Scots Poems From Pigging Out

Spell 125 from the Book of the Dead. Gaun forrit intae the traivels o the deid Yer life an deeds are judged bi the god Osiris He's dowpit unner a canopy, weirin a croon He hauds a cromach an wheep He is claithed in fite linen, wi patterns on't o feathers His face an hauns are happit wi gowden foil. Afore him is a muckle lotus Far sit the fower Sons o Horus, Fa guaird the intimmers o a mummy. Ahin him is Isis, his wife, an her sister Nephthys. Here, a hairt wis wis wyed agin a feather Columns set oot the daeins o the deid Fa could staun in sic a coort An niver trimmle aince? The Day that I Chored Nelson's Column The day I that I chored Nelson's Column I tuik it tae brichten the lawn Syne I liftit a statue o Burns Noo he stands luikin braw at the dawn I'd a notion tae hurl doon tae Glesga Wheech Wellington aff, an his horse It's a weakness I hae, I like ferlies That are far ower dear fur ma purse I'm settin ma sichts onno Nessie If fowk catch her, I'll wyte wi ma net Thon would gar the neebors takk notice If a muckle loch monster's ma pet Magi McGlynn: to the tune of Brian O'Lynne Magi McGlynn was a man o the road An prood in his kilt aroon Callendar strode He wis broon as a berry, weel weathered his skin 'I'm a cheil for aa sizzons, ' said Magi McGlynn Magi McGlynn wis the bard o Balquhidder He wis weel wirth the meetin tae stop fur a blether He'd the bluid o the gangrels, his traivellin kin An a bender wis hame tae bold Magi McGlynn Magi McGlynn biggt his bender himsel The trees kept the secrets o his hermit shell, Fitever Fate dealt him, he took on the chin 'Life's ower short tae worry' said Magi McGlynn Magi McGlynn he could sing like a bird An he chermed the warld wi his quicksiller wird He'd the win in his face an the sunshine ahin 'Nae brick hoose can haud me' said Magi McGlynn Magi McGlynn had a hat on his heid Wi a feather that showed him a pure Heilan breed An he'll rest far the waters o Earn they spin Its the widlans o Strowan for Magi McGlynn Inemuri, The Japanese Art of Sleeping at Work Fit rare it wid be tae lay yer heid on a brod Steek yer een, wish coorse pupils tae Hecklebirnie On a train stappt wi sweiry scunners On their wye tae a fitbaa fixture, Foo braw tae blot them oot Wi sleep, nae hearin a fusper In the mids o a wearisome lecture Far the spikker gaes on foriver I wish like the Japanese We could lie on the grun an dover Mrs Frances Andrews, sitter for Thomas Gainsborough It wis ma man Rob's idea tae hae us peintit The artist wis mair taen wi peintin the lan than me Gin ye luik close, he didnae feenish ma hauns He sklaikit on an on aboot the lift, the clouds, the acres The River Stour, the wids, the delichts o Essex Rob luiks like hingin mince in the pictur An I'm that peelywally, ye'd think I'd wirms. The artist's daa wis a wyver, ye ken. Naethin byordnar. He tells fowk he hates peintin portraits He caas his patrons snobs The guid thing is, he's faist. Ma dowp wis growin dottlit sittin thinner Some Poems need Droonin Some poems need droonin Ithers should hae a roon o applause Fur brichtenin a day, Or garrin us think on matters a different wye Some poems need prunin Like a gairden run tae seed Ither poems wid be better aff deid Some poems should be lowsed like lammies Till they mature Ithers should be haived on the midden Jist fit fur manure Some poems staun on a soapbox An lay aff their chest Ithers should be smored or pysoned An pit tae rest The Heron an the Angler The Dee braids her wattery ringlets Roon the heron's upricht shank On the tither side o the river An angler stauns on the bank The heron is still as a statue Sleekit, her watchin ee The angler fichers an footers Wi some fancy feathered flee An faa are the better catchers? Herons or fishermen? Fur ae fish the angler catches The heron snatches ten The Wartime Juror Ma mither wis a juror in the war The crime the jury hid tae joodge wis rape A local quine swore she hid bin attacked The backgrun tae the case, the war's lanscape The cheil accused, ane o the enemy Prisoner o war, Italian, feelins heich The jury tuik nae time tae seal his fate Agin the fae, an ally o the Reich Bit eftir, it turned oot the sentenced cheil Wis heid o polis in his native lan Wis kent tae be kind, charitable The quine that named him, on the ither han Hid taen a notion tae him, bin turned doon Tho ithers had bin quick tae be her jo Justice in war's a fey, unchancy thing Innocents jyled, the guilty whyles lat go Bus Station The bus station's steerin wi fowk Day trippin pensioners gaun aff on jaunts Tae Embro, Dundee, Glesga Hittin the shops, ee tae the main chaunce The stops fur Deeside heeze Wi hikers, bikers, sclimmers, humphin pokes Maistly gweed natured, Faimlies crackin jokes The East Coast bus is thrang wi Doric spikkers A puckle Polish, hired as filleters A wheen o gaun-hame Broch-based affshore riggers At nicht it is a different kinno body Halflins, bleezin, irritatin aabody Security on haun, if things turn bluidy An aye the scurries skreichin on the scran An rypin Gregg steak pasties gin they can Wee Dooker Fin I wis wee the highlicht o the year Wis tuckin up ma skirt intae ma knickers An toddlin by the blue forgot-me-nots Reid Admiral its lichtsome wingbeats flichters Safe, warm, the shalla watter heezed wi bandies That ye could catch an cairry in a jar Amids the Dee, the skinklin salmon racin Doon frae the heather peaks aroon Braemar An ower the watter, trees that wyved in sunsheen Craigcoileich, I wad niver sclimm it noo A bairn sized knowe, that owerluiked Ballater Wi Coyles o Muick, the Darroch, oot on view Scots Owerset o Satires bi Juvenal Satire III: 164-189 It's Hard to Sclimm the Laidder It's hard tae sclimm the laidder fin tichtenin funds Block yer talents, bit at Rome the tyauve is greater: They're dear, fooshty ludgins; ower priced, fittin the stramaches O slaves; a smaa supper ower dear as weel Yer affrontit tae ett aff clay ashets, tho ye Wid feel nae scunner if o a suddenty speerited aff tae a Sabellan Or Marsian brod, blythe in a puir cheil's roch, blue hood. Tae tell ye the truith, in maist o Italy, naebody weirs a toga Unless they're deid. Even on days o major ongauns fin The traditional farce returns aince mair tae the timmer stage, Fin the kintra bairn cooers in its mither's lap, at sicht O a fite glowerin mask, even then ye'll see aabody, Thonner, still riggit the same, them in the senatorial seats An them some ither wye. Fite tunics are gweed eneuch fur The heichest magistrates, as fit tae suit their heich office. Here oor smert claes are ayont oor means, here at Rome A wee bit mair has tae be borraed frae somebody's purse. It's an ordnar faut; here we aa bide in flashy puirtith, Fit mair can I say? Aathin in Rome cams at a price. Fit dae ye nae pye sae ye can say: "Fit like, Cossus", Sae Veiento will gie ye a ticht-lipped luik? This slave's beard is clippit, thon ane's lock o hair's dedicatit; The hoose is fu o celebratory cakes ye've pyed fur: takk ane An keep yer scunner tae yersel. Clients are gart pye Sic tribute-siller, tae add tae the savins o swippert slaves. Satire III: 190-231 The Verra Hooses are Unsafe Fa fears, or iver feared, that their hoose micht faa doon, In cweell Praeneste, or in Volsinii amang the widded knowes, Or at plain Gabii, or the braes o the knowes o Tibur? We bide in a Rome held up fur the maist pairt by dweeble Props; since thon's the wye management stop the biggins Faain doon; aince they've happit some auncient yawnin Crack, they'll tell us tae sleep soondly at the edge o wrack. The airt tae bide is hyne frae aa thon lowes, an aa thon Flegs in the nicht. Ucalegon is already sikkin a hose, Meevin his gear, an yer third fleer's already rikkin: Ye're unawaur; since gin the alarm wis soundit doonstairs, The hinmaist tae burn will be the ane a bare tile protecks frae The rain, up thonner far douce doos coo ower their eggies. Cordus had a bed, ower wee fur Procula, an sax smaa joogs O clay tae brichten his press an, aneth it, A wee Chiron, a Centaur vrocht o thon verra same ‘merble' An a kist gey auld noo, tae haud his Greek librar, Sae the coorse moosies chawed awa at aybydan verse. Cordus had naethin, fa could demur? Yet, puir cheil, He tint the hale o thon naethin. An the hinmaist tap O his wae, is that nyaakit an priggin fur maet, naebody Will gie him a crust, or a haun, or a reef ower his heid. If Assaracus's muckle biggin is tint, his mither's in murnin, The heid bummers weir blaik, an the praetor sets aside his hearin Syne we murn the state o Rome, an we despair o its lowes. Fin it's still burnin, they're breeengin tae offer merble, already, Colleck haun oots; ae cheil gies nyaakit glimmrin statues, Anither Euphranor's maister-wirks, or bronzes bi Polyclitus, Or antique gee-gaws that aince belanged tae some Asian god, Here buiks an buik presses, a Minerva tae pit in their mids, Thonner a howpie o siller. Persicus, wealthiest o the bairnless, Is there tae replace fit's tint wi mair, an better ferlies. He's suspeckit, an richtly sae, o settin a lowe tae his hoose. Gin ye could teir yersel frae the Games, ye could buy A braw placie, at Sora, at Fabrateria or Frusino, Fur the annual rent ye pye noo, fur a tenement in Rome. Thonner ye'd hae a gairden, an a wall nae deep eneuch Tae nott a towe, sae easy watterin o yer douce plants. Live as a luver o the hyew, an the maister o a veggie bed, Frae which a hunner vegetarian Pythagoreans could be fed. Ye'd be somebody, fitiver the placie, hooiver hyne awa, Gin anely because ye'd be the maister o a lane lizard. Satire III: 232-267 An Syne There's the Traffic Mony an invalid dees frae lack o sleep here, tho the illness Itsel is caused bi hauf etten maet, that clooks ticht Tae the fevered kyte; fur, far can ye ludge an enjoy A gweed nicht's sleep? Ye hae to be unca rich tae fin rest In Rome. Thon's the soorce o oor sikkness. The eynless traffic In nerra birlin streets, an the sweirin at stranded kye, Wid caa Claudius aff his sleep, or the seals on the shore. Fin duty caas, the crood gies wye as the rich man's hurlie, Hashes by, richt in their faces, like some muckle Liburnian boatie, Fin he reads, screives, sleeps inbye, while cairriet on his wye: Ye ken foo a cheer wi steekit windaes makks ye sleepy! Yet, he gets thonner first: as I hash on, the tide aheid blocks me, An the muckle heeze o fowk that follae ahin crush ma kidneys; This cheil cocks oot his elbuck, thon ane flails wi a solid pole, This cheil strikks ma heid wi a beam, thon ane wi a barrel. Shanks with clartit wi dubs, I'm foraye tramplit bi michty feet Frae ilkie side, while a sodjer's hobnailed buit prods ma tae. D'ye see aa the rikk that rises, tae celebrate a haun-oot? There's a hunner diners aa follaed bi his portable kitchie. Corbulo, thon muckle general, could scarce cairry aa thon muckle pots, Wi aa the lave that the puir wee slave cairries, on his heid. Fannin the oven, he rins alang, his body held perfeck. Recent-mendit tunics are rippit, fin a lang fir log shakks As it cams nearhaun, fin anither cairt's uphaudin a hale pine-tree. They teeter threatenin-like ower the heids o thon fowk ablow. Noo, if thon axle brakks unner the wecht o Ligurian merble, An cowps an upturned Ben on tap o the steer, Fit will be left o the bodies? Fit limbs, fit banes will Survive? Ilkie cheil's corpse aathegither smushed will vanish alang Wi his sowel. Betimes his hoosehauld, unkennin are scoorin The dishes; are pluffin their chikks at the kinnlers; are clatterin The oily back-scrapers; bi full oil-flasks, arreengin the towels. The slave-loons hash on wi puckles o dargs, while their maister, Is noo an incomer on the banks o the Styx, chitters thonner At the ugsome ferry cheil, wioot hope, puir vratch, o a hurl Ower the dubby river, an nae coin in his mou fur the fare. Satire III: 268-314 An The Violence An noo lat's conseeder aa the ither fey dangers, at nicht: Fit a lang wye it is fur a tile frae the heichest reef tae faa On yer heid; foo aften a cracked an leaky pot draps doon Frae a sill; fit a clour fin they strikk the cassies chippin An brakkin the stanes. Gin ye gae oot tae denner wioot makkin A will, ye're thocht o as richt careless, nae thinkin o thon Tragic ongauns that happen: there are as mony wyes tae dee, As there are open windaes watchin ye, fin ye gae by, at nicht. Sae I'd makk a puir wish an a prayer, as ye gae, that they'll Bide blythe wi jist teemin their reamin pots ower ye. The ill trickit drooth's misfittit if bi chaunce there's naebody at aa Tae set upon, spennin the hale nicht murnin, like Achilles fur His frien, lyin noo on his face, an syne, turnin ontae his back: Since it's the anely wye he can weary himsel; it takks a tulzie or twa Tae sen him tae sleep. Bit hooiver wirked up he is, fired bi youth An strang wine, he steers awa frae him in the crammosie cloak, fa issues A warnin as he gaes on his wye, wi his lang heeze o staff, An a rowth o torches mairower an lamps o bronze. Yet despises me, As I gae by, bi the licht o the meen, as aye, or the flichterin licht O a caunle, faas wick I takk great care o, an cannily takk tent o. Takk tent o the settin awytin a coorse fecht, gin ye caa it a fecht Far ane o us strikks oot, an the ither ane, me, takks a threwshin. He stauns up, an he tells me tae devaul. I've nae choyce bit tae obey; Fit can ye dae, fin a gyte cheil is giein the orders, fa's stranger Than ye as weel? "Far've ye binn? " he skirls, "Fa's soor wine An beans hae ye bin doonin? Fit soutars were ye at, Stappin yer face wi byled yowe's heid, gorgin on fresh likks? Naethin tae say? Ye'd better spikk up faist, or get a gweed kickin! Tell me far ye're bidin: fit hyne aff park are ye prayin in? " Gin ye ettle tae say somethin, or try tae bide quaet, it's aa the same: He'll gie ye a batterin regairdless, an syne, still fu o rage, say He's suin ye fur assault. This is the freedom gien tae the puir: Fin they're battered, haimmered doon bi neives, they can prig an prig Tae be alloued tae makk their wye hame efterwirds wi a fyew teeth left. An thon's nae aa we need tae be feart o; there'll be nae shortage o reivers Tae spulzie ye, fin the hooses are aa lockit up, fin aa the shutters Afore the shops hae bin chyned an faistened, aawye seelent. An, iver sae aften, there's a cyard wi a sherp knife at wirk: Finiver the Pontine Bog, or the Gallinarian Wid an its pines, Are fur a whylie made safe bi an airmed patrol, the vratches lowp Frae thonner tae here, heidin fur Rome as if tae a game reserve. Far is the lowe or anvil nae made eese o fur makkkin chynes? The maist o oor iron is turned intae fetters; ye should fash aboot An imminent wint o plooshares, a lack o picks an hyews. Ye micht caa oor hyne aff ancestors lucky, lucky thon times Lang syne, fin lives were lived aneth the rule o Caesars an tribunes, Thon generations, that witnessed a Rome far a single jyle wis eneuch. Satire III: 315-322 Sae Fareweel! I could add a heeze o ither rizzons tae these, bit the breets o burden Are brayin, the sun is settin. It's time fur me tae leave; the muleteer Has bin wyvin his wheep, tae signifee he's bin ready tae gae fur a whylie. Sae fareweel, keep me in yer thochts, an finiver Rome sens Ye hashin back, fur a rest in the kintra, tae yer ain Aquinum, Invite me frae Cumae as weel, tae veesit the Ceres o Helvius, an yer Diana. I'll cam in ma nail-shod buits, I'll cam an veesit yer jeelin parks, an, gin they're nae aathegither shamefu, I'll lippen tae yer Satires.'