Cleikum: Scots Poems Poem by Sheena Blackhall

Cleikum: Scots Poems

St Ronan an the Deil
The Deil cam roon the Border Lans
An he wis boastin brawly
Quo he ‘I'll catch masel a saunt
An claim his soul richt surely'

St Ronan heard Auld Clootie's fit
An cleuked him wi his cromack
An tae be catched in sic a wye
Wis mair than Nick could stammache

He flew awa, his imps an aa
Back tae his Hellish hame
An noo the Innerleithen fowk
Act oot the Deevil's shame

Leaves doondrap an dee
This is Daith's cauldrife Sizzen
Dreich the weird we dree

Aiberdeen's Braa! : Tune: Bonnie Dundee
Gweed fowk o the city the council agree
Ye should redd up yer paths tae the umpteenth degree
On a Setterday night fin yer oot on the spree
Dinna fecht dinna cowk on the street dinna pee

For Aiberdeen's bonnie an Aiberdeen's braa
Its fine granite hooses its seagulls anna
Wi oor Tolbooth oor Toon Hoose oor gran Music Haa
We're the Cock o the North sae let's up an let's craa!

We're bilingual, Doric an English we spikk
An we're cleanin oor toun, noo the lums dinna rikk
If ye wint tae see history ye'd better come quick
We're aa for the Future, malls rise brick bi brick


Wi hae parks an museums an theatres as weel
We win prizes for flooers in basket & creel
The Dee & the Don ye can fish line an reel
Wi hae twa universities, fegs, we're nae feel


If it's dark up abeen luik for the Northern Lichts
Or watch dolphins in herbour, a richt bonnie sicht
Or tae Filthy McNasty's eat weel on cauld nichts
At the Castlegate, rest, set the warld tae richts


Oor kintra aroon is beloved o the Queen
There's castles an mountains an golf courses green
If yer swytin in Palma ye'll wish ye hae gaen
Tae the fine bracin breezes o great Aiberdeen


The Rothesay Rooms, Ballater: Tune: The Day we went tae Rothesay-oh
If lookin for a place tae eat,
Get in yer car, tae seek a treat
And order local sides o meat
At Rothesay Rooms in Ballater
Fin Storm Frank roared been the toun
An caravans war like tae droon
It shook the hooses tap tae foun
In ilkie street in Ballater

Dirrum-a-doo a dum-a-day
Dirrum-a-doo a daddy-o
A place tae eat, a place tae meet
Hurrah for the Duke o Rothesay-o!

Prince Charles fairly raised the game
Wi funds tae help thon flooded plain
An help the fowk tae thole the pain
O watter's war on Ballater
A pop-up restaurant, by himsel
An Highgrove Shop, guid wares tae sell
He's bigged tae show it's the death knell
O waefu times in Ballater
Dirrum-a-doo a dum-a-day
Dirrum-a-doo a daddy-o
A place tae eat, a place tae meet
Hurrah for the Duke o Rothesay-o!

Will there be champagne, hinney, fudge?
Drap in yersel sae ye can judge
Quality's fit they dinna grudge
At Highgrove Shop in Ballater
For aathing there's guid provenance
An tastefu, ye'll see at a glance
Chutneys an jeelies tae entrance
Richt Royal fare in Ballater

Dirrum-a-doo a dum-a-day
Dirum-a-doo a daddy-o
A place tae eat, a place tae meet
Hurrah for the Duke o Rothesay-o!

The Curse
In 1525 the reivers had become such a nuisance that the then Archbishop of Glasgow, Gavin Dunbar, put a curse up all the reivers of the borderlands. I have owersett it into Scots.

'I ban their heid an aa the hairs o their heid;
I ban their physog, their thochts
their mou, their neb, their tongue, their teeth,
their broo, their shouders, their breist,
their hairt, their kyte, their back, their wyme,
their airms, their shanks, their hauns, their feet,
an ilkie pairt o their corp,
frae the tap o their heid tae the soles o their feet,
afore an ahin, inbye an ootbye.'

'I ban them gaun an I ban them ridin;
I ban them standing and I curse them sitting;
I ban them ettin an I ban them suppin;
I ban them risin, an I ban them lyin;
I ban them at hame, I ban them awa frae hame;
I ban them inbye the hoose, I ban them ootbye the house;
I ban their wives, their bairns, and their skiffies
Fa gie them a heist in their darg

Dryburgh Abbey
Hereby's the *domus ultimus of Scott *final home
Beeriet bi richt o his ancestral reets
Laid in his native lan, famed Borderer

A Merells Board's carved inno the north waa
Cut there bi mediaeval stanemasons
Here Nine Men's Morris aince inspired lauchter

Tae auncient Celts, the Morris Square wis haly
The centre, eildritch source o re-creation
Anchor o the fower elements an wins
A fiery squirrel derts inno the cloister

The trees drap deein flames on the cauld yird
A thoosan year auld yew makks mock o time
The Abbey's ruins, ivy-clad, are seelent
A carved bat coories in a hyne-up neuk

An Owersett in Scots from ‘The Tumult of the World, by Abbot Aelred of Rievaulx (1147-67) . Rievault Abbey in Yorkshire was the mother house of Melrose. King David I (1124-1153) invited the Cistercians from Revaulx Abbey to Melrose.

The Stooshie o the Warld
Oor maet is scarce,
Oor claes are roch
Oor drink is frae the burn
Oor sleep is aftimes ower oor buik

Aneth oor trauchelt corp
There's anely a hard bass
Fin sleep is swetest
We maun rise
Fin the bell cries us tae prayer

Sel his nae place
Nae meenit fur latchiness or ill-daein
Aawye is peace, aawye's serenity
A mervellous liberty
Frae the Stooshie o the warld

The Bus Tour Driver Speaks (aged 25)
Dinna leave naethin on yer seats
Or I'll sell it.
I like a bit o e-bay.
Tea? I'll hae the odd kebab
Bit I dinna dee Indian.

Ma mammy tells me I'm gorgeous
Foo's yer auld hips an things daein?
Jist chill. Jist chill.

Bonnie hooses in Selkirk. Gairdens are a mess though
Onybody bin here afore?
Surely no!

Oh! There's a Morrison's store
Slightly excitin folks….
Ye can hae a nosey roon the shoppies.
I'd hiv went doon an drapped ye
If ye arenae up tae the walk

Oh my God dis that sae Polish Shop?
My mistak! It's a POALISH shop
Jist chill. Jist chill.

Bloody cyclists.

Ye wint tae ging tae Abbotsford?
Fit's there? Nae anither Abbey?
Sir Walter Scott's Hoose?
Fa's he, like?

Jist chill. Jist chill.

OK Doke. Fit did ye think o Howk?

Ye saw the graveyaird?
Folk should be allowed tae test drive coffins.
I'm convinced the Grim Reaper's in oor hotel
Waitin fur ye tae pop yer clogs.
Jist chill. Jist chill.

I asked the manageress
Far the soap wis in ma room.
‘Across the road at Spar.
It shuts at 10pm' she says.

Grippy or fit!
She charged me 6p for a wee milk pottie fur ma tea.

Fit's that? Wordsworth bedd here?
Sorry darling, niver heard o him
Did he rate it on trip advisor?
Maybe it wis him fa wore oot the carpet! !

Laird Learmont
True Tammas wis a birkie guid
Fa slept aneth an eildritch wid
The Queen o Fairylan she bid
Him jyne her ranks
An taste the sweets o Fairyhood
On magic banks

Fur seeven lang years he kept her side
He wis her leeman, she, his bride
Her pairtin gift tae hummle pride
An honest tongue
He'd ban, miscaa, misfit an chide
Baith auld an young

His prophesees aa cam tae pass
King Alexander's daith, alas
An Bannockburn far armies mass
Tae fecht an kill
An Flodden, wae o knicht an lass
Fin Scotsmen fell

He telt o his bluidline's doonfaa
Met William Wallace, stinch an braa
Till, ae cauld nicht o frost an snaa
A hart an hind
Summoned him tae the Elf Queen's haa
Far frae mankind.

A Scots Owersett of a Poem by Mikhail Yuryevich Lermontov, ‘Foriver ye, the yirdy Russia! '

Foriver ye, the unwashed Rooshia!
The lan o slaves, the lan o lairds:
An ye, aa the blue-suited jobswirths,
An fowk fa worship them as gods.

I hope, frae yer tyrannic hounds
Tae save me inbye Europe's waa:
Safe frae their een that sees throwe grun,
Safe frae their lugs that hears us aa.

Ode to Francis II by Mary Queen of Scots, written at Fotheringhay
Owerset into Scots
Ochone fit am I? Fit eese has ma life?
I'm jist a corp fa's hairt is rived awa,
An eeseless shadda, cast upon a waa
Wi naethin left bit anely daith-in-life.

Ochone ma faes, set jealousy aside;
I've nae mair langin noo for heich domain;
I've tholed ower lang the doonwecht o ma pain
Tae see yer anger swiftly satisfeed.

An ye, ma friens fa hae lued me sae true,
Mynd, lackin health an hairt an thirdly peace,
There's naethin wirthwhile I'll accomplish noo
Speir anely that my dowieness should cease
An bein punished in a warld like this,
I hae ma portion in Aybydan blisse.

Newsin: A Scots owersett of ‘Conversation' an English translation of a Welsh poem by Mihangel Morgan

I've got a spikkin cheer
I hinna heard a cheer spikk fur years

Come an hae a news wi her. Her cheer is byornar clear
I'm nae really guid at cheer. I can unnerstaun it aa richt
Bit I canna spikk cheer as I dae brod

I hinna got ony spikkin brods
The press neist door his larnt brod as a secunt leid
Cheers are unca sib

Yett's rale sib as weel
Bit yett's a deid leid
It's a classical leid like windae-
There's anely a fyeow fa spikk it

Bit the keekin-glaiss leid is spreidin ben the chaumer
Thon keekin-glaisses hae nae reets
Afore lang there'll be keekin glaisses aawye
On the fleer, on the reef even on the cheers
Ye winna hear a wird o cheer eftir thon

The auldest kirk in Regensburg Tune: Drumdelgie

The auldest kirk in Regensburg's the Schottenkirche by name
For Irish an for Scottish monks this biggin wis their hame
The Abbot, Ninian Winzet wis by Scotland's Mary Queen
Bespakk tae train new Catholic priests, a cheil baith wyce an keen

It stude throwoot Napoleon's wars, becam a priory
Syne the Bavarian rulers turned it tae a seminary
The pillars in this bonnie kirk are carved wi muckle skill
Wi lions, ernes an crocodiles on mony a plinth an sill

An at the foun on columns' base there's grumphies, cuddies tae
Wi tykes an furlieorums, a sculptor's bestiary
The Schottenportal in the north, a third o ae hale waa
Has caryatids richt an left wi Christ abune them aa

Ye'll spy a raw o human heids, an Eve frae Eden's Tale
The Antichrist is there as weel, the haly tae repel
A dragon swallaes a lion frae the Harrowin o Hell
There's vices like Luxuria, unchastity hersel

Here hermits, monks an pilgrims, aa supped communion wine
Arbuthnot caad the abbey a Scottish national shrine
Syne Erskine, cardinal in Rome, he saved the Abbey's fate
An held it sacred till it wis taen ower bi the state

Its mediaeval buiks war ryped, kent aa the warld roon
The Fort Augustus collection, noo held in Embro toun
An this is foo the Abbey lear has cam tae reist at last
In Embro, ower frae Regensburg, a giftie frae the past

Three Scots Owersetts o Poems bi John Clare

The Fern Hoolet's Nest
The foonert widsman hirplin hame aneth
His tichtly bun-up kinnlers, winners aft
Whyles crossin ower the whin-be-chokit muir
Tae hear the fern hoolet's sooch alaft
In cerclin furls an aftimes bi his heid
Wheechs by as quick as thocht an ill tae rest
As ben the reeshlin ling wi wechty tread
He takks nae tent. He tramples by its nest
That in aneth the breem or laigh-doon thorn
Lies happit in the grun, an fizzin roon
Thon lanely neuk she wakks her skreichin soun
Tae the un-lippenin waste, till mirled morn
Fulls the reid east wi daybrakk's comin din
An the heath's echo mocks the herdin loon

Thon teenie dauchler on the barley's beard
An blithesome unit o a michty herd
O ne'er dae weels the lauchin simmer brings
Mockin the sinsheen in their glentin wings
Foo gleg they creepie-crawl an rin an flee
They arenae sib tae hard wirk's drudgery
Smeethin the petals o the rosey glens
An far they flee fur denner, naeb'dy kens
The dyewdraps dinna feed them- jist the sheen
O noon fa's sun micht bring them gowden wine
Aa day they're jinkin in their Sabbath dress
Till nicht brings sleep, an they can dae nae less
Syne in the heather's silken hood they flee
An somelike princes, sattle, quaet an wee
Frae comin nicht an drappin dyews an aa
In silken beds an bonnie peinti haa
Sae blithsomely they spen their simmer day
Noo in the corn park, noo in new-cut hey
Ye near jelouse that sic-like blithesome things
In coloured hoods an richly sheenin wings
Are feys rigged oot in some braw masquerade
Disguised throw fleg, o mortal fowk afraid
Haudin their jinky ploys a mystery still
Lest licht o day should dae their secrets ill

Bawds at Play
The birds are gaen tae bed; the kye are still
An yowes lie pechin on the mowdies' hill
An in aneth far saugh's lang airms boo
Like darg a-restin, lies the wirk-lowsed ploo
The blate young bawds throw aff their daylight flegs
On the lane's stoor, tae daunce amang the seggs
Syne skitter ben the grain bi nocht deterred
Tae sup the dyewfaa aff the barley's beard
Syne oot again they breenge an roon the hill
Like blithesome thochts, daunce, hunker, dauchle still
Till milkin lassies in the early morn
Jingle their yokes as they stride ben the corn
Throw weel-kent beaten roadies, ilkie bawd
Lowps quick as fleg tae hide far naeb'dy's trod

Saturday, November 12, 2016
Topic(s) of this poem: places
Error Success