Scots Poems From The Mithers Poem by Sheena Blackhall

Or Sae ma faither telt me
Up bi Aberarder,13 bonnet lairds
Drave Farquharson the chief gyte wi their fechtin
Sae he sent oot an invite tae a verra special feast
Tae sattle aa their strivin wis his reckonin

The barn at Ballochlaggan wis the venue fur the tryst
The bonnet lairds strode in, as prood's afore
Till ane bi ane they raise tae leave, their bellies stappit fu
Nae kennin fit wis wytin throwe the door

The chief had henchmen postit. As each bonnet laird appeared
He wis catched, hung frae a gibbet, speedily
Sae endit aa their quarrels, fur a deid man canna fecht
An thon is true, or sae ma faither telt me

The Fleein Princess
A lang time back the king of Norroway
Wis telt that Scotland's wids were best avaa
An sae he sent his dother aff tae learn
The Black Airts. Sivven years she wis awa

An she brocht hame a buik o evil spells
An sclimmed up tae her faither's heichest touer
She snecked the yett an spakk an oorie chant
A grey cloud formed outside her lanely bouer

She sclimmed up on the windae, forrit booed
Stepped in the cloud that wauchted tae the sea
Abune the bens an fjords oot ower the snaw
Far wolf packs ran, tae Scotland speedily

Aince there, frae throwe the cloud flashed lichtnin bolts
Set fire tae wids, the flames drave aa afore
Beavers an tods, brocks, deer, adders an shelts
Heidit for Rothiemurchas by the score

The refugees socht oot a shaman's help
He gaithered up the siller things they ained
Meltit them doon, belt buckles, brooches, speens
A muckle arrawheid he vrocht, pyntit an planed

An neist he telt the fowk tae gaither up
Aa mither breets, soos, hennies, coos wi zeal
An lead them aa uptae a heich knowe tap
An gaither up their bairnickies as weel

The piglets, chuckens, foals, the calves, the lammies
Were led up tae anither nearhaun ben
An skreiched an skirled an baaed oor fur the maas
Ach sic a soun near deafened the hale glen

The princess hearin thon sair stounin soun
Luiked tae see the cause o aa this dreid
The shaman lowsed the arra frae his bow
The arra pierced her hairt. She drapped doon deid

The cloud sailed aff, hyne back tae Norroway
The rains fell doon, pit oot the ragin flames
Sae savin wids, fowk, Scottish breets as well
In spite o thon derk princess an her games


Mither an Bairn
Mither an bairn are close as rose an bud
The quinie's babygrow is pink, rowed in a bosie,
The heat o luve, o swyte, o hippen's weet
The pair, a single flesh sae snod an cosie

The mither's hair is hudderie, taigled, fair
Her babby's hair's a wispy waucht o fluff
Sweet stank o briest milk lingers in the air
The scene is ane o babby-mither stuff


Tod
Lowpin tod, lowpin tod
Did yer lugs pick up a squeak?
Lowpin tod, lowpin tod
Fit a sleekit like technique!

Doon aneth the snaa it hides
Trimmlin in the cauld it bides
Lowpin tod, lowpin tod
Hear its hairt dunt in its sides!


Alane & Thegither
The crofter's hoose, white washed, is geometric
Its waas, its windaes, neuked an staunin stinch
Bigged tae withstaun the win, the storm's stramash

The girse wyves, boos an daunces, swippert, swack
Like a young quine catched up in music's thrall
Girse or hoose: fit ane will oot live tither?


The Traiveller
The traiveller rests aneth the meen
The starnies glent far ere ye luik
Cauld Winter shaves the branches bare
The traiveller's screivin in his buik

Somelike John Bunyan's pilgrim cheil
This traiveller's path is still unkent
Fit Weird awytes him at the eyn?
Will life be joy an sorras blent?

Doric Owersett of Losing a Slave Girl by Bai Juyi, Chinese poet of the Tang dynasty (618-907)
Aroon ma yaird the teenie waa is laigh;
At the street yett her loss wis postit late.
I am affrontit. Whyles we werenae kind
I'm sorry fur yer wirk, that winna be repyed.
The jyled birdie owes nae lealty;
The win-blawn flooer disnae grip the tree.
Far she lies the nicht naebody kens;
Naebody kens, bar the bricht watchin meen.


Doric Owersett of Golden Bells by Bai Juyi
Fin I wis near forty
I'd a dother fas nemme wis Gowden Bells.
Noo it's jist a year since she wis born;
She's larnin tae sit an canna yet spikk.
Affrontit—tae fin that I hinna a wyce hairt:
Gaun forrit I am tied tae things outside masel:
Ma anely reward—the pleisur I'm gettin noo.
Gin I'm spared the sorra o her deein young,
Syne I'll hae the tribble o gettin her mairriet.
Ma plan fur retirin an gaun back tae the Bens
Maun noo be pit aff fur years!

Doric Owersett o Poems in Depression, at Wei Village by Bai Juyi
I bosie ma bowster an dinna spikk a wird;
In ma teem chaumer nae soun steers.
Fa kens that, aa day in bed,
I'm nae ill an amnae even asleep?

Dwined tae yalla are the loon's rosy chikks;
Tae his peely-wally broo the cranreuch winter hauds
Dinna winner that ma body crines tae foonerment;
Tho ma limbs are auld, ma hairt is aulder yet.

Doric Owersett of A Lament for my son Ts'Ui by Bai Juyi
Ye wir a pearl
In the palm o ma haun,
Ma teenie baby loon.

Foo is it that masel,
A fite-haired cheil o saxty years,
Am left ahin,
An ye, a bairn o three,
Maun bi Heiven's seelent, stern decree,
Precede me
Tae thon oorie an hyne-aff lan
O daith?

Ma hairt is hurtit sair,
Bit nae wi a blade o steel;
Ma auld een are blearie an blae
Bit nae wi the stoor o the yird.

These airms
That held ye teetle ma breist
Are teem noo
An I murn, as did Teng Yu o auld,
Ma anely son.

Doric Owersett of Hares at Play by John Clare
The birds are gaen tae reest, the kye, are quaet
An yowes lie pechin on each mowdie-knowe;
An in aneth the saugh's siller-green bough,
Like work set restin, lies the idle ploo.
The feartie bawds haive daylicht flegs awa
On the lane's road tae lowp an daunce an play,
Syne paiddle in the corn bi naucht pit oot
Tae lick the dyew-faa frae the barley's beard;
Syne oot they jink again an roon the knowe
Like blythesome thochts daunce, hunker, dauchle there
Till milkin lassies in the early morn
Jingle their yokes an fleg them in the corn;
Throwe well-kent, trodden paths each swippert bawd
Jouks faist as fear, an sikks its happit lair.


A Doric Alphabet
An aiblich, a bauchle, a cattie
A dauchlin, an dyterin dyeuk
An eggie, a footer, a grumphie
A hurcheon, an ingle tae jouk

A kimmer, a lintie, a moothie
A numpty, an orral, a peewit
A quinie, a rammie, a steamie
A trauchle, umbrellae, a veesit

A warlock, an X-Ray, a yeitie
A zebra oot weirin a nightie
Scots gaes roon yer hairt like a fat hairy wirm
It's gallus, it's cannie, it's couthie


Ridin the Win
Twa reid kites are ridin the win
Their sicht o the lan's the raptor's view
Like an ordinance survey map
The parks an squars are green, broon, yalla
Tae you, tae me, they luik like geometric shapes

Tae the heich reid kites,
Wi eesicht like high-pouered radar
A teenie meevement o fur,
Like a preen in a ruck o hey,
Is maet. Ane draps like a steen
A blur o speed an feathers


Maureen an Moira: The Bus Tour
North East bus tour companies always play a selection of music to pass the hours on the road

Country roads, take me home, to the place where I belong
West Virginia, mountain mama, take me home, country roads

Weel we're nae starved o the sicht o trees Maureen.
I like a tree..bit only a happy tree. Thon rowan looks happy

Ay Moira, bit d'ye see thon horse? It's lookin richt doon in the moo
Ye niver see a horse smilin…

Maureen, sae wid you be if you'd tae staun in the same park aa day.
Same fower neuks. Nae company tae news wi…

I fell in to a burning ring of fire
Went down, down, down, And the flames went higher
And it burns, burns, burns, The ring of fire, The ring of fire

Moira, that says it aa eftir last nicht's curry.
An I'm really hippit sittin sae lang on ma dowp

Just because we are married, don't mean we can't slip around
So let's walk out through the moonlight
And lay the blanket on the ground

Och Moira look at the sky! 40 shades o grey! Rain!

It's easy kent you've bin readin filth since your George deid
Maureen. The wumman fa wrote thon buik wis a fool moch.
Fin I feel thon wye, I takk up ma knittin

I maun hae a wife, an whatsoe'er she be;
An she be a woman, that's enough for me.

Be she green or gray; or be she black or fair;
Let her be a woman, I shall seek nae mair.

Did ye see thon waitress in the café Moira? Twa breists as big as bus stops.
Bit a bonnie face… last nicht thon wumman wi the ponytail
necked a hale bottle o gin. I'm surprised she's still able tae staun

It's been a hard day's night, And I've been workin' like a dog
It's been a hard day's night, I should be sleepin' like a log

Thon Paul McCartney canna sing for toffee noo.
Somebody should tell the puir sowel he's passed his sell by date.
If the driver plays another Abba song, I'm switchin aff ma hearin aid

O brochan lom tana lom brochan lom is sughain
Brochan lom tana lom brochan lom is sughain X 2

Maureen, isn't nature's winnerfu? Plants an trees aa grow in the spring, dee in the winter. an naebody tells them tae dae it, they jist ken! See thon park o winter wheat? Ae shouer o rain an up it pops! Aathegither! Like synchronized dauncin!

Moira, hae a sweetie an gie yer mou a rest!


Fower Shorties
Hae ye seen twa birdies pass?
They niver stop tae blether
Jist cairry on their different wyes
Takk nae tent o each ither!

Dinna sit in a sitooterie
If ye ging tae Tillycoultry
Speecially if the weather's splooterie

Dinna dauchle nearby Stirlin
If a doonpish it is thunnerin
Or blin drift is roon ye birlin

I wid like tae be a coo
Tae staun aa day an dream an moo
Tae chaw the girse an pee an poo
Ma wirries wid be sma an fyew

Three Speecial Airts
As I cam ower the smaa glen
The lift wis grey an lowerin
The touerin bens owerluiked the burn
Like muckle giants glowerin

Rest an be Thankfu, sic a climm!
The reidcoat sodjers biggit
This road, that stauns abune Glen Croe
Bi swyte, hard warsslin thiggit
The sun plays peek-a-boo atween
The trees, on fairy clearins
O moss an fern, an heather bells
And yowes new shorn bi shearins

A lanely place, a speecial place
Is caad the Tinker's Hairt
Myndin on tinkers o langsyne
Far tinkers' waddins stert