Bees (Scots Poems) Poem by Sheena Blackhall

The Croun o Gowans
I vrocht ma son a bonnie croun
O gowans, frae the lea
His babby hair wis blaik as rikk
There wis nane blythe as he

I vrocht ma son a bowster
I scentit it wi thyme
His chikks wir reid's the gean
Thon bud o oor bluid line

I didnae see the serpent
That sliddered in the girse
I didnae ken misfortune
Hid lowsed her dowie purse

In daith, like a puir buckie,
He curled intae himsel
Like he wis creepin back tae
The wyme, his babby shell

Thon image bides inbye me
A brand, brunt in ma hairt
The doonfaa o ma dearie
An I, o thon, a pairt


The Wid Mannie Sang:Tune Queen Mary
Wid mannie he bides in the faimily tree
Wi his wid wifie luv an his wid bairnies three
Ae day he gaed rinnin, a tyke lowped fur joy
An cairriet him aff like a wee duggie toy

A sign says aa tykes maun be kept on a lead
The tyke it is collared, wid mannie is freed
He set aff fur hame, o look oot fur a quine!
She cries ‘Here's a race stick tae play wi, fit fine! '

She flang the wid mannie doon unner a brig
A swan saw hin floatin took him fur a twig
Fin she swam awa the wid mannie wis free
He drifted doon river, an intae the sea

The tide drappt him aff at a beach fu o san
A mannie wauks up wi a spaad in his haun
He plunks the widmannie on a sancastle's tap
Wid mannie he rages anither coorse trap

O I'm nae a sword fur a knight nur a flag
O I'm nae a pen or a hook fur a bag
O I'm nae a bow, bat or boomerang no
I'm jist a wid mannie an hame I wid go

Its winter a loon wi a hett cosy scarf
‘An airm fur ma snaaman'he cries wi a luach
Wid mannie is stuck till the snaman has gaen
Noo he's lifted fur kinnlin will he niver win hame?

Bit he hears a soun an it cams frae a lum
Wi a pluffert o seet Faither Xmas has come
Wid mannie he helped Santie Claus tae win free
Jyned him an his reindeer the gifties tae gie

At noo the last hoose, it'shis ain family tree
Wi his wife an three bairns he's as blythe as can be
An neist time he's rinnin, for tykes he'll watch oot
They wid snatch him awa again, nae ony doot!



Owerset in Scots of a tradional Wassailing Sang
There's a maister an a mistress dowped bi the hairth stane
Fylst we puir wassail loons staun oot in the rain
Cam ye bonnie lass wi yer milky fite skin
Pray open the yettnoo an lat us cam in

It's anely puir wassail loonstrauchelt an cauld
Please gie us some siller, the day's turnin auld
An gin we survive fur anither new year
We'll aa cry inbye an we'll see fa bides here

We ken by the meen that we arenae ower sune
An we ken bi the lift that we arenae ower heich
An we ken bi the starnies we arenae ower far
An we ken bi the grun that there's drink in the jar

We hope that yer aipple trees brier weel an bear
Sae we micht hae cider fin we cam neist year
An far ye've ae barrel we hope ye'll hae ten
Sae that we micht hae cider fin we cam again



The Tartan Kirkie
This foreneen rain is drappin licht
On the reef o the Taran Kirkie
Pam-pammerin like the fitsteps o teenie mochs

In the blitz o 1943, twinty Luftwaffe planes
Flew ower the toon. In 44 meenits
127 bombs dubtit ontae the hooses
12,000 hames wir tint
Schules, an this kirk itsel
Chancel, crypt an sacristy
Blawn tae crocanation
Waascrackit, reef in smush

Faither shawed me the waas o oor hame
In Albert Terrace, nearhaun the verra kirk
Granite waas scoored bi shrapnel

Across the toon, bairnies, halflins, faimlies,
Brukken in war, likecrumbs o communion breid



Photie in a Glen
Thon's a photie o me
Aged three, a wee
Cut doon copy o granminnie

The heather cercles ma shanks
In aa its poorpie braws
Ye canna hear the burnie in the backgrun
Bit I can, the soun imprentit on ma sowel
The glen etched intae ma hairt

The verra air is caller
Pine sherp, swete an precious



Brakk o Day in the Trenches: Scots owersett o a poem by Isaac Rosenberg
The derkness crummles awa
It's the same auld Druid Time as iver,
Anely a leevin craitur lowps ma haun,
A fey disdainfu ratten,
As I pu the bulwark's poppy
Tae plunk ahin ma lug.
Fey ratten, they wid sheet ye gin they kent
Yer cosmopolitan leanins,
Noo ye hae touched this English haun
Ye'll dae the same tae a German
Sune, nae doot, gin it be yer pleisur
Tae cross the sleepin girse atween.
It seems ye inbye grin as ye pass
Strang een, fine shanks, prood athletes,
Less chaunced than ye fur life,
Jyned tae the whims o murder,
Sprauchled in the intimmers o the eirde,
The riven parks o France.
Fit dae ye see in oor een
At the skreichin iron an flame
Haived ben still heivens?
Fit shakkin -fit hairt stammygastered?
Poppies fas reets are in cheil's veins
Drap, an are iver drappin;
Bit mine in ma lug is safe, jist a bittickie fite wi the stoor.


Deid Cheil's Midden: Scots Owersett o a poem by Isaac Rosenberg
The doon drappin limbers ower the brukken track
Drummlit wi their roosty load,
Stukk oot like mony crouns o thorns,
An the roosty stakes like sceptres auld
Tae haud the flood o peetiless cheils
Upon oor brithers dear.

The wheels duntit ower sprauchled deid
Bit didnae skaith them, tho their banes crunched;
Their steeked moos made nae maen,
They lay thonner cooryin, frien an fae chiels,
Chiels born o chiels, an born o weemun,
An shells gae skirlin ower them
Frae nicht till nicht an noo.
Eirde his wytit fur them,
Aa the time o their growth
Worritin fur their dwinin:
Noo she his them at last!
In the strength o her virr
Hingin—stoppit an grippit.

Fit strang imaginins their derk sowels lichtit
Eirde! Hae they gane intae ye?
Somewye they maun hae gane,
An flang on yer hard back
Is their sowels' pyoke,
Teemed o God-gien essences.
Fa haived them oot? Fa haived?

Nane saw their speerits' shadda shakk the girse,
Or stude aside fur the hauf-used life tae pass
Ooto thon doomed snoots an the doomed mouth,
Fin the faist iron burnin bee
Drained the wud hinney o their youth.

Fit o us, fa flang on the skreichin lowe,
Wauk, oor ordnar thochts untouched,
Oor lucky limbs as gin on ichor fed,
Aybydan seemin iver?
Mebbe fin the flames beat lood on us,
A fleg micht choke in oor veins
An the stertled bluid micht stop.
The air is lood wi daith,
The derk air spirks wi fire,
The explosions are aye ongaun.
Timelessly noo, a puckle meenits syne,
These deid strade time wi the smeddum o life,
Till the shrapnel cried "an eyn! "
Bit nae tae aa. In bleedin stangs
Some cairriet on streetchers dreamt o hame,
Dear bodies, war-blottit frae their hairts.

A chiel's harns splootered on
A streetcher-bearer's face;
His shakkin shouders drappit their load,
Bit fin they booed tae luik again
The droonin sowel wis sunk ower deep
Fur human douceness.

They left this deid wi the aulder deid,
Streetched at the cross roads.
Brunt blaik bi fey crinin,
Their seenister faces lie
The lid ower ilkie ee,
The girse an coloured clay
Mair meevement hae than they,
Jyned tae the muckle sunk seelences.

Here is ane nae lang deid;
His derk lippenin catched oor hyne aff wheels,
An the thrapplit sowel streetched dweeble hauns
Tae reach the leevin wird the hyne wheels said,
The bluid-dazed kenning beatin fur licht,
Greetin throwe the suspense o the hyne torturin wheels
Faist fur the eyn tae brakk,
Or the wheels tae brakk,
Grat as the tide o the warld brukk ower his sicht.

Will they cam? Will they iver cam?
Even as the mirled hoofs o the cuddies,
The shakky-wymed cuddies,
An the breengin wheels aa melled
Wi his tortured upturned sicht.
Sae we blootered roon the neuk,
We heard his dweeble skreich,
We heard his verra hinmaist soun,
An oor wheels scrattit his deid face


The poem: Scots Owerset o a poem by Jiri Mordecai Langer
The poem
that I wyled fur ye
is easy-peasy,
as are aa ma singin poems.
It his the thochtie o a veil,
a bittickie balsam,
an a taste o the hinney o lees.
There is likewyse
the camin eyn o simmer
fin heat birssles the ley
an the faist watters
o the river
stop rinnin.


Thon's Nae Wye fur Cheeriebye:Scots Owersett o a poem by Leonard Cohen
I lued ye in the mornin, oor kisses deep an warm,
yer hair upon the bowster like a dwaumin gowden storm,
aye, mony lued afore us, I ken we arenae new,
in toun an in the widlan, they smiled like us, as true,
bit noo it's cam tae hyne awa an baith o us maun try,
yer een are saft wi sorra,
Thon's nae wye fur cheeriebye.
I'm nae luikin fur anither as I wanner in ma time,
wauk me tae the neuk,ma joe, oor steps will aywis rhyme
ye ken ma luve gaes wi ye as yer luve bides wi me,
it's jist the wye it cheenges, like the shoreline an the sea,

bit let's nae spikk o love or chynes an things ill tae untie
yer een are saft wi sorra,
Thon's nae wye fur cheeriebye
I lued ye in the mornin, oor kisses deep an warm,
yer hair upon the bowster like a dwaumy gowden storm,
Aye mony lued afore us, I ken we arenae new,
in toun an in the widlan, they smiled like us, as true,
bit lat's nae spikk o luve or chynes an things ill tae untie
yer een are saft wi sorra,
Thon's nae wye fur cheeriebye


The Jackfruit: Scots owersett o a poem by Ho Xuan Huong (Vietnamese)
I'm like a jackfruit on the tree.
Tae taste ye maun plug me faist, fin fresh:
the skin roch, the pulp thick, aye,
bit och, I warn ye agin touchin -
the rich juice will spoot an stain yer hauns


Deeside Games
Scotland has an Eden caad Deeside
Far Celtic wyes are practised an respeckit
Ballater, Abyne, Lonach, Braemar
The games o oor forefaithers, re-enactit

In August Ballater's the place tae be
Monaltrie Park is thrang wi fowk competin
Frae aa the airts auld friens return tae jyne
Thegither, takk a dram the tryst tae sweeten
See Craigendarroch far the rinners pech
See Ritchies, Frasers, Elricks an the lave
An mebbe ghaistly forefaithers rise up
Black Colonel luikin up frae yont the grave
Tae watch the reel o Tulloch daunced wi grace
Wi Sheridans an Farqharsons lang deid
An whyles a local chieftain daunders by
Wi eagle's feathers proodly on his heid

The bairns delicht tae watch fowk tilt the bucket
Fin I wis wee I raced aroon thon ring
Bit ay cam last an won a cheer fur tryin
Braw Ballater, sic memories ye bring!

The Royal Pairty in the Royal Box
Enjoys Braemar, Balmoral bein near
Dame Judy Dench an sic celebrities
Aside the locals as pairt o the steer
Kenneth McAlpine in his Mar Estate
First danced the victory o the Heilan fling
His upraised hauns thebranches o the stag
The bold and warlike Kenneth Heilan fling

Abyne wis far ma faither met his fowk
Steerin inbyefae Tarland, Birse, East Mains
An ithers frae the wider warld wir seen
Kenya, New Zealand, Canada, wide plains
O USA. An aa the while the pipes
Melled wi the stoon o stallies' swingboat tunes
Warm beer, hett fusky, burgers, candyfloss
An mony a luver's tryst o quines an loons

Lonach wis stertit bi Sir Charles Forbes
Tae please S trathdon in echteen twenty three
Twa hunner cheils in tartan haudin pikes
Merch sax miles roon the acres gallantly
A cairtie cams ahin for ony man
Owercam wi wearieness or drams ower mony
A aa this global warmin sunstrokemicht
Wi wechty tartans, shorten thon gran journey


The Lonach Marchers: TuneChorus of Here's tae the Gordons

Ae day as I was walkin on bonnie Strathdon's wyes
I heard the tramp o merchers, neth the bonnie simmer skies
I saw the Lonach merchers in tartans gay and green.
Aa stridin oot wi pikes in hand sae handsome tae be seen,

Here's tae the merchers, the lads sae stinch an true.
If I'd been a laddie, I'd hae bin a mercher too;
But as I am a woman I maun lead a wummin's life,
Bit langsyne back it's truth tae tell, I wis a mercher's wife.

The Lonachis a special Games, it is a grand affair,
An even Billy Connolly was prood aince tae be there,
Fin half o Hollywood appeared tae see the Lonach show:
The drams rin doon the throat like firean set an hairts aa aglow

Here's tae the merchers, the lads sae stinch an true.
If I'd been a laddie, I'd hae bin a mercher too;
But as I am a woman I maun lead a wummin's life,
Bit langsyne back it's truth tae tell, I wis a mercher's wife.

The Heilan Games…the caber, heistit, tossed
The tug o war, the rinnin, dauncin, pleisur
O pibroch played wi great solemnity
The Games, like cairngorms, a Celtic triesur
Sae lat us toast the fowk ben ilkie age
Tae keep alive oor Heilan heritage