Death Matters: Scots Poets Poem by Sheena Blackhall

Death Matters: Scots Poems

Tom Leonard1944 -2018
It should be on the sax o'clock news:
T.S. Eliot wis wrang, Scotland DIS hae a literary culture
Tam Leonard wis the lad tae shaw it

Fit screiver in Scots hisnae read sax Glesga poems?
A Priest Cam on at Merkland Street
Even he saw it
We're aa gaun tae die
We're aa in the box thegither

Tam wis a bunnit hussler, a chanty rassler
His intimate voice wis screived fur fowk in the street
Nae tae be gralloched bi critics in ivory touers

He wis a braw explorer o the places o the mind
A true teller o reports frae the present
He hid access tae the seelence
Wi his hurtit harns, wihis strang hairt
His thocht an warks aye ootside the ordnarnarrative


We Are Sivven: Owersett in Scots of a poem by William Wordsworth
An airtless bairn,
That lichtly sooks its braith,
An feels its life in ilkie limb,
Fit should it ken o daith?

I met a teenie cottar quine:
Jist echt year auld, she said;
Her hair wis thick wi mony a curl
That gaithered roon her heid.

She hid a kintra, widlan luik,
An she wis rochly claithed:
Her een wir braw, aye unca braw;
—Her brawness made me gled.

"Sisters an brithers, teenie quine,
Foo mony micht ye be? "
"Foo mony? Sivven in aa, " she telt,
An winnerin keeked at me.

"An far are they? I pray ye tell."
She reponed, "Sivven are we;
An twa o us at Conway bide,
An twa are gaen tae sea.

"Twa o us in the kirk-yaird lie,
Ma sister an ma brither;
An in the kirk-yard hoosie,
I bide near them wi ma mither."

"Ye say that twa at Conway bide,
An twa are gaen tae sea,
Yet ye are sivven! I pray ye tell,
Doucequine, foo this micht be."

Syne did the teenie lass repon,
"Sivven loons an quines are we;
Twa o us in the kirk-yaird lie,
Aneth the kirk-yaird tree."

"Ye rin aboot, ma teenie lass,
Yer limbs they are alive;
Gin twa are in the kirk-yaird laid,
Syne ye are anely five."

"Their graves are green, they micht be seen, "
The teenie quinereplied,
"Twal steps or mair frae ma ma's yett,
An they are side bi side.

"Ma hose ootthere I aften wyve,
Ma snifer-dichter, hem;
An there doon on the grun I dowp,
An sing a sang tae them.

"An aften efter gloamin, Sir,
Fin it's still licht an fair,
I takk oot ma smaa parritch bowl,
An ett ma supper there.

"The first that deed wis sister Jean;
In bed she maenin lay,
God set yer free oaa her pain;
An gaed her liberty.
"Sae in the kirk-yaird she wis laid;
An, fin the girse wis dry,
Thegether roon her grave we played,
Ma brither John an I.
"An fin the grun wis fite wi snow,
An I could rin an slidder,
Ma brither John wis gart tae gae,
An he lies there aside her."

"Foo mony are ye, syne, " I speired,
"Gin thon twa are in heiven? "
Faist did the teenie quine repon,
"O Maister! we are sivven."

"Bit they are deid; thon twa are deid!
Their speerits are in heiven! "
'Twis haivin wirds awa; fur still
The teenie quine wid hae her will,
An quo, "Na, we are sivven! "


James Hepburn,4th Earl of Bothwell
Earl Bothwell wis a nobleman
An Admiral o the line
In Denmark he wis aince betrothed
Tae a Norwegian quine
In Flanders, aa her siller spent
He gart her sell her gear
Her dowry he gaed quickly throwe
An left the lassie puir

He cast her aff, neist tuik a wife
The Earl o Huntly's dother
A year gaed by, syne he divorced
This lass, set on anither
Jist echt days efter, bells rang oot
His third wife, rich an gran
Twis Mary Queen o Scots he tuik
The heichest in the lan


Her lord wis three month in his grave
Thrappled, a murderer's plan
An it wis fuspered, he'd bin killed
Bi Bothwell's bluidy haun

The kintra it wis split in twa
Some for, an some agin
At Carberry he lost the fecht
Fled Scotlan like the win
Frae Aiberdeen the Earl set sail
Tae Norroway he's gaen
An there his past catched up wi him
Tae Bergen he wis taen

Bergenhus Fortress waas are stoot
His first love lood did maen
That he had left her penniless
Syne news frae Scotland came

The Earl was sent tae Dragsholm jyle
A Castle strang an stoot
Fur ten lang years chyned tae a post
Tae girn an wauk aboot
Fowk said James Hepburn there gaed gyte
Chyned like a breet, he deed
An Mary, his leal wadded wife-
The axeman tuik her heid


The Big Grey Man of Ben MacDhui
The Big Grey Man o Ben McDhui
Flegs the breeks aff mountain sclimmers
Is he the real MacKay, or hooey?

The Big Grey Man o Ben McDhui
Terrifees thon towrist limmers
He's cauldrife, ugsome, orra, bluey

The Big Grey Man o Ben McDhu
Chitters young bairns tae their intimmers
His braith smells strang as ratatouille

The Big Grey Man o Ben McDhui
Haunts auld hill waukers usin zimmers
Gaes heebie-jeebies, he's sae spooky

The Big Grey Man o Ben McDhui
Is he a ferlie, is he shimmers
Stottin aff the snaadrifts, oorie?

The Big Grey Man o Ben McDhui
Cuts throwe the mist like gyte hedge trimmers
Flees ower Bens, a frozen Frisbee

The Big Grey Man o Ben McDhui
A warlock lued bi Scotland's kimmers
Flees ben the lift, a frozen Frisbee
The Big Grey Man o Ben McDhui
The Cairngorms, are his feng Shui


New Year,2019
Wi a sough o the win in the pit-mirk nicht
Hark tae the auld year passin
Questions hing ower the times tae come
Cheenges like blaik clouds massin

Will the warld birl roon in the heivens still?
Will fowk droon in meltin ice?
Will Brexit bring us gweed or ill?
Far's the Wyce Mens' best advice?

Will the oceans smore in plastic smush?
Will pysons connach the breets? Will trees sook up oor orra smitts
Frae the keech spreid ower their reets?

Wi a sough o the win in the pit-mirk nicht
Hark tae the auld year passin
Questions hing ower the times tae come
Cheenges like blaik clouds massin


A Praise Poem Fur Cromar
Praise be the tartan wuvven bi Birkie's quine
Praise bethe neeps in the parks near Corrachree
Praise be the pit mirk derk in the Culsh Eirde Hoose
Praise bethe girse that blaws on Tomnaverie

Praise be the glaur an dubs o Millheid rigs
Praise be Ordie, the Leys, Waukmill an Gellan
Praise be the tykes that scrat roon the show yaird
Praise be the brigs an the burn that rins ben Tarlan

Praise be the ruined sheilins in the knowes
Praise be knee-deep heath on the braes o Morven
Praise be the dyeuks that flee ower the curlin puil
Praise be St Moluag's far sleepers dinna wauken

Praise be the daffs in spring at Alastrean
Praise be Blelack, Hopewell, Tillpronie
Praise be the bawds that graze ower Presendye
Praise be the Pict on his shelt on the stane o Migvie

Praise be the barley that growes aside Barehillock
Praise be the bothies an byres in the Howe o Cromar
Praise be the fiddler Anderson, frae the Howe
Praise be the snaa in the corries o Lochnagar

Praise be the booed heid o the war memorial
Praise be the midgies dauncin on Douneside braes
Praise be the Drummy Wids, the Loch o Kinord
Praise be the gowf players on simmer days

Praise be the couthie blethers in the howffs
Praise be the girse reefed morthoose ower in Coull
Praise be Craskins, Strathmore an Blackmill
Praise be the lan that is oor pride an jewel


12 Birdie Bairn Poems

Reidwings
Reidwings stottin in the sna
Gin I'd yer wings I'd flee awa
Tae the Sooth, a warmer clime
An nae flee hame till simmertime


Mr & Mrs Jaikie
Weel Mrs Jaikie, anither year awa
Fit lies in the future fur us twa?
Weel, Mr Jaikie, fowk say that furreign birds
Will be turned back bi customs
As if they wir fleein turds
Fegs, Mrs Jaikie
The kintra will seem teem
Wi nae incomin veesitors
Tae brichten up the scene
Weel Mr Jaikie
We'll baith hae mair tae ett
An wir gorblies will hae plenty wirms
Tae gollup frae their plate


Blue Tit an Robin
Blue tit an robin sat on a tree
Neeborly like fur a blether
Quo robin- ma jynts are byordnar stiff
I'm pittin it doon tae the weather
Ochone, the blue tit made repon
This gairden's a pysoned chalice
Fur the gweedwife keeps twa cats wi cleuks
Gowd disnae makk a palace


Yalla Yeitie
Yalla yeitie, yalla yeitie
Like a buttered bap
Yer a baa o sunsheen
As on the branch ye drap
Yalla yeitie, yalla yeitie
Gie's a cheery cheep
I'm scunnert o thon hoodie craa
Skreichin ower its neep


Gowdfinch an Fledglin
Fa inventit fledglins?
Wint wint wint
Gimme gimme gimme

Ma peaceful days are tint
Ye wis sic a bonnie eggie
Bidin in yer shell
Since the day that ye brukk oot
Yer mither's life's bin hell


Mavis
Mavis singin ower the sheuch
Sic a braw rigoot!
Wi yer tailie an yer westcoat
In yer Sabbath suit
Mavis singin ower the sheuch
Sweetness in the lug
Warblin sic a tunefu air
Fair gies the hairt a rug


Widpecker
Dunt dunt chap chap
Is there a jyner near?
Na it's a Mr Widpecker
Heid bangin timmer here
See his heid gaun back an fore
Twenty miles an oor
Dunt dunt chap chap
A soun, a hole, some stoor


Three wee spurgies
Three wee spurgies
Ragin, fit tae fecht
Ower faa ains the fence post
An wi't the reestin richt

Stappit fu o spunk an virr
Like lions in a fecht
Dinna misfit spurgies
They punch abeen their wecht!


Sparra-hawk
Sparra-hawk yer neb's a heuk
Sherp, for pykin een
Yer cleuks are lang an pyntit
For grippin fur an bane

Sparra-hawk I'm fond o maet
A chukken pipin hett
Sae I canna preach at ye
For ettin fit I ett


Lang-Tailed Tit
Lang tailed tit
Dis the rain dreep doon
Like a burn ower a drainpipe
Fit tae droon?

Raindrops skytin like a bairnie's shute
Langtailed tit yer a watter spoot


Pheasant
Get an eefu o me- Am I braw?
I'm the bonniest birdie o aa
In the wids I stravaig
Wi ma green sheeny craig
An ma tail like a wag at the waa


Bullfinch
Bullfinch cockin in the haws
Snappin up a berry
Pink an blaik an parson grey
Unca blythe an merry
Bullfinch cockin in the haws
Are yer taes nae jeelin?
Gin I takk aff ma hummel doddies
Fingers lose their feelin


Snuffy Ivy: tune: Good King Wenceslas
Snuffy Ivy, weel kent hoor
Chairged the cheils a shillin
TB, fits, a cleft palette
Teethless, frail bit willin

Chorus

Prozzies here in Aiberdeen
Aa comers are walcome
Staunin up or lyin doon
Front door or up rectum

Chorus

Snuffy she preferred tae birzz
Ootside wi each laddie
Blythe an chaip an kind wis she
Smellin like a haddie

Chorus

Big Bertha wis saxty plus
Her hair wis lang an curly
Her briests hung doon tae her wyme
Face like a rotten tattie

Chorus

In East North Street ilkie day
Staunin near the chippers
Chairged a shillin, Bertha did
Fleggin aa the nippers
Chorus

The Battle Aixe wis upmairket
Chairged her gents five shillin
At a demolition site
Her services wir thrillin

Chorus
Stray cats skreiched aroon her tricks
Mooth like a torn clootie
Dyed hair, mirled skin, bit neat
Tho she wis nae beauty

Chorus

Cove Mary and Cinnamon Hole
As weel as Biscuit Facie
Leddies o the nicht weel kent
Faist an chaip an racie

Chorus


Roadkill
There was a wee quinie called Jill
Who never used the traffic drill
A car squashed her flat,
From her shoes to her hat
Now poor Jill has been turned to roadkill


Francis Percy Toplis
Toplis fled tae Scotlan hidin in a sheilin
Lit a fire tae keep him warm
The weather, cauld an jeelin
Local fowk they spotted rikk
Ran there in a gang
Flushed him oot an cornered him
Bang bang bang!



Daith o a Fairm: Hillheid o Carnie, Skene
Fairmin's a young cheil's game
Age pit the stiffness inno ma uncle's jynts

Bairnlesss, his heirs war the doos in the beech wid
The spurgies in the sheuch
The skreichin craaas on the dyke
The teemed steadins, intimmers rouped awa

Sae mony years the violets in the girse
Witnessed the kye as they trauchled up the brae
Knapdories o sharn like wechts o a pendulum
Sweengin on the tails as they skelped aff flees

Sae mony days o ma bairnhood
Biggin dens frae the win-cracked boughs in the wid
Dowpit doon at the side o the corn
Enthralled bi the stooks like wigwams ower the rigs

Sae mony days in the byre wi the new born calfies
Their muckle weety een, strang, sookin moos
Ruggin ma fingers like teats, slivverin an forcey

Foxgloves, harebells, thyme, aa stude as mourners
The meen owerluiked the daith o the gowden years
I wis offered the cup, like Judas, tae share the bounty
Nae fit tae sup it, a fairm takks ower yer soul

An sae the byre an steadins hoose commutors
Like cuckoos in the nest o the parks, the wids
The meen hings like a scythe abeen ma heid


Sclimmin Craigcoileich
I ken this sclimm up the knowe like the back o ma haun.
Aneth, the clachan o Ballater lies at ma feet
Like drappit lego

This sanny pathie up scree is weel tramped doon
Rutted's a plooed rig.
Heather fringed and shadit bi ferms an stanes

I ken this road bi taste, bi blaeberries.
Burstin swete an sappy ontae ma tongue
Blaikenin ma moo

Naebody kens I'm here
I'm five year auld,
I'm a giant, I'm Bonnie Prince Charlie
An adder sliders intae a sun-baked crack

The taes o ma sandals are scuffed,
Ma knees are scrattit
I am an erne, ma een flee ower the Dee
I am an erne: I flee ower Lochnagar
I am an erne: I flee ower the Coyles o Muick

I ken that the storm sleeps here
That last night rived the heivens near in twa
Thunnerin an flingin its lichtenin bolts aboot


Ode On The Death Of Her Husband, King Francis II -
Poem by Mary Stuart: Owersett intae Scots
In ma sad, an quaet sang,
A waefu, dowie air,
I shall luik deep an lang
At loss ayont compare,
An sae wi wersh, wersh tears,
I'll spen the lave o years.

Has the coorse weird ere noo
Let sic a wae be felt,
An has a sairer cloor
Bin bi Dame Fortune dealt
Than, O ma hairt an sicht!
Upon his bier alicht?

In my Beltane blytheness
An flooer o ma young hairt,
I feel the deepest sadness
O the maist mortal hurt.
Naethin can ma hairt fire
Bit regret an desire.

He fa wis ma dearie
Already is ma plicht
The day that shone sae clearly
Fur me is derkest nicht
There's naethin noo sae fine
That I need makk it mine.

Deep in my een an hairt
A portrait has its place
Thatshaws the warld ma hurt
In the fiteness o ma face.
Pale as fin violets crine
True luve will niver dwine.

In ma unwinted pain
I can nae mair be still,
I rise time an again
Tae hish awa ma ill.
Aa things gweed an bad
Hae tint the taste they had.

An sae I aywis bide
Whether in lea or wid,
Whether at dawn o day
Or gloamin, derk an hid
Ma hairt feels ceaselessly
Wae that he's tint tae me.

Whyles in sic a place
His pictur cams tae me.
Swete smile upon his moo
Up in the lift I see.
An syne in this mineer
I see his beerial bier.

Fin I lie quaetly
Sleepin upon ma couch,
I hear him spikk tae me
An I can feel his touch.
In ma darg, sic a trial
He's near me aa the whyle

Nothing seems fine tae me
Unless his makk I spy
My hairt winna agree
Unless he is inbye.
I lack aa perfeck days
Caused bi sic cruel waes

I shall stop ma sang noo,
My sad lament'll eyn.
Thon burden yet'll shaw
True luve canna pretend
An, tho we are apairt,
He still bides in ma hairt.


A Scots Owersett o If You Forget MeBy Pablo Neruda
I wint ye tae ken
ae ferlie.
Ye ken foo this is:
gin I luik
at the crystal meen, at the reid branch
o the slaw autumn at ma windae,
gin I touch
near the lowe
the crummly aisse
or the wrunkled body o the log,
aathin takks me tae ye,
as gin aathin that exists,
guffs, licht, metals,
wir wee boaties
that sail
tae thon isles o yers that wyte fur me.

Weel, noo,
gin bittie by bittie ye stop luein me
I shall stop luein ye bittie bi bittie.

gin o a suddenty
ye forget me
dinna luik fur me,
fur I'll already hae forgotten ye.

gin ye think it lang an gyte,
the win o banners
that passes ben ma life,
an ye decide
tae leave me at the shore
o the hairt far I hae reets,
mynd
that on thon day,
at thon oor,
I'll lift ma airms
an ma reets'll set aff
tae sikk anither lan.

Bit
gin ilkie day,
ilkie oor,
ye feel that yer weird is me
wi aybydan sweteness,
gin ilkie day a flooer
climms up tae yer moo tae sikk me,
ochone ma jo, ochone ma ain,
in me aa thon lowe is repeated,
in me naethin is smored or tint,
ma luve feeds on yer luve, ma dearie,
an as lang as ye live it'll be in yer airms
wioot leavin mine.


Shelleycoats
Shellycoats, Shelleycoats, oot o the sea
The guff o deid haddies it wauchts aff o ye
Yer jaiket's o barnacles, breeks are o buckies
Yer bunnet's a labster, yer bluid is dulse bree

Shellycoats, Shelleycoats, oot o the tide
Yer een are twa pearlins frae a cauld clam's inside
Yer skin's bin strippt aff frae a drooned sailor's back
Yer wyme is a jeelyfish, ugsome yer hide

Shellycoats, Shelleycoats, oot o the bay
Fyauchy an scunnerin, orra ferlie
Splyter back hame tae the foun o the deep
Far the meen's niver seen, nor the licht o the day