Scots Poems From The Devil's Pulpit

The Enemy Inside My virr has dwined awa, The enemy's inside, Ma face is tae the waa It's like aybydan snaa, A deidly, creepin tide The shakks takk ower aa My myndin's gaen ta-ta Blytheness is drave aside I hyter an whyles faa Bit fin I dream, it's braa I'm hale. Dreams dinna bide I wauken. Corbies craa My weird is coorse an slaw My face is tae the waa Overheard at Wetherspoons So we sat doon at reception An Wayne taen Ellie tae the toilet "That'll be £750, " the quine sez. "We've nae confirmation o Ony special deal on yer holiday." My ma wis gettin annoyed. "Could ye go an get somebody? " She sez, "I'm nae pyin that! " The quine kept on thinggyin On her computer. I thocht, she disnae ken my ma. I thocht, there'll be a riot in a mintie. Bit then she raged wee Ellie Fur dingin her bell, an It wis me that lost it. I tuik a richt mentler. That's fin my ma sez "Sorry aboot this. We canna wauk awa frae oor kids Bit men can." An ma da niver gaed a cheep. Bullied Sadie an Georgie, John an Belle Ivery day makk my life hell They gar me greet, bit I'm feart tae tell Dae they pick on me cause I'm wee? On Monday they caad me a glekit mink They shouted at me, ‘Drap deid ye stink' Jist playgrun banter, the teachers think Foo is it aywis me? On Tuesday they wyted oot side the haa They flang ma homework ower the waa They tripped me up an they made me faa My life is a misery On Wednesday they tuik ma phone an hid it Threw dubs in ma face an denied they did it Spat on ma hair, an filmed an shared it Fan will they let me be? On Thursday they trolled me wi nesty texts On social media pit feary threats I wet the bed I wis sae upset Fan will I iver be free? On Friday I plunkit the schule again I sat on the swing bit through my brain Yer an ugly daftie…their wirds brocht pain They think it's funny, ye see My ma is aywis skint…we're puir Ma wirries are ower sair tae share Fin I grow up I'll nae bide here Nae mair bullies for me! At the Embro Festival There's torn denim jaikets, there's lycra an satins, There's dreidlocks, there's mohawks, tattoo Celtic patterns, Thoosans o fowk are here, waukin an drivin, On trams, buses, bicycles, lauchin an joggin An aa tae see theatre, comedy, airt, That'll empty yer pooch, an set fire tae yer hairt Music an daunce ower hunners o neuks Frae Hamlet tae Burns, on the stage, read frae buiks There's waukin tours veesitin ghaists o the toun International actors in make-up an goun There's boorichs o fowk far street jugglers perform There's umbrellas gaun up in a faist simmer storm There's caunlelicht soirees, there's smoorichan pairs There's art wirks hung random ower Embro's steep stairs There's tub duntin speeches doon basements, in bars, Will the audience witness the birth o new stars? Hear fiddlers, hear pipers, see heilanders dauncin Ett black puddin suppers, see gulls an doos pykin Watch oot fur drooths sweirin, the polis are hotchin, As beggars sing solos, an towrists are lippenin There are hoors, creashie pug dugs, there's cabbies, an sailors, There's chauncers an chorers, there's bairns haein capers There's fire eaters, tumblers, balloons on a string Auld fowk suppin ice cream, an trams that gae ching In August the hale o the warld tries tae squeeze Intae Auld Reekie's back wynds far tourin groups heeze Greyfriar's Bobby maun birl in his grave Tae ken fit he's missin, Embro's Annual Rave The Devil's Pulpit Hyne hyne doon at the foun o the glen The bluid-reid Carnock's twirlin Atap a stane in this oorie burn The deil aince preached a sermon The Finnich glen is an eildritch airt It's seen Druids' rituals An witches, warlocks, deid langsyne Aince cast their evil spells There's an emerant cave in the gorge's side An auld steps dreepin weet An there in the seenister gloamin licht Is the flash o faerie feet The Beheidin Stane, Stirlin Gin ye've a thocht-fu turn o mind Seek the beheidin stane Upon a spur o the Gowan knowes That eyndit the lives o men It luiks ootower the wyndin Forth Set there bi Jeems the First A monarch wi a grip o steel Aa Lords fa crossed him, curst A timmer block wis nailed on it Tae rest the condemned's heid The aixeman swung his aixe an syne The heidin stane ran reid There Wattie Stewart met his eyne Guilty o robbery The Earl o Lennox, an his frien The Duke o Albany Sae wauk ye saftly ben thon airt An in the listenin air Ye still micht hear the daithly sabs O them fa perished there The Golem o Prague The Rabbi Löw in auncient Prague He kent the magic wird That could combine fower elements Fire, watter, air an yird He vrocht a sculpture ooto dubs Kent as the michty Golem He pit a deerskin necklace Wi mystic signs, a token Aroon its neck. Inveesible This pouer he'd awoken A whyle the Golem wirked richt weel Tae keep Jews safe frae skaith An in its mooth, a tablet sat Tae gie it life an braith The Golem grew in virr an pouer This thing o magic craft Wird wis brocht tae the rabbi syne His monster had gaen daft Insteid o gweed it wirked fur ill The Rabbi ran richt faist Tae rug the tablet frae its mou The life dwined in its breist Sae did the michty Golem end Ne'er tae be seen again The Rabbi larned, as maun we aa That men canna jink pain King Charles III: for the bairns His Auston Martin rins on English wine His Jaguar is pouered bi cookin ile He's aywis bin an eco-warrior An warns fowk it's wrang the warld tae spyle A history degree in Cambridge toun He won. He's heidit umpteen charities His Prince's Trust has gaen a helpin haun Tae young fowk giein a sair needit heeze. He has an wechty rowth o royal nemmes; Lord o the Isles, King an Great Steward o Scotland A heeze o titles langer than yer airm As near eneuch's ye'd hae in a pipe band! He screived a buik for bairns that's braw tae read It's titled the Auld Man o Lochnagar He's lued at Birkhaa, Ballater as weel An likes tae watch the Games up in Braemar Vlad the Impaler's bluid rins in his veins His veggies maun be steamed in mineral watter He likes eggs biled fur sivven meenits exact Etts lamb wi wild mushrooms on a platter His peintins hae cost ower twa million dollars He drinks Darjeelin tea wi milk an hinney He dived doon tae explore the Mary Rose Henry the VIIIth's flagship o his Navy The king's a superman, he's aye oot hikin Like ony mountain goat, up Heilan bens He's trained tae flee a jet an helicopter Tae fish an sheet an hunt up lanely glens He plays the cello, whyles stauns on his heid Plays polo, spikks tae flooers, plants mony trees Disnae like chocolate, garlic, or drink coffee A park ranger, keeps skepps o royal bees Himsel & Queen Camilla ain twa dugs (Jack Russell terriers, Bluebell an Beth Twa rescue tykes) . They're kintrafowk at hairt Birkhaa is far they gae tae rest, draw braith He's sung in the Bach Choir, appeared in soaps He is a genuine Patron o the Airts (A walk-on pairt on Coronation Street… In truth King Charles is a lad o pairts) He's funded twal new musical commissions Tae be performed, at his coronation He'll be anointed syne wi haly ile Ambergris, jasmine, rose an cinnamon He hauds strang views on global climate cheenge An favours cures bi homeopathy He rins e-cars, recycles in his hames Hates Brutalism, lues humanity A Goon Show fan, he's read on Jackanory Presented weather forecast on TV He is a member o the Magic Cercle Faith, is there onythin he canna dee? Delinquents/Bairns It's the same the hale warld ower Rabbie Sanderson aged nine chored twa toys An a siller watch. His da wis a leerie-man Thirty strikes o the wheep wis his lawfu punishment It's the puir that gets the blame Mary McDonald, bedd in Constitution Street A tinker's quine fa chored twa neeps Gaen ten days in jyle It's the rich that gets the pleisur A laddie kent as ‘Daftie' chored some rags Thon earned him thirtysax strikes o the wheep Isn't it a bloomin shame Johnnie Simpson's faither, a flax dresser, deed o cholera Johnnie, aged thirteen chored a worsit plaidie frae an auld caileach Pawned it at the Gallowgate fur three shillings Gaed tae a pie shop, bocht tarts an gaed tae the theatre Bedd ower at Mrs Fyfe's hoose (a kent fence) in Peacock Close Forty days in jyle It's the same the hale warld ower Johnnie Craig aged twal chored twa pun o beef Wis wheeped twinty times an twinty days in jyle It's the puir that gets the blame Willie Black, ‘a puir sowel' aged eleyven Chored twa toys an wis wheeped Willie wis illegitimate, his ma selt buckies St Nicholas parish gied him claes an sheen His ma an grannie selt them He wis fand in the street, in rags, beggin It's the rich that gets the pleisur Maggie McConnachie aged thirteen a hure Parents baith boozers, faither a lum swyper Aged eleyven Maggie chored a cheese Got saxty days in jyle Isn't it a bloomin shame All Nature has a Feeling: by John Clare Scots Owersett of this poem Aa natur has a feelin: wids, parks, burns Are life aybydan: an in seelence syne They spikk hynie ayont the raxx o buiks; There's naethin mortal in them; an their dwine Is the green life o cheenge; tae weir awa An cam again in flooer noo revived Its birth was heiven, aybydan, here in aa An wi the sun an meen it shall still bide Aneth their day an nicht an heiven wide. Summmer: by John Clare Scots Owersett of this poem Cam we tae the simmer, tae the simmer we will cam, Fur the wids are fu o bluebells an the busses fu o bloom, An the craa is on the aik tree a-biggin o her nest, An luve is burnin diamonds in ma true luve's breist; She sits aneth the hawthorn a-pleatin o her hair, An I will tae ma true luve wi a fond wintin speir I will luik upon her face, I will in her brawness reist, An lay ma trauchelt weariness upon her bonnie breist. The leddylanners treetles on the open flooer o Mey, The blythesome bee is tramplin the pinky threids aa day, An the shelfie it is cockin on its grey foggy nest In the hawthorn buss far I will lean upon ma luver's breist; I'll lean upon her breist an I'll whisper tae her saftly That I canna win a wink o' sleep fur thinkin o ma dearie I hunger at ma maet an I dwine wi luve sairly Like the wud rose that is brukken in the heat o the day. Owersett of White Hairs by Wang Wei (Tan Dynasty) Aince a wee bairn noo an auld bodach. Fite hairs tae match the saft doon. Foo the hairt gets hurtit bi life. Ayont the Yettless Yetts Far wintin eyns. Wauchtin by Wang Wei September lift is clear in the hyne-awa Clearer still sae apairt frae human kind. A Lang-Sally bi the puil, a cloud on a ben, Either o them makks the harns blythe. The feintest ripples still an gloamin's here. The meen turns siller an I dream, This nicht, leanin on a lane oar, Wauchtin wioot thocht o gaun hame. In the slant o the sun on the kintra-side, Kye yowes trauchle hame alang the lane; An a roch auld cheil in a theekit yett Leans on a staff an thinks o his loon, the herd laddie. There are whirrin pheasants, fu wheat-lugs, Silk-wirms asleep, paired mulberry-leaves. An the fairmers, returnin wi hyews on their shoulders, Hail one anither couthily. ...Nae winner I lang fur the simple life An am soughin the auld song, Ochone, tae gae back again. Fields and Gardens by the River Qi by Wang Wei I bide apairt bi the River Qi, Far the Eastern wilds streetch hyne wioot knowes. The sun derkens ayont the mulberry trees; The river glents throwe the clachans. Shepherd loons depairt, keekin back tae their hames; Huntin tykes return follaein their maisters. Fin a cheil's at peace, fit business dis he hae? I steek faist ma kintraside yett throwe the day. A Song of a Girl from Loyang by Wang Wei There's a quine frae Loyang in the yett ower the street, She luiks fifteen, she's mebbe a thochtie aulder. ...Whyle her maister rides his faist shelt wi jade bit an bridle, Her haunmaid brings her cod-fish in a gowden ashet. On her peinted pavilions, facin reid touers, Cornices are pink an green wi peach-flouers an wi sauch, Hingins o silk hap her sivven-scentit chair, An rare fans shade her, hame tae her nine-flouered curtains. Her lord, wi rank an siller in the breirin o life, Exceeds in wealth the richest cheils langsyne. He favours this quine o lowly birth, he has larned her tae daunce; An he gies awa his coral-trees tae near onybody. The win o daybrakk jist steers fin his nine saft lichts gae oot, Thon nine saft lichts like petals in a fleein chyne o flooers. Atween daunces she has barely time fur singin songs; Nae suner is she riggit again than incense burns afore her. Fowk she kens in toun are anely the rich an the lavish, An day an nicht she is veesitin the hosts o the blythest biggins. ...Fa takks tent o the quine frae Yue wi a face o fite jade, Humble, puir, alane, bi the river, washin silk? White Rock Rapids by Meng Haoran, Tang Dynasty) Wi shanks hingin frae a stane at the edge o the watter, Sweeshin ben the waves, my mood his run its course. As the sun gaes doon, it turns cauld on the river, Wauchtin clouds are dull an wintin colour. On Qingming Day, a Topic of the Moment by Meng Haoran (Tang Dynasty) In the emperor's airt, Qingming Day is valued, A body's hairt turns natural tae thochts o wae. The clash o cairriages mells on the road, The colour o sauchs is deep-green bi the east toun-waa. Flouers faa, as girses breenge up thegether, Orioles takk flicht, while butterflees play. In the teem haa jist noo I am myndin on ye, Poorin tea fur a while insteid o gettin blootert. Crossing the Jiang at Yangz by Meng Haoran Frae cassia oars in mid-current I luik hyne aff, The Jiang near the capital is bricht on baith shores. A wid shaws the Yangzi post-station, Ooto bens rises Runzhou toun. Far the sea eyns, shade his sattled at the sides, As the river growes cauld, widlan wins arise. An syne I hear, frae the aneth the leaves, The reeshin an wheeshlin o autumn's voice passin The Palace of Lasting Happiness by Meng Haoran The toun o Qin frae langsyne wis praised as braw an fantooth The Hoose o Han o a certanty hid mony airts fur "cheengin claes." Fowk in rouge an pooder fa enticed their lord are to be fand far? The blae laft-biggins, throwe eyndless nicht sang niver tae see the dawn. In the Palace o Laistin Blythness the bells hae since bin smored, Far singers an dauncers, sae bonnie, wir eesed tae bein eekit on. Delicht an enjoyment in sic maitters noo has gaen still an seelent, There is jist, year on year, the lamentin o trees bi the tumuli.