Scots Poems From The Lobster Poem by Sheena Blackhall

Auld King Brude
Auld King Brude he fand a bowl
An screivit there aroon its band
‘gie this bowl tae the ane ye lue
The verra best in aa the lan.'

He's chappit on his young queen's yett
He's pressed the giftie in her haun
For it wis her he lued the best
The verra best in aa the lan.

The queen stepped oot- a sodjer met
She gied the gowd bowl untae him
For he it wis she lued the best
The verra best in aa the lan.

The sodjer crept tae his son's room
He set the bowl on his nicht stand
It wis his son he lued the best
The verra best in aa the lan.

He gaed it tae a servant lass
Alas, she cudnae write or read

A priest deciphered it. The quine
Tuik it tae auld King Brude, fa'd freed

Her as a slave. King Brude looked doon
He turned the gowd bowl in his haun
An wycer noo he fulled the bowl
Wi watter fur his leal dug Bran

Come Bran, we'll tae the huntin gae
Quo he. He left his queen ahin
Caimbin her lang reid hair, the jaad.
Auld age that mairries Youth is blin


Granny Kens Best
There aince wis a laddie, Fergus, by name
His faither follaed the blacksmith trade
Fergus vowed he liked the smiddy
Bit aa his time on dreams wis paid

His faither left him fur a day
Jist tend the fire, or ‘twill gang oot
It is the anely thing I ask
Sae mynd ye an bide resolute;

Fergus wis dowpit by the anvil
Fan an auld chiel hytered in
Far's the haimmer, lad, he speired
Bit syne he spied it, there, within

The bodach wyted by the yett
An there cam in an auld wumman
He knelled the haimmer on her heid
An killt her wi his murderous haun

Noo Fergus socht his faither sair
By syne the auld bodach appeared
Wi guairds. He pynted Fergus oot
There's my wife's killer! he aveered

Fergus wis taen afore the king
Fa's heid wis happit ower in byles
That poppit oot an ran wi pus
That addit tae the monarch's trials

The king telt him I dinna care
If ye are guilty, lad or nae
I'll gie ye siller if ye can
Cure me o byles, this misery

Noo Fergus had a wyce granny
He aften watched her mix her potions
A cure fur byles he'd seen her makk
Taen frae the store o Natur's lotions

He pynted tae the king's milk kye
An sent his herds tae scoop their sharn
Warm, rikkin hett, the coo pats steamed
An on the king's heid, clartit on

Noo aince the sharn wis dry, peeled aff
The lotion wirked! The byles were gaen
The king rewardit Fergus weel
Tae makk a future o his ain.

His faither he wisnae impressed,
A blacksmith Fergus wadnae be
Tho noo a chyne o chemists' shops,
Keep in comfort handsomely

Frae an auld family recipe,
By royal appyntment reads the crest
The cure fur ony plooks an byles
Faith, Grannies aywis ken the best


The Scourge o the Heilans
A muckle giant bedd langsyne
In Norroway. Fowk caad him Thrim
He chawed the heids aff humankind
An sooked their breid, sae nurturin
An aye he roared his horrid roar
I'm gaun tae find ye, catch ye oot
I'm gaun tae ett ye, sook yer bluid
I'll chase ye doon wioot a doot

The ither giants cast him aff.
A twa three strides, tae Shetland, he
Arrived, bit fand the trowies there
Wi his digestion didnae ‘gree

Tae Fair isle neist- mair o the same
Sae aff tae Orkney faist he gaed
An snapped them up- a tasty snack
Syne on tae Caithness neist he sped

Aa ben the Heilans Thrim rampaged
Until he cam tae Wester Ross
The fowk made plans tae ding him doon
Aside the place caad Applecross

They howked a pit baith deep an lang
Set spikes carved ooto fir wid thonner
The bairns raised up on ither side
Tae mock the hairy giant scunner

Fool orra moch! Feech fyachie breet!
Norroway minger! Stinky taes!
They skirled tae garr the giant greet
an charge them ower the heathery braes

A tripwire set afore the pit
Cowpit the giant on the spikes
The fowk heezed roon wi aixe an knife
An chappt him intae teenie bites

They set a lowe an burned the bits
The giant's remains wir turned tae aisse
That raise like rikk intae the air
An ilkie bittie swore an aith

I'm gaun tae find ye, catch ye oot
I'm gaun tae ett ye, sook yer bluid
I'll chase ye doon wioot a doot
An thon is foo, until this day
Midgies wir born, tae deave us aa
An gin ye lippen, ye micht hear
The midgies chantin, wee an sma

We're gaun tae find ye, catch ye oot
We're gaun tae ett ye, sook yer bluid
We'll chase ye doon wioot a doot


Aroon the Skirts o Morven
Aince roon the skirts o Morven Knowe
A cat could lowp frae tree tae tree
Langsyne the widlans were sae thick
Frae Ballater tae Corachree
The names o parks an bens an ferms
Rowe frae the tongue, like Pressendye
Wi Ben na Flog, (hill o the plook)
An Migvie, open tae the sky
The Tarlan tykes could name them aa
Pittenderrick, Mollie Watty's hill
Barehillock, Melgum, Millheid's brae
The Roar hill an Gillander's still

The heatherscrapers o Cromar
Could tell o Cauldhame an o Skookie
Lazywell lochs an Futtie Park
Wi Runnyben, the Clash, Auld Groddie

There's Claggans, Auld Wife's Hoosie Park
Rynac an Mullach, Badnachraskie
The Howmies, Toft's Park, Gardiebane
The Lary Burn an Bothanyettie

There's Kinnagary, Broon Coo Hill
The Glachan Toul, Kinnord, Balhennie
Gallowshill Park an Bockie Howe
Davan, the Craskins, set up bonnie

Coull, Gellan, Strathmore, Culsh as weel
Cauld Tomnaverie casts an ee
Tae Lochnagar, laird o the glens
Its icy peaks haud mystery


Steenhive's Open Air Sweemin Puil
Like a colony o seals
Heids bob up an doon in satty watter
Fowk splyter ooto the puil

Dreeps skail aff their shanks
Aa shoogly bellies, hairy breists
Baldy heids an Tenerife tattoos
Wummly bingo wings
An beach baa roon bihoochies

Grannies, maas an daas, halflins
Littlins in goggles an hippens
Some, skytin doon the chute
Near beheidin the antrin
Gype, paiddlin aboot at the fit o the slide
Far the divers are fired oot
Like skitter frae a dyeuk's erse
Ithers, skeelie sweemers
Like fite swans, glide

Innocent pleisurs. Ithers sprauchle on tools
Makkin on they're in Majorca or Corfu
This is ane o Steenhive's jewels

A single scurrie's eein them up frae the reef
Wi ill intent. Plottin a smash an grab o ice cream or a panini
It opens its yalla beak, skreichs Gie me Gie me!

Watter's lichtsome, cairries
The wecht o bodies like pink boaties
Fair weather dookers
Ae shooer o rain an they're aff
Like snaa aff a dyke in heat
Sliddery as granny's sookers


Doric owersett of the Anonymous poem The Pig
Twis an evenin in Novemmer
As I mynd verra weel
I wis daunderin doon the street in blootert pride
Bit ma knees they lat me doon
An I drappit tae the grun
An a grumphie cam an lay doon bi ma side
Aye, I bedd there on the grun
Feelin sair an unca rum
Fin a bonnie quine nearhaun saftly did cry
Ye can tell a chiel fa boozes
Bi the company he chuses
An the grumphie raise an slawly said By By


Facks Aboot Aiberdeen
Mair than 30 Aiberdeens are aroon the warld
The mither kirk hooses 48 kirk bells
Rubislaw quarry's 480 feet deep
The faistest sailin ship, Thermopylae wis biggt in the toun
Star trekk's Scotty wis based on an Aiberdonian
The Brig o Balgownie is Scotlan's auldest brig
The herbour's a bield fur dolphins an baskin sharks
Aince mermaids swam affshore, aa singin psalms
Harry Houdini wis handcuffed an drapped in the port
Charlie Chaplin performed at the weel-kent Tivoli
The UK's auldest paper's the Press an Journal
Self sealin envelopes wir invented here
Aabody lues oor rowies, the seaman's favourite


Fit a Winnerfu thing is a Scot!
Fit a Winnerfu thing is a Scot!
Frae the time he steps ooto his cot
He's up an he's aff like a shot
Fit a Winnerfu thing is a Scot!

Fit a Winnerfu thing is a Scot!
Be he creashie or skinny or squat
He's the type some wid like tae garotte
Fariver he is, there's a plot

Fit a Winnerfu thing is a Scot!
As a wirker he's aye hett tae trot
Tho there's aften a twist in the knot
He'll aye win the cream o the pot

Fit a Winnerfu thing is a Scot!
His copybuik's clean, nae a blot
He's a linguist- a richt polyglot
He'd be perfeck as an astronaut

Fit a Winnerfu thing is a Scot!
He's as strang as a punchy shallot
Wi the virr o a fully rigged yacht
Fit a Winnerfu thing is a Scot!


Two poems highlighted in a Zoom poetry session on Trees, hosted by Roselle Angwin

Doric Owersett o The Firewood Tree: Lady Celia Congreve
Beech wid lowes are bricht an clear,
Gin the logs are kept a year;
Aik logs they burn steidily,
Gin the wid is auld an dry.
Bit aish dry or aish green,
Makks a lowe fit fur a queen.

Logs o birk wid burn sae faist,
Thon's a lowe that winna laist.
Chestnut's anely gweed fowk say
Gin fur lang it's laid awa.
Bit aish new or aish auld,
Suits a queen wi a croon o gowd.

Poplar makks a rikk that's wersh
Fulls yer een an gars ye choke.
It is by the Irish said,
Hawthorne bakes the swetest breid.
Bit aish green or aish broon,
Suits a queen wi a croon o gowd.

Elme wid burns like kirkyaird mools,
E'en the verra flames are cauld;
Aipple logs will fill yer chaumer,
Wi an incense-like perfume.
Bit aish weet or aish dry,
A queen can warm her bauchles by.


Doric owersett of The Hollow Tree: John Clare
Foo aften a simmer shooer has stertit me
Tae sikk a bield in thon great teemed oot tree
Auld muckle aish-gype dwined doon tae a shell
Fas sturdy heid still grew an briered weel
Far ten micht sit upon the battered fleer
An still luik roon an fin there's room fur mair
An he fa wyled a hermit's life tae share
Micht hae a yett an makk a sheddie there
They seemed sae like a hoose that oor desires
Wid caa them sae an makk oor gangrel lowes
An ett wild denners o the sonsie peas
Till we wir weet an drookit tae the knees
Bit in oor auld tree-hoose rain as it micht
Nae ae drap fell altho it rained aa nicht


For Robbie Shepherd, Doric Champion MBE
He wis a born broadcaster, screiver, maister o the Doric
On TV an on radio his programmes met success
At local gaitherins he wis socht, a couthie, skilled announcer
At Meldrum Sports an Turriff, as a compere he'd impress

Fowk mind on Takk the Fleer, The Beechgrove Gairden, sheepdug trials
For aa o North East culture, Robbie Shepherd wis yer man
He screived Let's Hae a Ceilidh, Dash o Doric, Doric columns
At the Braemar Royal Games, he welcomed spectator an clan

He wis gien a weel earned MBE fur heistin Scottish culture
The years rowed on, an thanks poored in for aa his dedication
Kings College it awardit him an honorary degree,
Thon Dunecht loon, a dynamo, a Doric inspiration

He sang as a performer wi the famed Jack Sinclair band
An later in his column in the P & J he strove
Tae champion oor bonnie airt in ilkie wird he penned
Luik ower his darg o mony years…Ye'll find a treisur trove

The warld grows smaaer ilkie day, near smorin places oot
Robbie niver left his hame ahin, tae takk the gangrel's pairt
Bit bedd, tae fecht his corner in oor muckle neive o lan
He kept oor wyes an spikk alive, an won the public's hairt


Aiberdeen, Septemmer
Granite stane on granite stane
Famous fowk on pedestals
Wallace, Rabbie Burns, the Bruce
Croodlin doos an skreichin gulls

Duthie, Seaton, Hazleheid
Flooers an dyeuks an lauchin bairns
Fishin herons on the Dee
Staun near nettles, brummils, ferns

At the side o Provost Skene's
See the ugsome Face o Rage
Haud on tae the Art centre
Groomin littlins fur the stage

Marischal square: the waters daunce
There is a leopard bidin near
Cruise ships moored bi the Bay o Nigg
Cowp oot fresh tourists: see them steer!

Midnicht brings starnies ower the sea
The beach is left tae san an waves
In the mools o the Mither Kirk
The deid sleep lichtly in their graves

This is the toun far I wis schooled
The rain an win & misty palls
Hae washed her face an gart her shine
Commerce has drained awa tae malls

The River Dee's bricht copper braids
Lead up tae ferms an heathery Bens
The River Don rins frae its source
O Lonach Games & lanely glens

It is an international toun
A port for shieldin ships an stores
Survivin Viking raids an wars
The warld cams veesitin its shores


Hauf Hangit Maggie
In Musselburgh ae fine day
Wis born tae fisher fowk a lassie
As bonnie a quine as ye micht see
They named the bairnie bonnie Maggie

She grew tae wad a fisher lad
He wis press ganged tae jyne the navy
Sae she wis left wioot a groat
An penniless wis bonnie Maggie

Doon tae the Borders she has gaen
Untae an inn, tae earn a livin
An she has borne a baby there
Nae sanctified bi kirk or Heiven

She's gaen doon tae the river Tweed
She's floatit it upon the watter
The bairn wis fand, an she wis taen
Tae Embro toun, accused o slaughter

They led her frae the Tolbooth strang
The grisly gibbet it wis wytin
The Grassmerket wi fowk wis thrang
Tae see puir Maggie's public hangin
Fin aa wis ower they cut her doon
An laid her in a pauper's coffin
In a roch cairt they bore her aff
Tae Musselburgh's kirkyaird hurlin

Bit fin the cobbles jogged the kist
The corpse sat up, she stertit breathin
The Law declared An Act o God
A pardon Maggie wis receivin

Noo fin her gweedman heard o this
He sune reclaimed his lassie
For forty years their neebors cried
See, here she cams, hauf hangit Maggie!