Thorgunna’s Curse (8 Scots Poems)

1.The Sang o Traivellin Angus: Owersett in Scots, frae the poem by W.B.Yeats I gaed oot tae the hazel wid Because a lowe wis in ma heid An cut an peeled a hazel wan An tied a berry tae a threid An fin fite mochs war on the wing An moch-like starnies flichtered oot I drapped a berry in a burn An catched a teenie siller troot Fin I hid laid it on the fleer I gaed tae blaw the lowe aflame A ferlie reeshled on the fleer Somebody cried me bi ma name It hid becam a glimmrin quine Wi aipple blossom in her hair Fa cried me bi ma name an ran An dwined inno the brichtenin air Tho I am auld wi traivellin Ben humphy lan an howie lans I will fin oot far she has gaen An kiss her mou, an takk her hauns An wauk amang lang dyewy girse An pu till time an tides are run The siller aipples o the meen The gowden aipples o the sun 2. Thorgunna’s Curse Thorgunna’s Curse is based on an oorie tale o the daith o a Hebridean wumman in Iceland. Ae spring a Hebridean boat Tae Iceland ben the mist Set sail. A muckle tradin ship Stapped like a treisur kist A chieftain, Finnward Keelfarer Fa bedd at Froddis watter Stepped doon tae greet the Scottis crew Wi his wife Aud, an dochter Upon the deck stude Thorgunna Heich, sonsie, prood o race Wi lang reid hair. Her saxty years Lay lichtly on her face Noo Finnward’s wife, bi greed enthralled Socht rich Thorgunna’s gear The stranger wadna pairt wi it Tho sair the wife did speir Ae nicht intae Thorgunna’s room She crept an reived the brooch The Heilan wumman glowert, bit lay An uttered nae reproach. Neist day Finnward wis telt her ghaist Wis ailin…like tae dee An her last will an testament Tae nane bit him she’d gie ‘Oh beery me at Skalaholt Cause caunles tae be lit An burn ma beddin on the beach Sae nane micht lie on it. An tae yer dother, gie ma gear For she has naethin speired Tae Aud, yer wife, haun ower the brooch Tho bitter be its weird.’ Thorgunna deed. Storm crossed the meen As Finnward torched the wid His wife slippt doon, tramped oot the lowe An saved the sheets, an hid. They tuik the corp tae Skalaholt An stopped at Netherness ‘Ye’ll hae a bield, ’ quo the mean host ‘Nae meat, for teem’s ma press.’ Dumfounert, aa the mourners sat Thorgunna’s corp did wauk Atween them, servin meat tae aa An magic wirds she spakk. The kistin by, Aud an her man Lay on Thorgunna’s sheets A deidly curse raise throwe the threids Frae croon, tae briest, tae cweets Their dother socht them in their room The faithless pair wir deid Thorgunna’s corp, in mortal makk Sat hunkered at their heid. Doon tae the sea the lassie ran Auld for her years, an wise An brunt Thorgunna’s sheets an gear An watched the black rikk rise Oh Iceland’s floes are cauld an fite The curse wis caulder yet That envy, greed, an pride bring on An this, may nane forget. 3.Raiders Kennin that the last body fa saw this did so a thoosan year syne gies me a grave-robber’s archaeological thrill Someyin o heich status, a wealthy heid bummer Pouerfu, a michty warrior Fa’d hae skailed ma bluid like watter gin we’d met Nae sae bigsy noo, tho An here’s me ruggin the teeth fae his mou The stoor frae his banes Like ony spey-wife, I can tell frae these smaa orrals O runes, fit he ett, far he cam fae Even the smitts that he catched, The verra dunts he’d gotten Twa hunner rivets held thegither his daith-boat This Viking, this widely traivelled reiver I’ll relieve him o a whetstane frae Norrowa, a ring preen frae Ireland pottery frae the Hebrides an aixe, a sword wi a braw hilt, a spear an a shield boss The British Museum in Lunnon Wad like a swatch o the plunder The raid o a Vikin grave inbye Lochaber A treisur trove reived frae the deid An the feared Norse gangsters 4.Marischal Fae Prayer tae Lear In fowerteen saxty ane in Aiberdeen There raise up frae the grun a friary Franciscans biggit ooto local steen Wi brither John Strang’s skeelie maisterie Licht floodit in throw ilkie windae pane Kirk, cloister, kitchie, thrang refectory A library, orchard loud wi bee’s refrain A peacefu place o learnin an delicht Far friars tendit sairs an doctored pain A hunner years. Syne, bringin dule an micht Reformers cam, dinged doon for ivermair The friary, pit the grey brithers tae flicht George Keith, the fourth Earl Marischal, tuik in haun The grun, (a favourite o King James the Saxth) In Haly airt he gart a College staun Sae Marischal grew in lear. Its pouer raxxed Archibald Simpson, eident, redesigned The biggins far the friars’ faith wis axed An obelisk fae Blue Toun granite mined Wis raised tae merk Sir James McGrigor’s fame Until it flitted tae a leafy bouer The Duthie Park, a settin less confined In Queen Victoria’s reign, the Mitchell Touer An haa, as weel’s a braw fite granite face War hewn tae thole roch Winter’s stormy scour The twentieth century, brocht Crown an Mace Tae a gran openin o thon glorious spires Triumphal garlands, flags, met Royal grace Wi sacrists, scholars, sodjers, banquets, choirs Five hunner waiters servin deinties sweet An turtle soup, that Mandarins micht desire In its Museum, auncient mummies meet Inuit gear an Oriental braws The Past is gaithered in fae lan an street An noo the biggin hooses Cooncil haas Guairded ootby by Guid King Robert Bruce The pulse o Aiberdeen beats in its waas Lang may it staun, oor jewel, stinch an douce 5.October: Drumnadrochit The parks are flat’s a fermhoose weel-fired bannock Freisians rug the cweed frae dubby banks Sun, rain, weet, sleet are strings tae autumn’s bow A saamill’s timmer wytes in coontit planks An ambulance’s lichts gae furlin roon A body’s streetchered frae a driver’s door The scrapyaird biggs a hairst o bladdit cars The win that blaws the birks hauds boats ashore The roaders patch the holes frae last year’s frost It’s steidy wark, the winters noo are roch A dowie shelt blaws rikk intae the air Syne glowers at her ain face in roosty troch In Drumnadrochit, Keith, or Inverness Some biker, driver, takks a brae ower faist On weety bend. A story in the Press A bunch o flooers. A memory laid tae rest 6.Checkin Oot, Fort William We’re nae the anes tae girn. Bit see the lichts? The lavvie bulb wis brukken, an the plug, was hingin Oot the socket. Mean tae say We’re that pit oot. We dinna wint tae pye Ma wife an I’d tae shooer (The bath wis cracked.) There’s stains aa ower the rug Forbye, the drain stank like an auld deid dug Yer bide-in staff aa raise at 6am Hoastin an howkin up a dose o phlegm The pipes gaed clunk. We’ll nae be back again (Altho we canna blame ye fur the rain.) Nae kippers on the menu, Parritch, knotty I think we’ll gie anither inn a shottie. 7.Checkin Oot, Glesga The windaes are stukken (fresh air at nae cost) The lobby’s that derk ye could easy get lost In this wee pied a terre, on a Glesga wikken If yer intae decorum, wi nae much tae spen Its mainners are braw, bit it’s doon at the heel Ye get fit ye pye fur. It’s shoddy genteel 8.The Harry Potter Train Takk yer feet aff the table, pet. That’s it. Jist lowp on the seat Dinna sook yer bogies, or dicht them on the windae Excuse me missus. The wean’s spikkin tae you She wints tae ken fit yer writin. Wirds? Wirds is it? Pardon me fur askin! Yer nae very talkative, are ye! Dinna dunt the wifie’s haun wi yer toy She looks like she micht bite Some fowk’s born miserable. A richt soor dook. Her loss. Jist leave her mumphin wi her buik.