Leaf bi Bavuudorj Tsogdorj

Young trees in Autumn
Haive doon their leaves.
The byordnar fiery leaves are
The same’s ma fitprints.