Scots Poems From The Mithers

Or Sae ma faither telt me Up bi Aberarder,13 bonnet lairds Drave Farquharson the chief gyte wi their fechtin Sae he sent oot an invite tae a verra special feast Tae sattle aa their strivin wis his reckonin The barn at Ballochlaggan wis the venue fur the tryst The bonnet lairds strode in, as prood's afore Till ane bi ane they raise tae leave, their bellies stappit fu Nae kennin fit wis wytin throwe the door The chief had henchmen postit. As each bonnet laird appeared He wis catched, hung frae a gibbet, speedily Sae endit aa their quarrels, fur a deid man canna fecht An thon is true, or sae ma faither telt me The Fleein Princess A lang time back the king of Norroway Wis telt that Scotland's wids were best avaa An sae he sent his dother aff tae learn The Black Airts. Sivven years she wis awa An she brocht hame a buik o evil spells An sclimmed up tae her faither's heichest touer She snecked the yett an spakk an oorie chant A grey cloud formed outside her lanely bouer She sclimmed up on the windae, forrit booed Stepped in the cloud that wauchted tae the sea Abune the bens an fjords oot ower the snaw Far wolf packs ran, tae Scotland speedily Aince there, frae throwe the cloud flashed lichtnin bolts Set fire tae wids, the flames drave aa afore Beavers an tods, brocks, deer, adders an shelts Heidit for Rothiemurchas by the score The refugees socht oot a shaman's help He gaithered up the siller things they ained Meltit them doon, belt buckles, brooches, speens A muckle arrawheid he vrocht, pyntit an planed An neist he telt the fowk tae gaither up Aa mither breets, soos, hennies, coos wi zeal An lead them aa uptae a heich knowe tap An gaither up their bairnickies as weel The piglets, chuckens, foals, the calves, the lammies Were led up tae anither nearhaun ben An skreiched an skirled an baaed oor fur the maas Ach sic a soun near deafened the hale glen The princess hearin thon sair stounin soun Luiked tae see the cause o aa this dreid The shaman lowsed the arra frae his bow The arra pierced her hairt. She drapped doon deid The cloud sailed aff, hyne back tae Norroway The rains fell doon, pit oot the ragin flames Sae savin wids, fowk, Scottish breets as well In spite o thon derk princess an her games Mither an Bairn Mither an bairn are close as rose an bud The quinie's babygrow is pink, rowed in a bosie, The heat o luve, o swyte, o hippen's weet The pair, a single flesh sae snod an cosie The mither's hair is hudderie, taigled, fair Her babby's hair's a wispy waucht o fluff Sweet stank o briest milk lingers in the air The scene is ane o babby-mither stuff Tod Lowpin tod, lowpin tod Did yer lugs pick up a squeak? Lowpin tod, lowpin tod Fit a sleekit like technique! Doon aneth the snaa it hides Trimmlin in the cauld it bides Lowpin tod, lowpin tod Hear its hairt dunt in its sides! Alane & Thegither The crofter's hoose, white washed, is geometric Its waas, its windaes, neuked an staunin stinch Bigged tae withstaun the win, the storm's stramash The girse wyves, boos an daunces, swippert, swack Like a young quine catched up in music's thrall Girse or hoose: fit ane will oot live tither? The Traiveller The traiveller rests aneth the meen The starnies glent far ere ye luik Cauld Winter shaves the branches bare The traiveller's screivin in his buik Somelike John Bunyan's pilgrim cheil This traiveller's path is still unkent Fit Weird awytes him at the eyn? Will life be joy an sorras blent? Doric Owersett of Losing a Slave Girl by Bai Juyi, Chinese poet of the Tang dynasty (618-907) Aroon ma yaird the teenie waa is laigh; At the street yett her loss wis postit late. I am affrontit. Whyles we werenae kind I'm sorry fur yer wirk, that winna be repyed. The jyled birdie owes nae lealty; The win-blawn flooer disnae grip the tree. Far she lies the nicht naebody kens; Naebody kens, bar the bricht watchin meen. Doric Owersett of Golden Bells by Bai Juyi Fin I wis near forty I'd a dother fas nemme wis Gowden Bells. Noo it's jist a year since she wis born; She's larnin tae sit an canna yet spikk. Affrontit—tae fin that I hinna a wyce hairt: Gaun forrit I am tied tae things outside masel: Ma anely reward—the pleisur I'm gettin noo. Gin I'm spared the sorra o her deein young, Syne I'll hae the tribble o gettin her mairriet. Ma plan fur retirin an gaun back tae the Bens Maun noo be pit aff fur years! Doric Owersett o Poems in Depression, at Wei Village by Bai Juyi I bosie ma bowster an dinna spikk a wird; In ma teem chaumer nae soun steers. Fa kens that, aa day in bed, I'm nae ill an amnae even asleep? Dwined tae yalla are the loon's rosy chikks; Tae his peely-wally broo the cranreuch winter hauds Dinna winner that ma body crines tae foonerment; Tho ma limbs are auld, ma hairt is aulder yet. Doric Owersett of A Lament for my son Ts'Ui by Bai Juyi Ye wir a pearl In the palm o ma haun, Ma teenie baby loon. Foo is it that masel, A fite-haired cheil o saxty years, Am left ahin, An ye, a bairn o three, Maun bi Heiven's seelent, stern decree, Precede me Tae thon oorie an hyne-aff lan O daith? Ma hairt is hurtit sair, Bit nae wi a blade o steel; Ma auld een are blearie an blae Bit nae wi the stoor o the yird. These airms That held ye teetle ma breist Are teem noo An I murn, as did Teng Yu o auld, Ma anely son. Doric Owersett of Hares at Play by John Clare The birds are gaen tae reest, the kye, are quaet An yowes lie pechin on each mowdie-knowe; An in aneth the saugh's siller-green bough, Like work set restin, lies the idle ploo. The feartie bawds haive daylicht flegs awa On the lane's road tae lowp an daunce an play, Syne paiddle in the corn bi naucht pit oot Tae lick the dyew-faa frae the barley's beard; Syne oot they jink again an roon the knowe Like blythesome thochts daunce, hunker, dauchle there Till milkin lassies in the early morn Jingle their yokes an fleg them in the corn; Throwe well-kent, trodden paths each swippert bawd Jouks faist as fear, an sikks its happit lair. A Doric Alphabet An aiblich, a bauchle, a cattie A dauchlin, an dyterin dyeuk An eggie, a footer, a grumphie A hurcheon, an ingle tae jouk A kimmer, a lintie, a moothie A numpty, an orral, a peewit A quinie, a rammie, a steamie A trauchle, umbrellae, a veesit A warlock, an X-Ray, a yeitie A zebra oot weirin a nightie Scots gaes roon yer hairt like a fat hairy wirm It's gallus, it's cannie, it's couthie Ridin the Win Twa reid kites are ridin the win Their sicht o the lan's the raptor's view Like an ordinance survey map The parks an squars are green, broon, yalla Tae you, tae me, they luik like geometric shapes Tae the heich reid kites, Wi eesicht like high-pouered radar A teenie meevement o fur, Like a preen in a ruck o hey, Is maet. Ane draps like a steen A blur o speed an feathers Maureen an Moira: The Bus Tour North East bus tour companies always play a selection of music to pass the hours on the road Country roads, take me home, to the place where I belong West Virginia, mountain mama, take me home, country roads Weel we're nae starved o the sicht o trees Maureen. I like a tree..bit only a happy tree. Thon rowan looks happy Ay Moira, bit d'ye see thon horse? It's lookin richt doon in the moo Ye niver see a horse smilin… Maureen, sae wid you be if you'd tae staun in the same park aa day. Same fower neuks. Nae company tae news wi… I fell in to a burning ring of fire Went down, down, down, And the flames went higher And it burns, burns, burns, The ring of fire, The ring of fire Moira, that says it aa eftir last nicht's curry. An I'm really hippit sittin sae lang on ma dowp Just because we are married, don't mean we can't slip around So let's walk out through the moonlight And lay the blanket on the ground Och Moira look at the sky! 40 shades o grey! Rain! It's easy kent you've bin readin filth since your George deid Maureen. The wumman fa wrote thon buik wis a fool moch. Fin I feel thon wye, I takk up ma knittin I maun hae a wife, an whatsoe'er she be; An she be a woman, that's enough for me. Be she green or gray; or be she black or fair; Let her be a woman, I shall seek nae mair. Did ye see thon waitress in the café Moira? Twa breists as big as bus stops. Bit a bonnie face… last nicht thon wumman wi the ponytail necked a hale bottle o gin. I'm surprised she's still able tae staun It's been a hard day's night, And I've been workin' like a dog It's been a hard day's night, I should be sleepin' like a log Thon Paul McCartney canna sing for toffee noo. Somebody should tell the puir sowel he's passed his sell by date. If the driver plays another Abba song, I'm switchin aff ma hearin aid O brochan lom tana lom brochan lom is sughain Brochan lom tana lom brochan lom is sughain X 2 Maureen, isn't nature's winnerfu? Plants an trees aa grow in the spring, dee in the winter. an naebody tells them tae dae it, they jist ken! See thon park o winter wheat? Ae shouer o rain an up it pops! Aathegither! Like synchronized dauncin! Moira, hae a sweetie an gie yer mou a rest! Fower Shorties Hae ye seen twa birdies pass? They niver stop tae blether Jist cairry on their different wyes Takk nae tent o each ither! Dinna sit in a sitooterie If ye ging tae Tillycoultry Speecially if the weather's splooterie Dinna dauchle nearby Stirlin If a doonpish it is thunnerin Or blin drift is roon ye birlin I wid like tae be a coo Tae staun aa day an dream an moo Tae chaw the girse an pee an poo Ma wirries wid be sma an fyew Three Speecial Airts As I cam ower the smaa glen The lift wis grey an lowerin The touerin bens owerluiked the burn Like muckle giants glowerin Rest an be Thankfu, sic a climm! The reidcoat sodjers biggit This road, that stauns abune Glen Croe Bi swyte, hard warsslin thiggit The sun plays peek-a-boo atween The trees, on fairy clearins O moss an fern, an heather bells And yowes new shorn bi shearins A lanely place, a speecial place Is caad the Tinker's Hairt Myndin on tinkers o langsyne Far tinkers' waddins stert