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 Doondrappin 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 Chorus: 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 Chorus 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 Chorus 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 Chorus 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 Chorus 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? Horrible? 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? Fitiver. Jist chill. Jist chill. OK Doke. Fit did ye think o Howk? Sorry…HAWICK. 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 Newsin 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 Hornygollachs 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