Death Matters: Scots Poets

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