Scots Poems From Number 6

Matthew Booth farmer, Hillhead of Carnie, Skene Matthew Booth wis a kirk precentor God sees aathin. Watches aa Matthew merriet a lass caad Lizzie Ruled bi the Bible. Its wird wis law Matthew Booth wis a dairy fermer God sees aathin. Watches aa Sired three bairns and raised them moral Ruled bi the Bible. Its wird wis law Bairns hauf grown, his life wis ower God sees aathin. Watches aa Matthew'd pyed fur his Heivenly Mansion Ruled bi the Bible. Its wird wis law Lizzie his wife wiscouthie, cantie God, her maister, wis kind an crouse She wis satt tae her Matthew's pepper Read the Bible, bit read it douce Past Master Weel, gransire, a question or twa, frae a grandbairn born eftir ye deed Ye luik like a weel-daein cheil..Are ye pleased fit becam o yer seed? Archie, killed bi a car crash, Arthur, bi TB slain Catched in the desert at wartime. Ian, bi Cancer taen Faither, Alan an Jimmy. Mary, Helen an Eve Rose, yer bonniest dochter. Billy, the semibreve O a musical kintra family. Time passes, still mourners grieve Weel gransire, I'm telt ye hid asthma, that drink wis the medicine o choice An fitiver the richts an wrangs o't, it keepit ye in guid voice Ye screived a rare puckle o ballads-an in-law brunt them aa Fur thon is the wye o Fortune, twa secunts o fame….yer awa. A Bairn's Prayer Now I lay me down to sleep I pray the Lord my soul to keep If I should die before I wake I pray the Lord my soul to take God bless Craigendarroch Craig Coilleich, Lochnagar God bless the Muick, the Gairn The bandie in my jar God bless my faimily granny sez My brither? Jist a tooshty Bit God, he mebbe needs a haun Tae stop him bein fooshty Puir Fin I wis wee, I wis a lowse bit o jigsaw An odd sock. I lived wi the fear o daith. Mither wis middle aged Granny wis aulder than Methuselah, As precious as the Taj Mahal. I played wi elephants ahin her chunty I slept like a pack at her back A cosy, couthie bield, a granny bosie We bedd in a 5 bedroomed hoose Granite, Victorian, cauld In the Wast Eyn, like a time warp Gas lichts, cobbles, railins I thocht we wir puir, wis affrontit o ma hame In the toon far I grew up in, tae be fantoosh, genteel Ye hid tae spikk pan loaf We spakk braid- Scots, thick as third day broth Gaun Forrit: The Future o Doric The Mither Leid should niver be tongue tackit, Nur should the nae-sayers gar it grue It'll be threipit lang eftir we'reaa stoor, Gin we can gie it a cannie heist up noo Spukken in howf,haa, TV, shoppin mall It'll bide bonniean braa in the antrin bairnie's moo It'll be shooder tae shooder wi Catalan, Norsk Liveeftir the deid thraa craik o the waa-gaun Naethin wirth haein is gotten easy ozy An mony wirkin thegither, stincher staun Warssle an tcyauve an fash maun aye cam first Stert wi the bairns, wi sang wi rhyme, wi tale Plant the seed in their lug fur the future's hairst Ye bigg a hoose wi tools, a leid wi wirds Buiks an plays, an broadcast programmes tae Gie gweed Scots a pedestal, an airin Nae whyles in the by-gaun, dammit, ilkie day Oor Scottish peinters, Farquharson, McBey- Fit's their wirk cut ooto their frames, their settin? Doric wints a professional display In schules gie the leid a place at the subjeck table Nae beggin bowl fur scraps frae Burns Day Pass on the spikk, the soun o it, the luve o it Ohdinna swick the future o its say! October 11th October, an the hairst has shorn The rigs o simmer's bonnie corn This wis the month ma loon wis born Wad that he'd cam an haunt me Nae parent should their bairn ootlive Life's tint its taste, a steekit neive's Ma hairt,lued ghaist can ye forgive The puir cairds that I dealt ye? Twa Scots Owersetts o John Clare Poems The Mavis Nest, Scots Owersett of a John Clare Poem Inbye a thick an spreidin thorn buss That owerluiked a mowdie knowe sae roon I heard frae morn tae morn a mavis blythe Sing hymns tae daybrakk, whyle I drank the soun Wi joy an aften an ill faschent guest I watched her secret warssles day bi day Foo true she vrocht the fogg tae bigg her nest An papered it inbye wi wid an clay An aftentimes like heathbells bricht wi dyew There lay her sheenin eggs as braw as flooers Ink-spirkit abune shells o greeny blue An thonner I saw in the simmer oors A heeze o natur's sangsters chirp an shift Gled as the sunsheen an the lauchin lift Bawds at Play The birds are gaen tae bed, coos lie an mumph An yowes lie pechin on a mowdie humph An in aneth the sauch's grey-greeny bough Like darg a-restin lies the sleepin ploo The feartie bawds haive daylicht flegs awa On the lane's road tae stoor, an daunce an play Syne dibble in the grain bi nocht deterred Tae lick the dyewfaa frae the barley's beard Syne oot they lowp again an roon the knowes Like blythesome thochts, daunce, hunker, dauchle still Till milkin lassies in the early morn Jungle their yokes an stert them in the corn Throw weel-kent beaten paths ilk bawd jinks loose Sterts faist as fear an seeks its secret hoose Sunrise Sang: Tune: Wild Mountain Thyme Oh a cheenge is in the air An far mairare proodly usin The Scots spikk that's their birthricht Ye can hear it in their newsin Lat us takk the future on Lat us text an blog each ither Lat us message tweet and e-mail Lat Scots intae life an blether Lat us larn frae Gaelic friens Lat us larn frae Ulster brithers Lat us takk Scots tae schules Dinna dauchle,dinna swither Takk it tae the press an stage Takk it tae the media bodies Takk it tae the fundin maisters MSPs an uni studies Oh a cheenge is in the air An far mairare proodly usin The Scots spikk that's their birthricht Ye can hear it in their newsin Twa Jaikies Twa jaikies sat on a ferm lum Bletherin awa aboot this an thon Watchin the stirlins on the weer Gaitherin tae flee in search o sun ‘Fair weather fowk I canna thole, ' Quo jaikie ane tae jaikie twa, ‘thon flee-bi-nichts…nae smeddum ava Feart o a wee bit ice an sna… Somelike the craiturs that buy a hoose An leave it teem fur hauf a year Fin local bodies frae hereaboots Sleep wi their kin or on a fleer.' Quo jaikie twa tae jaikie ane Whyles this lum's ower sma fur twa As she cowped him aff his feathery dowp An lauched as she watched her gudeman faa Winter in Buchan The knowes are lit like smuchterin aisse The stibble parks haud ghaists o grain An ikie cloud strung ben the lift Draps antrin pearls o weety rain Ilk timmer branch o leafless tree Is twistit like Medusa's snakes Blaik hairtit craa flees ower a lum It spies a corp, devauls an skraichs For winter dings the weakest doon The shilpit, hurtit, born ower sune An ower the derkenin gloamin lan The greetin-faced Novemmer mune Luiks doon as Daith stravaigs the grun Like huntsman wi his deadly gun Win at New Deer October 2018 The win at New Deer's like a threshin mill It blaws the heids o the trees near aff The wanderin willies, like boats at sea Blaw hither an yont, like toozlit chaff The beeches shakk like sheltie's manes Lowpin wud on a stormy day The sycamores wheech like washin skelped Near rugged frae the reets, as soople's strae Nae bird cud thole thon ramstam cloor O win, as forecy as thon roch blast The lift is teemed o aa bit clouds Skuddin alang as the win roars past Hauf ben the night, the win dees doon Daybricht cams an the birdies sing The trees staun quate, ye'd niver ken Late, they wir rived till they near tuik wing Somelike fowk are the New Deer trees Tribbles micht yark an twist them raw Bit life gaes on fin the steer is by Thole an staun, or gie up an faa Scots Owersett of a poem Tae a Buddha Dowpit on a Lotus bi Sarojini Naidu Lord Buddhadowpit on yerthrone Wi prayerful een an hauns sae still Fit mystic blytheness dae ye ken Aybydaun, stinch an speeritual? Fit peace, unfyled yont fit we ken Is hyne abune the warld o men? The win o cheenge foriver blaas Aa ben oor stramash wud an keen The morn's unborn sorras dicht The waes we tholed anely yestreen Dwaum yields tae dwaum, fecht follaes fecht Daith snips oor threid an dims oor licht Fur us the warssle an the heat The brukken secrets o oor pride The forcey lessons o defeat The flooer bypassed, the fruit denied Bit nae the peace abune aa won Lord Buddha o yer lotus throne Wi eeseless hauns we sikk again Oor langings ay yont oor command Ay ettlin tae sikk greater prize Faith fooners an feet canna staun Bit nocht can ding doon or control The Heivenwird hunger o the sowel The eyn, sae sliddery an afar Aye trysts us wi its beckonin flicht An aa oor mortal meenits are Bit secunts o the Infinite Foo can we the Aybydan meet Nirvana, o yer Lotus seat? Scots Owersett of ‘Sang on the Eyn o the Warld' bi Czeslaw Milosz On the day the warld eyns A bee cercles clover A fisher laddie mends a glentin net Blythe porpoises lowp in the sea Bi the rainspoot young spurgies are playin An the snake is gowd-skinned as it should aye be On the day the warld eyns Weemen wauk ben parks aneth their brollies A boozer grows sleepy at the side o a gairden Veggie sellers skirl in the streets An a yalla sailed boatie cams nearer the isle The voice o a fiddle hings in the air An leads inno a starnie nicht An them fa expeckit thunner an lichtnin Are disappyntit An them fa expeckit signs an archangels' tooteroos Dinna believe it is happenin noo As lang as the sun an the meen are abune As lang as the bumbee veesits the rose As lang as reid-cheekit bairnies are born Naebody believes it is happenin noo Anely a fite-haired auld bodach, fa wid be a prophet Yet isnae a prophet, fur he's far ower eident Repeats whyle he ties up his tomataes Nae ither eyn o the warld there will be Nae ither eyn o the warld there will be A Scots Owerset of a poem Coromandel Fishers, bi Sarojini Naidu Rise brithers, rise; the waukenin lift prays tae the mornin licht The win lies asleep in the airms o daybrakk like a bairn fa's grat aa nicht Cam, let us gaither oor nets frae the shore, lat oor catamarans be free Tae catch the lowpin wave o the tide, fur we are kings o the sea Dinna dauchle langer, let's hash awa in the lee o the scurries kraa The sea is oor mither, the cloud is oor brither, the waves are oor fiers anna Fit tho the dunt at the faa o the sun frae the haun o the sea-god drives? He fa hauds the storm bi the hair, he hides in his briest oor lives Swete is the cweel o the coconut glade an the scent o the mango dyew An swete are the sans at the full o the meen wi the soun o the voyces we lue Bit sweter o brithers the kiss o the faem an the daunce o the spindrift's bree Row brithers row tae the eyn o the edge far the laigh lift mells wi the sea Scots Owersett of ‘At a Certain Age, bi Czeslaw Milosz We wintedtae confess oor sins, bit there wir nae takkers Fite clouds widnae accept them, an the win Wis ower eident veesitin sea eftir sea We didnae mange tae interest the breets Tykes, disappyntit, expeckit an order A powser, as iver, coorse-naturet, wis faain asleep A body we aye thocht close Didnae wint tae spikk o things langsyne Blether wi friens ower vodka or coffee Shouldnae raxx oot ayont the first hint o scunneration It wid be affrontin tae pye bi the oor A cheil wi a diploma, jist fur lippenin Kirks. Mebbe kirks. Bit tae confess thonner, fit? That we eesed tae see oorsels as bonnie an braw? Yet later in oor place, an ugsome taed Hauf unsteeks its thick eelid An ye see clearly: Thon's me'