Scots Poems From Wylde Cattie

Gear Ma bairnhood hame wis young wi Queen Victoria I grew up wi ma granma's auncient gear A lowe that spirkit reid-flamed in the hairth A double bed, a horse-hair stappit cheer A braisse coal scuttle, wee shovel fur coal Braisse kist fur logs, wi jumbos etched aroon Fire tings, a poker, brush, a caunle snuffer Wee Willie Winkie caunle hauder, goun A windae luikin ower a cobbled street Wi widden shutters, wechty velvet drapes A chimin clock, a fite cheena gizunder A mantlepiece wi three wyce ivory apes Twa wattercolour lanscapes frae the glens O Heilan kye aside a misty ben A derk aik press, tae haud ma granny's claes Her semmits, sarks, her bra, her whalebane steys A crystal dish held hairgrips, a horn caimb A pyoke o mothbaas, sprigs o lavender Kept her drawers swete an aa her hankies hale A mini fusky bottle soothed her slumber An in her cupboord, a coat, astrakhan Wi hat boxies, blaik hats fantoosh wi feathers Blaik velvet choker, crochet work for cheers A jewellery case, jet beads, scarfs fur aa weathers Blaik polished sheen, genteel wi siller buckles An thick grey hose. Licht glentin in a glaiss An shaddas lowpin fearie frae the lowe The jungle o Ceylon shone oot in braisse Ma Forebears Herdit Kye Ma forebears herdit kye, Plooed the derk yird o Deeside Their harns an makk Vrocht bi the turnin Sizzins Their consarns bedd inbye the leemits O their dour parks. Till they made the short wauk Tae the mools Some wore the khaki Tuik the lang sleep in Arras Ithers vrocht hyne awa in Ceylon Grew auld in the tea plantations In the cloudy Heilans o thon pearl drap kintra I grew up hearin tales o their ongauns Wi their sons an dothers aroon them Wi their sharny buits an hackit hauns Wi their brose bowls an Jews' harps Wi their hawkish nebs Wi their hens an yowes an ceilidhs Their braid clean skies Wi Lochnagar in the Heivens Nativity Sang: Tune: My Bonnie Lies Over the Ocean A baby wis born in a stable A baby was laid in the strae A baby wis born in a stable An angels aa gaithered tae pray Chorus Baby Jesus wis born upon Christmas Day-ay-ay Baby Jesus wis born upon Christmas Day. The cuddy, the yowe an the kittlin Looked doon at the bairn in the strae The cuddy, the yowe and the kittlin Aa gaithered tae praise him that day Three Kings cam frae hyne awa countries Tae visit the bairn in the strae. Three Kings cam frae hyne awa countries Tae visit the bairnie that day Three shepherds came doon frae the fermlans Tae visit the bairn in the strae. Three shepherds came doon frae the fermlans Tae visit the bairnie that day. Bairn in a Manger Littlin o Mary Ootcast and fremmit Laird o' aa Bairn fa inherits Aa oor ill-daeins Aa o oor coarseness On him fa Royals hae genteel Weel coddled bairnies Brocht up in glamorie Vauntie an blythe Daith shall sune connach Honour an beauty Pleisur shall dwinnle Aneth daith's scythe Bit the maist holey Bairn o salvation Douce-like an hummle Bedd in the hey Noo as oor winnerfu Michty redeemer See him the winner Ower ilkie fae Prophets foretelt him Bairn o bumbazement Angels waatched ower him On his throne Wirthy oor saviour O aa their praises Blythe-like firiver Aa his ain Yule at Coull Kirkyaird The kirkyaird wi its wreaths luiks gay an bricht. Maist lairs hae flooers, cerclin the grey heidstane. The sun sheens doon, a gowden heivenly licht. At Yule nae corp is left tae bide alane, Their ken hae cam, a whyle tae meet an greet Fowk fa hae left, untae the unkent gaen. The seelence here is reverent an sweet Hyne an awa, the antrin car wheechs by Ower Lochnagar, the hint o cauld an sleet The kirkyaird tho, bides walcomin an dry; A flooery bouer that's gledsome tae the sicht, The ruined castle quaet an calm nearbye The line tween deid an leevin here is slicht There's nocht at Coull tae scunner or affricht At the Panto The theatre guffs o juice an pee O sweets an ice cream. Here's aa glee As littlins lowp an skirl an daunce On stage, aa's fun, flumgummery The dame's a loon, the loon's a wife Fur adults, jokes are unca blue (abune the heids o bairnies' ken) In Panto, gender's aa askyoo Wis it funny? Aye it wis! Wis there sangs, an flashin knickers? Aye there were, an thon's showbiz Pleasin aa the ice cream lickers! The Kist I opened the kist an I saw A wattergaw in Glencoe A coo wi a sharny tail A bairn wi scurlt knees A slivvery snottery snail I opened the kist an I heard The cheep o a cutty bird The splash o an anchor drappin The sough o a winter galea A branch on the windae chappin I opened the kist an I felt The silky fur o a mappy The prods on a hurcheon's back A haggis, hett an sappy I opened the kist an I tastit A moufu o Cullen skink A plate o Buchan stovies Some Irn Bru tae drink I opened the kist an set free Dreams o a teenage quine A shelt frae a dubby park The prayers fae a Buddhist shrine! Ben Nevis Fit his bin left on Ben Nevis? The hauf o a lavvie seat A milit'ry flare, a wheen underwear A kirk organ. Fit a treat! A fa could forget the gairden gnome Or the plastic ironin boord Fit wid the morn's archeologists Makk o sic an unca hoard? Wylde Cattie Nae mony chuse tae bide in her lanely airt, Hame o the whaup, the erne, the antrin tod Cercled bi touerin Bens an ferny howes Here meeker breets wauk feart, the Hunter's god The win soughs like a hurtit bairn The peetiless rain dings doon Blatterin whin an fern Wylde cattie's bield's amang birk trees, laricks, firs Swatches o muir an bog, the darksome wid Far the caperkailzie whirrs Her spunky kittlins play-fecht in the gloam Their sherp wee fangs like spikes o brukken glaiss Their mither pads on vauntie paws wi her prize Hung frae her mou, a sonsie skewered moose She'll teir its heid aff, sook its bluid Catch mair tae feed her littlins Suppies o bird's life-juice Their hoose is beeriet in a rickle o stanes At nicht they drink frae a burn, its midnicht goun Hauds reams o starnies on its back As it breenges doon ram-stam, tae the glen's foun Wylde cattie kens nocht o eco-worrits As lang as snaw taps her bens An the lift is cranreuch-siller An the dun deer drinks frae the loch Her sma warld is eneuch. She's fine an crouse, Smaa Heilan Tiger, sherp cleuked huntin puss The Lanesome Ghaistie A ghost tuik a wauk in the dark He flegged a wife ooto her sark Bit fin he said ‘Fit like? ' Postie fled on his bike An aa that wis left? A skidmark! Twa Wee Robins Twa wee robins Reestit on a thorn Oochya! cried the first robin Ma bihoochie's torn Weel, quo the secunt robin Luik afore ye sit I saw fit wis comin Sae I did a flit Doric Owersett o Ceist na Teangan/ The Language Issue: bi Nuala Ní Dhomhail I pit ma hope on the watter In this wee boat O the leid, the wye a body micht pit A babby In a creel o wuvven Iris leaves, Its boddom pruifed Wi bitumen an pitch, Syne set the hale thing doon amang The sedge An bulrushes bi the edge O a river Anely tae hae it cairriet backwird an forrit, Nae kennin far it micht eyn up; In the lap, mebbe, O some Pharaoh's dother. Doric Owersett o Brief reflection on accuracy bi Miroslav Holub Fish Aywis richtly ken far tae meeve an fan, An likewyse Birdies hae a correck in-biggit time sense An direction. Humanity, hoosaeiver, Wintin sic instincks faas back on scientific research. Its natur is shawn bi the follaein on-gaun A partic'lar sodjer Hid tae fire a cannon at sax o'clock sherp ilkie evenin. Being a sodjier he did sae. Fin his accuracy wis Luikit intae he quo: I gae bi The aathegither richt chronometer in the windae O the clockmakker doon in the toun. Ilkie day at seeventeen Forty-five I set ma watch bi it an Sclim the knowe far ma cannon stauns ready. At seeventeen fifty-nine exack I step up tae the cannon And at eichteen oors sherp I fire. An it wis siccar That this wye o firin wis aathegither perfeck. Aa that wis left wis tae check thon chronometer. Sae The clockmaker doon in the toun wis speired aboot His instrument's richtness. Och, quo the clockmakker, This is ane o the maist perfeck instruments iver. Jist think, For mony years noo a cannon's bin fired at sax o'clock sherp. An ilkie day I luik at this chronometer An aywis it shaws sax exack. Doric Owersett of Creative Writing by Miroslav Holub On the faist train tae Vienna She screives in her diary Jottins aboot Rome an Naples. Ink merks like parthenogenetic aphids, Pages like bluid skytes O homin cushie doos She's alane, gray, adjustit, A Leda lang eftir the swan's depairture, Odysseus retired at Lotophagitis. Back hame, in Maryland, The jotter will be beeriet In the archetypal drawer, Amang the yallaed luve letters, Amang the bairnie hair curls, Amang the dried adult flooers, Nearhaun the cushion far the libbit cat dwaums Whyle Mahler's foriver foriver foriver Smores in the green waa paper. It's her message tae imagined wee sons; It's her memmership in the club O Swifts, Goethes, Rimbauds, Horatiuses an deidwatch clockers It's her monument ootlaistin bronze, Five-dimensional reality, the hinmaist scrattin O primeval man on reindeer bane, The hinmaist drap O the fluid sowel Afore it cheenges tae rikk.