Hamedrauchtit (42 Scots Poems) Poem by Sheena Blackhall

1.Hame- Drauchtit

There's waur-aff fowk;
I've a hoose, an a rikkin lum,
I've meat in ma wame,
An a puckle o years tae come;
Bit lang's the unquate nicht
Fin the clash o the day is deen.
An oh, it's a sair-made dyke, T
hat beeries a rollin stane.

Hame is a settin compass, pintin west,
Nae curlew sattles weel in a spurgie's nest,
Nae rodden blooms in the airm o the larick tree,
An tribble's a passin cloud, in ma ain countrie.

Infauldin, furlin Dee,
Far the hairse grouse cries an cries
An the roads are sure an sma,
The winter wave is a cailleach
Shakkin a shawl o snaw,
Fir feather fleece;
Are the neebours the hillmen ken
Wi scarce a steadin ava, i' the gap o a Ben
An the stag is forkit lichtenin,
King o the misty glen.

Gin the girse grows thick,
The heather winna thrive.
In a drouthy ditch
There's niver the troot alive.
Foriver an ay it's the same auld, hauntin rug,
The yammerin Norlan geese, in a Heilan lug.

Ye may tell me the girse is sweet —
I say it's druchtit!
My airt's far the hills rin weet —
Hame-drawn, hame-drauchtit


2.Glen Muick i' the Mither Tongue

The skies drift doon — a dreepin blur
That maks o Ben an brae a shroud.
As if grown weary o the lan,
The mountain coories i' the cloud

An naething steers within this warld
0 stormy lift, an troubled tarn,
Bit drooned reflection o the hills
As lang as Time, as bricht as starn.

In ilkie crag's a favoured face,
In ilkie burn's a frien,
An as the days we've bin apairt
Are as they'd niver been.


3.Lochnagar in Autumn

D'ye see yon lowrin Ben
Broon as the brackened grun,
Lordin the hale o the glen,
Darklin oot the sun?

Its burns come whummlin doon,
Croonin their ain lament,
Wheeplin their wee bit tune
Wi the gowd o the gloamin in't.

Gaither its scent tae yer hairt,
Man, fur yer oor is short:
A wearisome road is thine,
Wi little tae show for't.


4.Allt Darrarie...Burn of the Stunning Noise, Glen Muick

Slaverin, slubberin, gibberin, gabberin,
Roon wi a wallop, a sklyter, a sweel,
Yonder's the burn, in its bairnhood, it's blabberin
Heich-lowpin puddock, wi virr in its heel!
Bellied an dauchlin, it's tashed an it's trauchlin,
Beached in a bog, like a Biblical whale;
Hashin an dashin, it's up an it's clashin,
Skelpit an skytin, like chaff frae the flail.
Come the fey nicht, fin the gloamin is glysterie,
Lang as a note on a tenuous string;
Black as a swan o immaculate mystery.
Doon rowes the burn, on a sang an a wing.
Dulcet as Chopin, Menuhin, Beethoven,
Jinkie's Stravinsky, as breengin as Bach.
Syne, wid I bide b' it, thirled an tied tae it,
Drink o its music a strang willie-waucht!


5.Allt an-t-Sneachda...The Snowy Burn, Glen Muick

Cauld as the cawin o a craw,
Deid-thraa o Sorra...Winter's loun
Lays on its broo, the skirps o snaw,
Black widow-weeds, its goun.

In Spring, it's lowpin like a bawd,
Giddy an gypit; deil-may-care;
As faint an fickle as a jaad,
The ice bree in its hair.

A peesie in the Simmer sun,
It's rinnin feart, a brukken wing,
Sma boukit, coorin near the grun,
The licht amang the ling.

In Autumn, it's a lanely tune,
The gangrel, wi the cripple fit.
Its sang, an ay-returnin croon,
An as my thocht taen up wi it.

*(There is a Gaelic lullaby entitled 'Dream Angus', where
carrier is represented as an old cripple man of the moors.)


6.The Salmon

Oh tae be a salmon, comin skelpin doon the Dee!
Simmer scalin ower ma tail,
Lowpin through the linns,
Wummlin ower the rapids, i' the cauld, snaw bree,
An jinkin as the fishers wi ma fins.

I widna dauchle b' the banks,
Hob-nobbin wi the glegs,
Or coorie i' the puils abeen Braemar
I'd come breengin up oot-ower the whins
Like forty thoosan flegs;
Jist a skeely, skyty limmer,
Wi the shimmer o a star!

Syne, I'd turn aroon an up again
(I canna bide awa frae the bonnie wafter
Birlin neth ma wame)

A salmon in its element, the heather an the faem,
A contermashious salmon winnin hame.


7.River Images

There's eloquence in watter,
The swack-tongued element... A gushin Babylon,
Screivin lang langamachies in puils

There's danger in keekin.
Frae a heich altar
The water thunners doon a sermon.
Bubbles are spectacled bodies, Librarians.likely,
Thoombin a livin buik.

Naethin' hauds the waves, Nae tether nur crook;
Wild horses, brakkin the halter.
A greetin knight lies ferfochen
On the burn's fleer,
Droonin an auld disgrace.
His shield's his bier:
See it shine, grey on broon!
There's a bronze necklet happen his face;
An eel bindin his croon.


8.Dee Journey

A caller skelp o stane an storm,
Braeriach's sides are tempest-torn;
An in yon weety, derksome wame,
Whaur win is ice an sun's a flame,
The birlin Dee is born.

A sna-brig haps her growin tide, -
Till, breengin up wi kittled pride,
She's heelstergowdie ower a crag!
A frichtsome drap — this wafter-hag
Cowps doon a corrie's bride.

Three lochs, disjaskit, dreich as dule,
She lies neth blearie Cairn Toul,
Till, necklet o the Norlan bree
She's glintin ower the Chest o Dee
A jimp an jibblin jewel.

Syne reemin on intil the linn,
Whaur warrior crags rise sterk abune,
An at their foun, an in aneth
Wi feint the whisper o a braith
0 win, aa's dreepin, deep as daith,
As seenister as sin.

Ayont the gallows tree o Mar
She's lowsed an liltin fur Braemar
An ilkie burn, on ilkie Ben,
Will jink its cloudy, Heilan den
Tae jine her near an far.

Wi widded hills at ilkie gait
An salmon slidderin doon the spate,
She wallops neth a winsome brig,
Her waves, wud meers afore a gig,
Lowp up in touslie fete.

Atap her faem the kelpies ride,
The deer an eaglet rin astride
Till, pitten on a hamely goun,
She weary-wins a muckle toun
An, fair ferfochen, sattles doon
Tae coost her braws aside.


9.Monaltrie's Men
[for Captain A.A.C. Farquharson, Invercauld

As I cam doon the Pinkie Brae
An ben the rodden den,
I thocht I heard the trampin
0' Monaltrie's Heilanmen...

'Twis jist the rattle o the breem,
The reeshle o the whin,
Yet I'd sweir I felt their passin,
In the pairtin o the win.

A yalla yeitie bobbit oot
An wheeplit ower the lan,
The Crags o Darroch whispered,
'Tis the bonnie Baron Ban! '

The snaw lay safe on Beinn a Bhuird
Fin he cried oot the clan,
Bit fa wid spurn the fife cockade
An caa himsel a man?

Ballochbuie, Lui, Dui,
B' the Gallows tree o Mar,
Men o Gairn, an Muick, an Tullich,
Aa the wylins o Cromar,
Laid by the coulter an the crook,
An took the road tae war.

Then 'twis brogue.on bracken at the guns,
The bravest bore the cross,
Oh cry aloud the/coronach,
For bitter wis wir loss!
The flooer o Monaltrie's men
Lie beddit in the moss.

An helpless wis the hameless faun
That felt the frost o fear;
An reekin cruel, the bluidy haun
That slew the rinnin deer.

The Shiels are teem ower Shenval,
The braes are bare on Glack,
A yalla yeitie piped them oot —
A corbie played them back.


10.Tomnaverie
[for Dr. Cuthbert Graham]

Heich upon muirlan girse they lie,
A linkit chine o fitenin stanes
Aybydan neth a shiftin sky;
Weird as a boorichie o banes.

The bluebells ring the girssy puil,
The nichts a-dirl wi whaup an gull
Lair'd on the seely braes o Coull,
The castle waa — a sichtless skull —
Stauns open, nyaakit, tae the whin,
The clash o day draps till a lull,
The yalla ragwirt tholes the win,
Rig-widdie Davan's dreich an dull.

Whaur sunlicht slips ahin the east
Stauns Morven, lichtit like a lowe,
Ower gentle Gellan, munelicht's reist,
The chill o gloamin cweels the howe.

I've seen the mist, unhaily wraith,
Ging jinkin Tomnaverie roon,
Fleerichan, eildrich ower the heath,
A will o wicked frae the tomb.

Whaun hoodies howl an hoolets mane,
Let them step blythely there wha may,
I'd leave yon sleepers weel alane —
Unyirdly fowk o yesterday.



11.Beaker Scot

I live,
Anely as pairt o this braid Ian,
This knottit neive o cliff an furlin gull
Staunin atween the neep parks an the sea.

I luik,
Anely as pairt o the raven lift,
Gadhelic widden-dreme,
0 a tummelt starn,
Washed in on a snell, cauld ocean,
Fashed wi fish, a plethora o storm.

I am becam
A beaker o monie ferlies.
Born as teem's the grave,
I hae grown tae a wummin's skin,
A cave o images,
A chalice o dark bog.

Ingaitherer o stane an the aybydan win;
I am thirled tae the North.

I wad be
Gleg as a gad.
I wad streetch me, simmer-swift,
As a rinnin deer
Fetchin a scoop o wirds,
Fillin wi praise,
The fairm-howes lyin near
Close us a pulse.

Sae, tae that en, I wad bend
My hunter's wing frae the lanely corrie,
Hover abeen the yird, the cloud, the faem —
The mirl o the yet-tae-cam
An the aa-that's-gaen...
Bedded wi'in ma grain
Is the teuchit's wheep,
The hoodie's eerie mane,
An in ma bluid,
The green, primordial dulse.


12.War Time.1914-1918
[For Private William Middleton, Gellan, Coull]

I'm telt ye threw yer watch
Ootower the kirk. The hinmaist
Thing ye did on the wye tae war.
Prood o yon time-piece,
Feart it wad be bladdit.

Did it stop fin it struck the grun?
Yer first watch, Willie, an yer last;
Flung frae ye like yer bairnhood,
In the drapt fit o the mairch past.

Fairm-sodjer-bairn,
In the ower-big uniform
(Onythin' dis tae dee in)
Someither-body merriet yer quine,
As the war tae en' as wars
Gaed mairchin ooto mine,
Wi nae hugger-muggery;
The loon fa tint his watch,
Wis blawn tae buggery.


13.Peat Gaitherin, Birse

Hill-girt; the storm's stramash:
A hoolet's myowt. The skelp o rain
Dancin a hoolichan on the fairm pane.

Kerfuffled bed claes, bairns whisperin:
'Gin the morn's fine, we gaither peat.'
Tongues quate, een steeked,
Twa corbies drappin intil sleep.

Sheets wallop on the line;
The yalla cream
Sweels ower parridge bowls
0 yoamin steam.
The kitchie birrs wi steer,
I shak a blearie heid,
A latchy fit, jeels on the lino fleer.

Amber hinney's clapped on buttered breid,
Bowf-bowfin rins the tyke,
A hotterin tractor dauchles b' the dyke
Set fur a track as auld's the hills o Birse
Far hardy heather connachs dweeble girse.

A weel stocked library,
The peats are haundit doon,
Sun-biggit histories
0 tangy, leather'd, broon
Commas o heather reet on ilkie page,
A grummlin grouse gaes gallivantin roon
Pluffin his wings wi rage.

Threidbare in patches,
The braidclaith o the hill.
We cairry, cairt, an stack,
Liftin the warmth in swatches
Frae her back.

Hyne an awa the slender lum-rik risin,
The fairm-fire waitin on the reid horizon.


Twa Views o Glen Gairn

14.The Licht o Love

'A fleerich o moosies' backs are the knowes o Mar,
Fleein the raven's wing o Lochnagar.'

'Oh, bit yer wrang; it's the airm o the muckle Ben,
The shepherd o hind an hare, takkin care o its ain.'

'The mist faas grey, on the hingin heid o Gairn,
The win's as wae as the greet o a grievin bairn.'

'Yon's bit the croon that the gloamin gies the nicht;
A gangrel, cooryin doon, wi'ts plaid grippit ticht.'

'The aik, wi its torn nails, wad teir the lift...
Feart am I i' the wid an I fain wad shift.'

'Bide still! Bide still!
It's nocht bit the antlered stag, wha means nae ill.'

'At ilkie turn there's derk an the chunnerin cauld;
A hoodie's hump is the burn, an the birk hings bauld...'

'Oh, bit the drift is the breist o a snaw-fite dove,
Fur aathing's braw fin it's seen wi the licht o love.'


15.Glen Gairn from Gairnshiel

A bummer, pollen-pugglit wi delicht,
I winged amang the heather o Glen Gairn:
A life ago, fin as the warld wis new,
Sae short a flicht, the dauchlin o a bairn!

The posie held a sting; I didna ken,
For wint o its perfume, that I wad dwine.
I plundered as the hinney frae its hairt;
Lang-pairtit noo, Glen Gairn plunders mine.


16.Ower Blate

The gangrel kittlin's feart tae raxx an purr
In perfect warmth afore the forkit flame
An sae bides ootlinned-neuked, bedraiggled fur,
Nur winna steer the reid hearth-heat tae claim.

The table's laden — yet I daurna dine.
I am the tod wha's niver tasted bluid;
He is the breid o plenty, winted wine.
Tho I be famishin, I mauna feed.

Oh gin he war a lintie, I the cloud,
I wad enfold him an nae think it sin!
War he a stane I'd brook him lang an loud,
Braver nur ony linn.

Gin he war bracken I wad be the snake,
His ilkie road my glimmerin coils wad gang.
For, as the meen is nocht wi'oot the nicht,
There's nae the woman born bit covets man.

I keep my wheesht, a tongue o jyled pearl
Snibbed in a shell, far frae the licht o day.
A frostit snawdrop, teetin ower the warld,
A Norlan' Spring that Winter's keepit blae.

Nae hinney in my hairt — a herriet byke
I wish I hadna felt, nur thocht, nur seen.
I wish the corbies, crawin ben the dyke
Hid pyked his verra image frae ma een!

I am a silent sang wha's tint its tune;
I am the burn that whummles derk an quate;
I am the bud that niver braks in bloom,
An ay the skirlin curlew mocks, `Ower blate.'


17.The Slichtit Lassie's Sang

Hard an sudden, as the huntsman's shot
Sinks i' the saftness o the snawy dove,
Deep as the dirk on its derk business quests,
I' the gralloch o the stag,
Sae wad I loue ye, love.

I'd mak my skin as firm's a coral bed
Whaur on fite flesh ye'd slip like ony eel,
I'd be the sea anemone, wha's poised
Tae clook, an claw, an steal
The smaaest pleisur, frae the gangrel faem.
Till Lang an slow the shuddrin tide draws back
A sated eagle, glutted o her prey,
Syne wad my talons slack.

I'd be the yird, an ye wad be the tree,
Sae straucht an siccar, raxxin fur the lift.
The cloud may haud the leaf — an I'd agree
Tae grip the reet, sae ticht ye'd niver shift.

Gin thochts be lochan's waves, it's hairmless thinkin
The watter seeks the san, an haps it roon.
The fish may loup the linn, as swack as jinkin,
An niver droon.

Bit ay I wauken, like a hungry ghaist
Wha's traivelled ower a brae o barren stane,
Kent anely consummation o the mist,
Swickit o warmth, ma bonnie lover gaen.


18.Destiny

My bairns walk blythely on the open muir —
Their path is straucht an sunny. Mine is blae.
They min rejoicin; I maun hirple, sweir,
I fear the howes o derksome Destiny.

She sits an spins the thrums an threids o life —
I saw her likeness aince — the bairns saw nocht.
I saw her twice — a drumly carlin wife.
I spukk wi Fate — a fykey favour socht.

'The heichest hope I haud, I'll pledge tae thee
This beatin hairt, an ilkie thocht sae sweet
If ye, in yer omnipotence, wid 'gree
Tae guard an guide my littlins' gangrel feet.'

Her pleated hair hung lang, a hingin noose,
Her heid, turned slowly roon, wis faceless, boss:
'Fit guid's yer hope tae me? I'm sittin crouse,
Yer puny dwaums are anely eeseless dross,
Yer sweetest thocht is soored, an tribble-torn,
Wi aisse I smored yon beatin hairt langsyne.
I mak or mar ilk mortal thing that's born —
Ye gomeril — ye canna pledge fit's mine! '


19.Spring in Cromar
Spring in Cromar is an open yett,
Wi the heich rigs turned an black,
Whaur the creepie-crawlie tractor climms
Frae the ploo-cuts at its back.

The meltin muir is rinnin weet,
A hare in an ermine coat,
An Lochnagar, thro' the pearlin sleet,
Is the glimsk o a winter stoat.

The puddock's eggs are preen-prick-sma
An deid-wid-dry's the breem,
Whaur the corbies craw b' the peat-reet-wa,
Is the Tod wi the sleekit een.

The kinnel't whin is a coorse carlin
Wi her lang hair flamin reid,
An the racin rick, that's furlin thick,
Is the mane o her elfin steed.

Spring in Cromar — snaw, sun, an rain,
It's the sweet in the wid-wasp's byke,
For there's aye a sting in a Nor' East Spring,
Wild cat, wi its teeth bared fite!


20.Year's End

The bonnie birds are winged an gaen,
Yowes hug the dykes like driven sna:
The anely cry that rings the rigs,
The brukken caa'in o the craw.

An cauldly cruel's the win that cuts
The birks sae barely dreepin.
Its wail's as waesome as a wake,
As if the Ian itsel wis greetin.
A door on creakin hinges set,
The auld an New Year's meetin.

Syne simmer days an simmer thochts
Are deid leaves blawn an dwined,
As Life an Daith, thimsels they mirl,
Foriver intertwined.
Future's unkent; the Past is past;
Bit sairly present till the mind.

Like Birth itsel we canna tell
If hairst will follow breirin,
The winter smore that furls the door
Is fite as hope, as dark as leavin.
The young fowk blythely forrit step,
The auld anes, latchy, grievin.

21.Last Step, by Tullich, overlooking the Coyles

There's nae a finer sicht in the warld:
Than the last step nearest hame.
There's nae a burn, bit I ken its turn
An its roarin road's my ain.

Quate they lie neth the shiftin sky,
Yon hills i' the smirry rain,
Like a lad cast aff — wi the last, lang lauch,
Ye've thocht on jist the same.

They'll greet ye ay, in a mither's wye,
Like a prodigal bairn she's tint,
For ilkie stane cries sair as pain:
'Did niver ye feel wir wint? '

An yon's the Ben that the Dee-fowk ken,
The star on the evenin's croon,
A Lord o War, it's Lochnagar, Wha dings as ithers doon!

Oh wait, wait, wait, fur I'm comin yet —
An fain wid I rest ma ee,
Far the watters cowp, like a salmon's lowp,
In the breist o the birlin Dee.

There's nae a finer sicht in the warld,
Far anely the sib may sit,
Than the last step hame
An the place yer ain,
The balm fur a weary fit!


22.The Bonnie Banks o Dee

Tho Springtime gars the sna-bree rin
An sweet's the day, wi blossom bricht,
Oh yatterin peesie haud yer wheesht,
For as tae me is constant nicht.

Tho simmer turn the barley broon,
The sonsie heids I canna see,
For, thinkin on the braes o hame,
The brimmin tearlicht blins the ee.

Oh Autumn, hap yer winsome face,
An dinna shine yer favours here,
Till my fit's firm upon the heath,
Aa's waesome, dreich an drear.

The Shiftin Seasons are as ain,
Cauld Winter iver follows me,
Fur Simmer is the ae dear place,
The bonnie banks o Dee.


23.The Back o Beyond, Linn o Quoich

Fit div ye dae at the Back o Beyond?
'Twid tak me a year tae tell!
As weel coont gowd in a goblin's crock
Or steek the sea-in a shell.

Ye may lizard-lie on a lazy rock,
A sprig o an Alan Breck,
Cockin a snoot at the frichtit grouse,
That cries: 'Go beck, go beck! '

Columbus-lan', it's a manless map
Wi crannies he'd niver ken,
Fur Clunie's cave is the buzzard's nest,
Rob Roy's in the fox's den.

In Crusoe creek ye may trap the troot,
As swippert's a broon Mohican,
Dook at dawn far the muir-moth dips,
A dusky-skinned Tahitan:
Rule the heath as a cateran chief,
Far the trackless stag's a fleetin.

The tap-sail o a rodden branch,
A craw's-nest bird on the keek,
Ye're spyin the Norsemen, horned and fierce,
A flock o the black-faced sheep.

Fit div ye dae at the Back o Beyond
Far nocht bit the salmon go?
Fit div ye dae at the Back o Beyond?
Fit div ye nae dae, though!


24.Ballater Bairnhood

Rage they did till their tongues were lair -
Faith — nettle's a gey short sting.
A skelpit dowp an a grumphin glower,
Ne'er clippit a lintie's wing.

I niver cared, dell nur docken,
They micht grummel, an curse, an bann,
Fur I'd jeloused far the kelpie hides,
Far the peesie wheeps, an the bandie bides,
An the silken birk in the gloamin glides,
An the rabbit roadies gang.

For ilkie teir on a torn frock
Wis a tree I'd shinned alang...
'Twis a stand o velvet trumpeters,
The foxgloves played me a sang.
Them an a choir o bluebells
That keepit me oot sae lang.

An aabody kens that the reidest rasps
Are clasped in the sherpest thorn,
Far the daddylanglegs cried me in —
His wyte that ma claes wis torn.

The pirled hose, an the scrattit legs?
'Twis heather that caad them dane,
'Twis birk an win' on a body's skin
(For aabody kens that a bairn maun climm)
That bladdit ma Sabbath sheen.

I'd try the patience o Job, says you,
Yer wishin I'd niver bin born...
I'll catch ye a salmon —wait an see
The bosker o beezers lowpin the Dee,
Jist dicht the froun far the smile sud be,
I'll be aabody's frien the morn!


25.Watter

Raither than rainin cats an dugs,
Whit if it rained doon fowk insteid?
Dreichdoms o dominies;
Lochans o artists;
Puddles o Civil Servants
Pitterin ower yer held?
A muckle, great, clorty sea;
O fractious, bestial, battlin,
Scunnerin, dreepin humanity?

Wid it gar ye grue,
If dribblin doon yer flue
Wis a clash o cooncillors,
Argyin as nicht through?

Wid ye bile yer tea
Wi a gang o swytin roaders
Haived in the bree?

Nae John the Baptist's heid on a platter—
The hale jing-bang o human matter,
Nyitter-nyatterin...claik an clatter,
Ye'd learn tae appreciate
Guid clean wafter!


26.The Poacher

The meen wis a scythe new-sherpened,
The burn wis a feerin black;
The poacher socht him a harvest,
Whaur the rinnin waves lie slack.

The meen played tig wi the gloamin,
Ben hidey-holes o pine,
Whaur currents gleam, in a coil o cream,
Coy as a coortit quine.

There, where the waves are mirkest,
The burn is a kelpie's curse;
The puil is a Baron robber,
Salmon wechtin his purse.
The poacher cast the snigger
Tae the foun o the kelpie's den,
Sliddery, sliddery, ower the bank,
Haulin the harvest hame.

Wist the meen that gart him turn?
She wis blae as a beggared bride,
Half ower, like a salmon lowpin,
Wi a hook in her tilted side...
Turn, an hyter, an tummel,
Tummel an fa, an drap,
Wi nane tae hinner or help him,
Whaur the hungry wafters lap

Oh watter's a slokin pleisur,
The half o a trystin kiss
Wi the hale o a wummin's venom,
Gin ye haunle it amiss.

Fowk cried his name b' the corrie,
The corrie cried it back,
An the lang-airmed weepin willow,
Loot doon her airms an grat.

Bit the watter reeshled rarely,
Anointin his sichtless een;
Pleased wi its new-won ferlie,
A prize fur the salmon queen.



27.Haundit Doon

Granfaither. Neat-caimbed mowser.
Fair the swell In yer Masonic apron. I've bin telt,
Fin ye gaed on the spree,
The anely thing left staunin wis the shelt.

Aa weemin saften till a handsome body,
Menfowk respeck a skeely judge o cuddy.
Ye'd a big funeral — weel attended.

I didna ken ye? Tcyauch! I ken ye weel.
Yer nae as deid's they think. Real
Short o pech, bit ay the braith tae blether
Wi a cronie...sae the stories ging.
Ay likit a lang tether
An man, bit ye cud sing!

Fate, like a quine, wis quanter,
Swallin the pibroch,
Grippt the win i the chanter,
Blessed ye wi bairns — Nae twa-three, bit a dizzen.
Ye took it kindly, Ane fur ilkie sizzen,
Sae Fate withheld yer health
An gin ye hinna that, Then fit price wealth?

Ye've a guid view o the cricket, an the Games,
Doon far yer lyin noo.
I'll sweir it warms yer banes
Tae hear the tinks, up till the same high jinks —
Fair's fair — they niver gaed ye tribble,
Grazed their horse on yer girse,
Yer braid neive kept them civil.

Twa-three generations on
(Lang rin the reets o bluid)
Fin tint o braith, I aften bann yer name,
Syne stop. I've bairns o my ain
Ane's scarce o pech hersel. Ae day
She'll winner...wist my wyte?
Fa did ye blame?


28.Abyne Games

Noo — nae anither hurl on yon,
I'm tellin ye — ca-cannie,
Ye'd think the siller grew on trees!
Oh — there's thon affa mannie;
It's 'Ye'll dae this, ' an 'Yell dae yon':
(He's jist a perfeck scunner,
A sax month on the commattee
It seems mair like a hunner!)

Fa's thon, that's drapt the caber noo?
Yon drochle o a chiel?
He's nae frae hereaboots ye say...
By God, it's jist as weel!

Mebbe McFadden's gaun aboot —
I mine on him, langsyne,
As weel set up a brosie lad
As iver graced Abyne.
It's watter doon the burn, that aince,
His name wis linked wi mine.

Yons niver him!
Oh, damn the bit!
His bunnet's aa skweejee...
His sgian-dubh is aa askew,
An loshty, sae is he!
Aathing considered,
Lord be thanked,
He didna mairry me.


Twa Chiels

29.Chae

Tam luiked at Chae, an saw a gype...
Bit Jock said, 'Na — he's shy,
He's eeseless, harmless, scuttery,
Bit och, it's jist his wye.'

Jean luiked at Chae, an thocht him dreich,
Nae tuned fur love's sonatas,
Bit Janet, wi a soundin hairt,
Thocht Chae the cat's pyjamas!

His mither, wi a mither's ee,
Thocht Chae her pride an glory.
(I've heard it said the meenister
Wid tell anither story...)

Bit Chae's jist Chae, ye read the buik
An niver heed the bindin:
An fit's the soup wi'oot the spice?
I tak fowk as I find them!


30.The Self-Made Man

Sklaik held that he'd a ferret's sense,
Fur bargains at a roup;
He'd lined his nest at fowk's expense,
A creel that wadna cowp.

Auld-farrant, eident, thrifty, smairt,
He'd then the horseman's wird,
He'd kittled deems as easy
As he'd coortit gowd frae yird.

A self-made man, he laced the buits
That nane war fit tae tie,
Fur ay there's mair tae winnin on
Than rainbows i' the sky.

Breeks waurna bettered, wis his spik,
B' sittin on their dowp.
He weel deserves the siller speen
Fa supped the sowen's stoup!


31.Auld Will

Half-seas-ower wis his hoose
Like a dreep on the drap,
A tummelt-doon dyke
Wi a lum at its tap.

There wis stew on the mantlepiece
Strae on the rug
An the lino wis near as moth-etten's the dug.

Its maister, auld Will, hid the face o a rat
His jaiket wis chattered — as mildew'd the mat —
Ye kent whaur ye stude, in the hairt o the man,
B' the size o yer glaiss, as he poored oot a dram.

If the biggin wis bauchelt, the dug it wis waur,
Cross-eed wi a coat that wis taiglit wi glaur
It fleched, an it boasted, an thumpit its tail,
Faith — there wisna wan teeth in its heid that wis hale!

There wis jist the ae thing drave the dug frae its seat,
The smaaest suspicion a bikk wis in heat.
It took efter its maister — auld Will, in his prime,
Gaed heels-ower tip at the thocht o a quine.
He'd beeriet twa wives — an it micht hae bin richt,
In his hay-day, he boasted, he ne'er missed a nicht!

Frae the time that their nuptials wis chimed on the steeple,
He'd keepit them happy's a blaik amang treacle.
Dug, maister, an hoose,
Cockin squar till the weather,
Three auld farrant cronies
Gaun doonhill thegither.


32.The Cuckoo Clock

Miss Hardie grippit inno a flooery peenie,
The stoor o her chalk gaun screichin in pluffs o virr,
Wi the chuffie-cheeks o a post-war Mussolini,
Kept 40 bairns in a state o perpetual birr.

A gran an michty thing is education;
It dings the uppity doon tae taste the dung,
Apocryphal whiff o ink an determination;
Miss Hardie gart ye listen, an haud yer tongue.

A cuckoo clock that bedd on the waa as simmer,
Her voice as tart's a rodden, as soor's a plum,
Her wird wis jobby — the stang o a big heid-bummer,
She beetled awa frae dawn tae Kingdom come.

The globe furls on — bit Miss Hardie's stoppit birlin:
The brukken cuckoo clock wis a lanely gowk
Fa kent ae note, an that note gruff an gurlin,
An niver learned tae open her hairt tae fowk.
David3001

A Dauner Ben Eden

33.The Tree o Life

Through sna an sun the spurgies cheep.
Hame-haudin birds their flicht is sma
An ay a cheery ootluik keep,
Their plain concerns a watergaw.

Wing heicher up the Tree o Life
The corbie, wi far-seein een,
Whas hams are honed — a kittle knife,
Craws on the derk side o the meen.

The spurgie's thochts are brisk an wee,
Wi as its tribe in unison:
The corbie, wi its bitter dree,
Micht haud sic thochts a benison.


34.The Creation

Gin God hid been a scientist
Whit wid ye be? Whit wid ye be?
A tippeny toot o a roosty can,
Sib tae the bomb, an the fryin pan,
Gin God hid been a scientist
Steerin the cosmic bree.

Bit yer bluid's a linn,
An yer moo's the dew.
Wi a heid whaur thochts,
Like the troots, sweem through.

Yer hairt's a loch, an yer soul's the starns,
Ye've grace, an symmetry, tapped wi harns.
Sae aren't ye gled, frae the verra start,
God, the Creator, wis guid at Art?


35.Kennin

Fin asked, fit is a yeitie?
Ane wid describe its class, t'ither, its mak
Its station in the hierarchy o birds,
Its dietary fads, an reproduction.

Nae me; a yalla yeitie's soun,
A simmer cheepin in the lug
That connachs wirds.

An fit's a larick wid?
A widsman widna dauchle in the tellin...
Timmer, rosit, an trunk, A quick faa, a keen aix,
A pun in the pooch, fur fellin.

Nae tae me — a wid's a hantle mair:
A green win — a reeshle i' the air,
A lane stag, bellin...

Sae gin ye'd speir,
Fit think I o this body, or anither,
I canna weel conceive an answer
B' the wirkins o the mind,
Een may deceive.
The hawk, sae spruce, refined,
Is bred tae reive
An sae is aften sit, tae humankind.
•
I ken fowk as the strummin o a harp,
They either strik accord or strik a sharp!


36.Heelstergowdie
[Suggested by 'The Third Day of Creation' the closed wings of The Garden of Earthly Delights triptych, by Hieronymus Bosch.]

On the heidy bield o the hill,
Sib tae the glaissy starns,
Catchin their shine in yer haun
(Thon brukken spars o Infinity)
Ye staun, fishin the lift
For the eident meen:
An ant, assumin a mantle o micht,
Lochans blink, cats' een In the windy derk,
An Icarus-thocht taks flicht;
The mineer o the warld
Seen frae the faddomless void,
O near-as-can-be's-Eternity
Is Lilliput, gawpin at Gulliver,
A giant braith
In a fug o littleness.
Whaur aa's uncertainty
An Time is a sang
In the throat o the corrie's yawnin.

Man, ye cud rowe hale knowes,
Like bools,
Ding the sun frae the clouds,
A stottin baa
In heelstergowdie Ian'.

Far, far, doon
Daith watches cannily.
I maun creep back,
Clay-fittit, intil the cauld yird.
In the swaith o the lad
Wi the hoary powe,
The sickle smile,
An the noiseless wird.


Alpha an Omega

37.Sang till the Unborn Bairn

Ye slippit aneth ma breist,
Murmerin thrum o life,
Soomin in secret wafter
Kittle an blythe.

I maun cairry an keep ye,
Bairn i' the bane,
Trimmlin sap i' the leaf,
Wecht i' the wame.

Ye are the lichtenin faa,
Stag-bolt deep i' the derk;
The lowe that ma laddie gaed me,
The reid man-sperk.
Ye are a lichtsome creel,
The pledge he canna brak,
A brierin seed i' the dreel,
He'll nae win back!


38.Daith's Frien

Daith lowsed the snib on a baillie's yett,
Stap-fu wi a rowth o gear;
It's easy kent, b' the braisse name-plate,
Adversity's ill-liked here.'

He'd puckles o calls tae mak yon day,
Bit damned, wid the baillie dee!
Did Daith nae ken he wis due at ten,
Fur gowf, wi the commattee?

'Ye'll dee as yer telt fur aince, ' quo Daith
Like a dentist pullin teeth.
At ilkie rug in his lang black lug
The baillie screiched oot 'Thief!

I've ten years owin me yet, ' he cried,
'I've friens at the verra tap! '
'An ye'll be needin them aa, ' quo Daith,
An swallaed him, neck an crap.

Daith dimmed the stair o a gangrel chiel
On neebourly terms wi wint,
Wha's life wis bare as a tinker's pooch
Wi the cauldrife win ahint. `

Yer welcome man, fur I've waited lang
This day, an the hale year roon.'
An Daith an the gangrel, linkin airms,
Gaed whusslin through the toun.


39.Dwaum
[Fur William Blake]

Whaun day's a closin curtain,
Sun's a slippin band o reid,
Ilkie flooer's a snibbit petal,
Ilkie bird's a happit heid,

Syne silence, in a stately goun,
Walks siller-grey on green,
An will o wisps are gaitherin,
The caunle-rikk o dream.

In sleep ye's walk a slender road,
Whaur aathing tint, an tyned,
May rise, the perfume o a rose,
The ferlies o the mind.

An ye's may see a belted knight,
A hawk upon his glove:
The darg o day's a corbie cruel
That dines foriver on the dove.

A road tae traivel at yer will,
A Jacob's laidder far an fey,
Whaur silken spirits cast aside
The cloots o puir mortality.

A bonnie road, an elfin road,
That rins frae gloam till dawn,
A watergaw across the nicht,
The gledsome lan o dwaum.


40.Phoenix

A misanthropic meenister. A black shag.
His pulpit-pouer bigged heich
On a Satanic crag.

I coored frae his goun that flapped,
Wide as the wings o Hell,
A pinioned, fledglin bairn.

Bumbazed, on penitent pews, His God-forsaken brood
War gart tae learn,
That Art's the Divil's lure,
That aathin blythe an bonnie wis impure:

He gaed us guilt fur praise.
His seenistry o sermons war drooned spires,
That wid impale me yet, infernal ministry!
A skeletal-clook o hatefu Lazarus,
Grave-guff, that's ill tae lay
Yon cruel, nerra creed.
Wersh baptism, whar ilkie fat misdeed
Wis indexed, coonted, wyed.

A pitiless faith,
I weir the scrats o't yet,
The hett scauld o its skaith.

The early fowk, wha luiked oot-ower this Ian,
Held aa the warld a mervel.
Livin seed, a blessin,
Loued the sun
An cast nae stane upon their brither man.
Gled, in their Celtic Avalon.

I flap ma wings, a latchy Phoenix,
Rise frae the aisse o kirk-inflicted Purgatory,
Graceless bit gratefu,
In a re-birth, sairly won,
Freed frae the caliboose;
The spectral girn o Calvin's charnel-hoose!


41.Phantasmagoria [for J.D.Gomersall]

The ghaistly dancers starred abeen
The crescent o the sickle meen,
Slide sounless roun a seamless cave,
Swingin their lanterns ower the lave.

Flickerin patterns on a waa,
Ilk solitary, birlin baa,
The Nocturne-spheres glide silently,
A Life-in-Daith periphery.

Thon chalk-faced pierrots, aybydan,
Maun furl the wheel they hae bin set;
Sae ilkie microcosmic man,
Sma star, does ape the heavens yet.

Betimes we meet, betimes we pairt,
Phantasmagoria o bluid;
Ilk individual mind an hairt,
Grows separately, as a reed
That makks a music o the air,
Narcissus-like, an ay maun fear
The sangless win, ascendent stair,
The void o unity draw near;
An winna ain the river's course,
Rins iver sweetest at its source.


42.From 'Le Roman Inacheve', Love which is not a word, by Louis Aragon [Freely reset in Scots]. Fur Rene Magritte.

Ye fan me, like a stane scrauned frae the shore,
Like a tint, fremmit ferlie, o unkent design,
Like dulse on a sextent, scaled frae the tide,
Like the haar at the windae; sikkin inbye
A day efter the circus, 'mang the filed soss o the fete,
A gangrel, wi nae ticket, on the railroad,
A burn on the grun, ootlinned b' aa,
A widlan craitur, catched in the car's heidlichts,
Like a nicht watchie, traivellin hame in a blae foreneen,
Like a dwaum in the derk jyle-gloam,
Like a fleggit birdie, snibbit in a hoose,
Like the reid mark o a ring, on the finger o an affcast lover,
A connached car, in the mids o naewye.
Like a letter, chittered, an coost tae the cassie's win's,
Like gear, doonpitten in transit, on a station,
Like a door in the hairt, like a tree whaur the lichtenin's fa'n,
A stane in a ditch, markin a thing lang-gaen,
Like the eeseless toot o a boatie, hyne oot at sea,
Like the scrat o a knife, lang efter, in the flesh,
Like a shelt, tint, suppin wafter frae an orra puil,
Like a bowster, kerfuffled wi a nichtmare dwaum,
Like a back-spik tae the sun, wi the stew in yer een,
Like risin birsse, ay kennin that naething cheenges aneth the lift,
Ye fan me in the nicht, like a tint wird,
Like a tink wha's cooried doon in an oot-hoose,
Like a tyke weirin a collar wi anither's name on't,
A chiel o yesterday fu' o soun an spit.