The Skreich: (20 Scots Poems)

1.Daith o a Matriarch She lay in her kist like a towrist packed fur leavin Her single ticket stamped tae the warld o air Her knobbly neives luiked tint wioot their worsit, Her threids o silk, her eident crochet-heuk Nae wyver iver vrocht sic bonnie moose-wabs She wis the dragon-slayer o ma cauf-days Although I niver saw her weir glad-rags Anely blaik widda-weeds, wi a gowden smile She popped her wirds like sweeties in ma moo Tae melt, an meeve ma fledglin tongue tae Scots Bound fur the howe-dumb-deid o the glaury mools Braif sowl, wi naethin tae fear frae the Scales o Justice, Held bi the fearsome God o her stinch forebears . 2.The Last Will an Testament o the Turra Coo Guid mornin tae ye Turra Coo, yer luikin unca queer... 'I've haen a cheque screived on ma hide This mony a weary year. But noo I am the sickest coo That iver strode a park And I wad makk ma testament, Afore I greet the derk. Gae takk these bonnie horns o mine, That gart ma heid luik hard And gie them tae a Burns Club Fur toastin o the bard Gae takk this bonnie hide o mine, An turn it intae sheen And gie it tae a comely quine Tae daunce in Aiberdeen Gae takk this stoot richt leg o mine, Tae celebrate Aal Eel It will makk mince tae feed a prince An stap fowks' stammachs weel An takk this ither leg o mine, An tie the Saltire on it For I'm a patriotic coo An wirthy o a sonnet Gae takk thon bonnie tail o mine, That hings abeen ma dowp And gie it tae the Turra lads Tae gar the midgies lowp.' Now in there cam a Turra lad Wi sighs an shakk o heid 0 fit care we for ither kye? Noo oor auld coo is deid Bit sune there'll be a statue braw As bricht as mornin dew For myndin o the michty deeds 0 Turra's famous coo 3.William Blake as a Kelpie Blake wis a fey craitur, strang, wud, forcey, A dominie's widden-dream. Snub-snoot, wi a braid, heich broo, Newsin wi cherubim an silkies Flichts of flim-flammerie gart him gallop aff On uplans o delicht...Hosanna traivels Short-ersed an gleg, A candidate fur bedlam or Utopia Fit a kelpie! A whirlpuil drave his hooves His een reamin wi veesions Muckle nostrils gaapin wi flame an grue Pouerfu flanks lowpin the fences o the ordnar Nae wheep or bridle iver held him hummle. 4.Santa Fun Run: Pittodrie, Yule 2009 Santas ettin bananas. Santas on mobile phones Santas cairrying rucksacks. Ring-tones, ring-tones, ring-tones Santas joggin and jiggin, wi beards an ponytails Santas in kilts an trainers, rigged oot for Pittodrie gales Santas bosyin babies..Santas wi greyhound dugs Santas like letter boxes..Santas like lowping frogs Doon by the sea beach breezes, chiels hairy shanks turn blae Santas in Charity Fun Run, rin far the sna-waves spray! 5.The Roaring Game: In Memorium, Angus Calder oh here's the curlin stane oh it's a bobbydazzler as they say in the rauchle tongue sun sheenin ower the ice a richt wee beauty fine stane this poetry in motion ken Bloomsbury club level nae danger a bit o a wobbler on the rink gatherin a lot o interest though there's even a penguin watchin even the souls o the deid are takkin seats orra toun keelies are sayin it winna keep the pace awa an raffle yersel sez I thon stane plays a gey deep game it's breengin on regairdless tremendous, the sun ahin the castle skytin on forrit tae the target wyte though wyte though luikin a bit shoogly luikin a bit heelstergowdie bit here's twa sweepers wi breems cannie cannie cannie ay that's it back on the straicht road again oh nah nae anither wobbler bit here's the sweepers oot again giein it laldy smeethin its wye giein it laldy clunk an it's ower the ice is peely wally noo ye'd think it wis greetin or droonin in'ts ain snot weel grief's like that a mixter maxter o grief an relief 6.Twa Traditional Doric Graces Grace be here an grace be there An grace be ower the table Let ilkie een takk up a speen An sup as faist's they're able Here's health an happiness aa yer days Plenty o siller an plenty o claes A sugar bowl an a horn speen An anither tattie fm that een's deen. 7.A Jaunt roon Scotlan We're settin aff upon a tour frae John o Groats tae Papa Stour (Ye'll catch nae leprosy or scoor frae Heckelbirnie Here, anely midgies hae the pouer tae soor yer journey) Let's takk a turn roon Galashiels, or Weymss, far contermascious deils Micht lowp like puddocks wi greased heels tae bagpipes skirl We Scots lue jigs an echtsome reels wi hooch an birl Let's ett a bannock in Dunoon.. Or tea an scone in auncient Scone Or dunt a gowf baa aa roon Troon.. Ye catch ma drift? Wi menus prentit bi Ma Broon, fa'd seek tae shift? Mebbe we'll paiddle in Loch Shin.. Or tramp the heather roon Killin Sup Irn Bru ooto the tin at Monifieth Or think upon oor lives o sin, in kirk in Leith Gweed friens, let's eyn at Tillicoultry, even tho weather's weet an splootry Tae veesit Tighnabruaich's footery... The lave we'll view Bi warld-wab in a sit-ooterie... draw up a pew! 8.The Protestant Granfaither tuik the Bible bi the throat He wis precentor ilkie Sabbath mornin, Throosh halflins fa he catched the Lord's wird scomin, Tellin them love wis in his liftit haun That sufferin kept their sinfu sowels afloat, They maun be scourged tae reach the Promised land. Hell's lowes he didna doot, war bigged tae burn The ne'er dae weels awa like ugsome rikk; Alang wi heathens, fowk o orra spikk This faithless generation he wad ban As frae his path their feckless feet they turn Tae wyes he'd neither chuse nor unnerstaun. Doon in the yird his clorty jaw-bane sighs For psalm an paraphrase, a Haly soun; Anely the chunnerin wirm chaws at his foun On Judgement Day, tho, Protestants alane He kens, will be upgaithered tae the skies The lave, bide in the mools, like some cowped stane. 9.Ooto the Elements Heelstergowdie, happit wi haar Slidders the sea wi its rowth o dulse Dowie an dreich in gurly nichts The sooch an thrum o the ocean's pulse The yird is yoamin wi flooer an tree Seeds grow thrang in Creation's stoor The yark o the scythe makks room for mair The wersh, the spicy, the sweet, the soor See the birds in the cloudy lift Tossed an touselt bi lichtsome air Wallopin branch an boaties' sail Furlin the rikk an the lassie's hair 10.Mary King's Close Aince Embro toun wis derk an cauld Stappit wi twinin, nerrra lanes A seventeenth century orra neuk Far Daith keeked oot frae windae panes The Plague sae thrived in ae sma Close The city leaders steeked it up Bricked in alive, hale families deed A willie-waucht frae Murder's cup A year gaed by. The bricks, caad doon Revealed sax hunner corpses there Sliced up bi butchers, tae remove Them tae ae muckle dowie lair The ghaist o ae wee shilpit lass Fa haunts yon eildritch dowie den Touches the hairts o mortal fowk Fa leave wee toys tae cheer her there Step cannie by thon street o dule Nae bonnie birds sae blithesome sing Far hoodies bigg their blichtit nests... The Killin Close o Mary King. 11.The Landlord The landlord's den wis in aneth my chaumer He wis the Sanky hymn on the scratty record player The wizened neive that haundit ower ma mail The leer that fuspered 'Is thou frae a lad? ' Lickin his lips like the thocht wis fine an tasty I reested up abeen in his deid loon's flat His deid loon, catched bi the sea Fa's droonin turned the landlord's wife Frae a wyme tae a snibbit kist The landlord stank o dulse an fooshty wins Straicht frae the herbour waa Creepin as near's he daur, like the win-blawn san Naethin therein wis mine. Ma rented days an nichts War fulled bi sea, glowerin in throw the windae A peepin Tom. Soochin at nicht in ma lugs Syne ae day, there he stude, The orra bodach, creaky in yalla ileskins Me, cookin ma breakfast on ae open ring His auld cleuk yarked me roon Tae force his slivvery moo doon on ma lips A tuilzie settled it. Fyach, he wis strang Sae muckle strength in a dry auld stick like thon! Flang aff, he muttered Jist a wee bit fun Nae ill dane, lassie. Dinna tell the wife. A whine, a wheedle, priggin like a tyke I slammed the yett in his face For oors, abune his sink, his tap, his drain Scoorin ma lips wi carbolic till they bled. 12.Major Weir Did iver ye hear o Major Weir fa beddit his sister Grizel? He cairriet a muckle blackthorn staff as furly's a warlock's pizzle He heidit the Embro auld toun guaird. He mockit the great Montrose Weir wis a Hell Fire preachin chiel, steered God in his brakkfaist brose At the heicht o a sermon he cheenged his tack, gied praise tae the fork-tailed Deil Telt aabody there o his Hellish ploys an gnashed his teeth wi zeal They tuik him up the gibbet stairs. The hangie thrawed his thrapple An eftir, a phantom coach drave up tae ferry him tae the Deevil 13.Airport Security An Aiberdeen quine weirin bling, gart the airport security ping Frae her neck tae her buits, even roon baith her queats She had hauf the gowd-plate in Beijing 14.The Blin Lump A chiel wi a byle on his chikk, wis silent fur nearhaun a wikk Fur fear it wid sting gin he happened tae sing Or waur, it micht burst should he spikk. 15.Tae Norroway ben the Clouds The towrist sat in the aircraft lounge Drinkin the bluid-reid wine 'Oh far'll 1 get a bonnie plane Gaun tae a neuk that's fine? ' Oh up an spakk a glekit gype Sat on his fat bumbee 'Oh Norroway is the rarest neuk That iver a chiel micht see'. Tae Norroway, tae Norroway, Tae Norroway he's gaen Tae see if it's a bonnie neuk Weel wirthy o its name. Bit fin he cam tae Norroway The satt tear blinnt his ee The cost o breid, an baps an milk Wis dear's French lingerie. I didna sikk tae buy a hoose, Jist ae wee meal, ' he cried Bit fin he reached the check oot till They skinned him, flesh an hide. 'Nae winner aa the doos.' he maned 'Luik in a stervin state The towrists here maun ett the crumbs The knife, the fork, the plate. A semmit ower in Norroway Is dear as ony car A pair o draaers in Norroway Wad fund a mini-war. Be it hail, be it sleet, be it cauld, be it weet I'll flee hame ben the dark Hame, hame tae Scotia I maun gyang Afore I tyne ma sark.' Oh aa ye towrists o the warld This Caution ye will thank It's gin ye flee tae Norroway Ye'll need tae rob a bank. 16.The Skreich In mochles an fleecy jaikets, scarves an buits In the neb-nippin, tae-dirlin cauld o the frozen streets, Fowk creep up the Pictur Gallery steps Like climmers ascendin an Alp Feart they micht skyte an tummle tae the cassies Like Icarus frae the Heivens. Some, hae wytit an oor fur the yetts unsnibbin Cerclin roon like mappies in the snaa Some hae crossed hauf the warld Tae keek at a daub as wee as a brakkfest tray. The snibs slide in their grooves. The international public breenges by the Renoirs, Courbets, peintins 0 fjords an Bens an herds frae uplan ferms Drawn like mochs tae the flame o Room 24. The Skreich. Skrirk, Munch's skirl The mask o grue is glued tae the chiel's face Fite as corp-skin stukk tae leevin flesh. Munch has peintit the void, the teemness o waas Kennin that fyles the warld crummles aneth yer fit Whylst nearhaun fiers an friens staun claikin an lauchin Easy-osy, nae hearin the skreich o yer sowel. 17.Norse Cuisine Codfish steeped in caustic soda Lutefish served wi bacon grease Moose an mackerel, monkfish, reindeer Molasses poored ower broon goat's cheese Sauerkraut, wi prunes an pears Hauf a yowe's heid...een as weel Soor cream parritch, served wi sausage Can yer stammach thole the sweel? 18.Ragin Littlin Fit an ill-naturet loon! His roose is hotterin, Hett as soup on the bile. His hale physog's a girn. Snoot wrunkled up Like a prune Moo fu o slivvers an skirl till the ragin finally stops Disn't he gar yer lugs dirl! 19.Aal Eel As celebrated by the Buchan Association The sids tae sowens hae bin made The room prepared, the tables laid Ootbye, blin drift faas saftly doon As winter haps the cauldrife toon. Wi caunles flickerin, dweeble licht An muckle Yule log bleezin bricht The piper plays a rousin tune As fowk process aroon the room The Yule log's heistit, showder heicht Upon a streetcher, blythesome sicht Fower sturdy chiels the cloggie cairt In holly rowed, flames at its hairt Wi feastin, drinkin, claik an sang Gweed cheer an daunce amangst the thrang The Winter Solstice, for langsyne Fowk merk, wi fire, an meat, an wine. 20.Skreich An owerset in Scots frae Munch's personal journals: The sun gaun doon—had steepit in flames aneth the hynie-aff It wis like a flamin sword o bluid cuttin ben the dome o Heiven. The lift wis like bluid cuttit wi strips o fire —the Bens turned derk blue the fjord- cuttit in cauld blue, yalla an reid colours The explodin bluidy reid- on the path an haun palin —ma friens turned skryie yalla file -inbye me a muckle skreich