Tick Tock: (17 Scots Poems)

1. A Puckle Hoolets Tawny Hoolet Physog like a sliced aipple. Twa teenie pips o een Beak like a buckie-winkler. A bowlie o feathers Wi a shakkin o ginger spice Barn Hoolet A pierrot's physog, wi dowie, waesome een A braid fite muff somelike Sir Walter Raleigh Mirl-cloaked an ghaistie-some on eilritch nichts Wee Hoolet Wee hoolet is a fleg in birdie-cloots His face is a fite bogle, een gap-wide as grue Ae fit hodgin ettlin tae flee awa Lang-Legged Hoolet Heilan laird at the games, his bunnet feathers cocked His plaid is tweedy-broon...Hinney-clear een His feathers, a reeshlin burn Short Lugged Hoolet Hauf a hoot frae the hairt o a cream meringue He's licht's a moufu o air, like a French croissant. 2.The Skatin Meenister Inspired by 'The Reverend Robert Walker (1755-1808) Skating on Duddingston Loch' by Sir Henry Raebum I've heard o Russian puggies floatin in a space balloon I've heard o bearded wifies in the bakkies o Dunoon Bit I've niver seen anither thing mair feariesome or seenister Than wheechin ower an Embro loch, a Scottish skatin meenister! Skatin should be dane bi sonsie, swack, reid-chikkit ordnar fowk Nae a velvet-hattit stumpie wi twa prune-stanes fur a dowp Send the craitur tae the Urals, or the Diocese o Chichester Or hire him as a doorman for the pan-loafs at the Dorchester I ken that preachers rattle tins fur hameless ower the warld I ken they prattle sermons, an tae halesome deeds are thirled Bit thon cleric withe penguin's snoot I'd sheet doon wi a Winchester Thon furlieorum cock-a-breekie vauntie skatin meenister I'd raither watch peint dryin on the Forth Brig ony day Than view thon theological stuffed dodo skyte at play I wad hae him smored in Axminster, or banished tae Cape Finisterre Thon spinnle-shankit nerra-dowpit Scottish skatin meenister! 5.The Paiddlin Wife an the Birdie A birdie sat on a telegraph tree I luikit at him an he luikit at me An baith o's thocht 'Fit a queer ferlie! ' A phone line bird, an a wife in the sea. 6.November: A Scots owesett o a Poem bi John Clare The kintra sleeps in haar frae mom till nicht; An, gin the sun keeks throwe, 'tis wi a face Blae, peely-wally roon, as tho meenlicht, Her traivels feenished o her nichtly race, Had fand him sleepin, an taen ower his place. For days the shepherds in the parks micht be, Fusslin alood, tae flocks they canna see. Nae spirk o sky- blinfauld their steps they trace, Ower howes, that seem wioot a buss or tree, The feartie bawd syne hauf its flegs will tyne, Cooryin doon aneth its girssy bower, An barely meeves altho the shepherd gyangs Nearhaun its hame, as tykes bowf in the stoor; The wud shelt anely turns aroon tae glower At fowk gaun by, syne knaps his hide again; An dowie craws aside the road ower dour Tae flee, tho' pelted bi the bygaun cheil; Sae day seems turn'd tae nicht, an waukens ill. The hoolet leaves her hidin-hole midday, An flaps her grey wings in the tribblin licht; The hoarse jay skreichs tae times aa run agley, An smaa birds chirp an chitter wi affricht; Sic ferlies fleg the superstitious vricht, Fa dreams o ill-luck, cantrips, sair dismay; Whylst coo-herds think the day a dream o nicht, An aft grow fearfu on their lanely wye, Fancyin that ghaisties wauken frae the mools o day. Betimes the dwaumin weather will shakk aff Its mochie prison roun - syne wins wauk lood; Wi sudden steer the stertled widlan sings Winter's returnin sang - cloud races cloud, An hyne awa the warld coosts doon its shroud, Swypin a streetchin circle frae the ee; Storm upon storm in quick succession flee, An o'er the sameness of the purple lift Heiven's haun peints skyrie colours far clouds shift Syne on it cams alang the widlan aiks Wi sabbin ebbs, an stooshie gaitherin heicht; The feart, hairse corbie in its cradle craiks, An cushie doos in grip o fleg takk flicht, Whyle the blue hawk hings o'er them up abune The hedger hashes frae the storm begun, Tae sikk a bield that's like tae keep him dry; An foresters boo ower, the win tae shun, Scarce hear amid the clash the poacher's gun. The plooman hears its birrin roose begin, An sikks an airt awa frae winter's dird; Buttonin his jaiket closer tae his chin, He boos an hashes ower the peltit yird, Whyle clouds abune him in wud fury byle, An wins drive heavy on the beatin rain; He turns his back tae catch his braith awhyle, Syne gaithers speed an faces it again, Tae sikk aside the seggs his shepherd's harne The loon that fleggith frae the shilpit wheat The dowie craw - in ootgaun hurry wyves, Aneth an ivied tree, his shelterin seat, 0 seggy flags an sedges bun in sheaves, Or frae the park a teir o stibble thieves. There he rnicht switherin sit, an entertain His een wi merkin the storm-driven leaves; Aft spyin nests far he spring eggs had ta'en, An wishin simmer-time wis back again. Sae rowes the month in mixter-maxter moods, Sunsheen an shaddas, doonpish lood, an calms; Ae oor <lees seelent ower the dwaumy wids, The neist wakks lood wi a begeck o storms; A trauchelt nyaketness the park deforms – Yet mony a kintra soun, an kintra sicht, Bides in the clachan still aboot the ferms, Far wark's roch stooshie hums frae mom till nicht Knells that the lugs o Industry delicht. At hinnereyn the steer o darg is still, An Industry her care awhile lats faa; Fin Wmter cams fu forcey tae fulfil His yearly weird, November's thrall ower aa An stops the ploo, an haps the park in sna; Fin cranreuch cauld steeks rikk in slaw delay, An mellows on the buss the berries sma, For teenie birds - syne Wark makks time for play, Nocht but the threshers' flails wauk dowie day. 7.Fitty Gloamin Doon at the fishin clachan, there's nae quines sheilin mussels Or baitin lines wi mackerel. Nae loons wi ticht neives nettin, Nae fishies, split an gutted, washed, satted and dried Naebody's birsslin oatcakes ower the griddle The kitchie fleers are spreid wi rugs, nae san Nae Fitty fishers fecht hame throw the tide The shacks an sheddies, oothouses, sit-ooteries Haud secunt-haun TVs an roosty bikes, A puckle gairden gnomes wi beilin peint The antrin cat or bowfin gurly tyke Washin still skelps ootbye, ships dowp in bottles On stoory windae sills. Glaiss fishin wechts Are door-stops, nudgin drift-wid ben the step This is the kirkyaird o the fishin trade. The cottages like ceemetery merkers Hunker, backs tae the sea like auncient crones Aybydan, iver cheengin, the sea's dreich sooch Is Fitty's nearest neibour, an its auldest. lnbye a playpark, a fishin boatie's turned tae a toy, Tae cairry a catch o bairns. The herbour an the docks, the stank o dulse Is strang on the neb Throw this warm gloamin, doonthe Fitty shore A barfit quine, lang-shanked, for verra glee Kicks up the san that happit mony's a wreck The smachrie an the spindrift o the sea 8.PangurBan Anon Irish 8fh Century Here, owersett inno Scots Pangur Ban ma cat an me Tis a sim'lar darg we dee Huntin moosies, his delicht Huntin wirds I sit aa nicht Better than men's praise tae pree Tis tae screive wi buik on knee Pangur, likewise, nae upstert, Lives tae cairry oot his airt Tis richt blythe oor lives tae see Aboot oor darg, fu eidently Fin we hae, in generous meisur Ploys that gie us oors o pleisur Whiles a moosie frae a neuk Rins near Panngur's raxxin cleuk Whiles, ma hams will grup an get A hale new meanin in its net Agin the waa he sets his ee Fierce an faist an sherp an slee Agin the waa o wyceness, I Aa ma pouers o kennin, try Fin the moose lowps intae sicht Fu is Pangur o delicht! Aa the warld can gyang tae wrack Fan a puzzle I can crack! Sae thegither, we agree Pangur Ban, ma cat an me In oor hairts we finn oor bliss I hae mine an he has his Practice makketh cat an man The perfect hunter, Pangur Ban I win wyceness day an nicht Turnin derkness inno licht 9.Waunderin Lane Amangst the Futterats Inspired by the sight of six ferrets taking the air with their owners, near Wordsworth’s Dove Cottage I traivelled lane amang the crowd 0 towrists far the ice-creams breed Fin syne I saw, aa waukin prood Sax futterats tethered on a lead Aside the road, aneth the trees Lowpin an snappin in the breeze. Nae heedin larries' thunnerin roar Drivin alang wi wechty load Thon futterats socht jist tae explore Alang the sheuch aside the road Sax futterats, cam upon bi chaunce Tossin their heids in sprichtly daunce The fowk aside them glowered, bit they Gaed breengin by wi futterat glee A body cudna bit be gay In sic a blythesome company I luikit lang, bit little thocht Fit joy thon sax tae me hid brocht. Noo whyles, fin on ma duvet I Lie doon in an unca ill-teen I myne thon futterats dauncin by They flash upon ma memory screen An syne ma hairt near skips a beat An lowps like thon sax futterats' feet 10..Bi the road Basho In a hedgeraw, a rose Ma shelt ett it 11.A Scots Owersett o a poem bi Han Shan, Ina taigle o cliffs I wyled a neuk Bird-wyes, bit nae pathies fur men. Fit's ayont the yaird? Fite clouds hingin on misty crags Noo I've bidden here- foo mony years? Ower an ower, Spring an Yule gyang by Gae tell the families wi fantoosh gear an cars Fit's the eese o aa than soun an siller? 12.Shanty Toon Owersett from Shanty Town, by Orphan Veli Kanilc, Turkish,1914-1950 She sees a man in her dwaum A toff wi a pye o a hunner liras She merries, an meeves tae the toun Letters cam tae their hoose 'The Blythe Reest Flats' in the sunks They bide in a chaumer trig's a box Nae mair washin claes. Nae mair washin windaes. Gin she dichts a dish, it's her ain. She has bairns like angels, like draps o licht. She buys a secunt-haun pram Foreneens she gyangs tae the Reid Crescent Gairdens, Sae that wee Yilmaz micht play in the san Like the bairns o toffs. The keech-wirker's best dwaum Is o the Turkish bath. He stretches oot on a merble platform A raw o masseurs raxx oot at his heid. Ane poors watter Ane soaps him Anither wytes his shottie wi a loofah As new customers cam inbye The snaw-fite keech wirker quits the bath. 13.The Strang Notion Owersett.frae 'The Distinct Impression', by B. Kennelly, Irish, b 1936, from 'The Book of Judas' I wis deliverin a bairn In a midden o a chaumer in Keogh Square The wumman warssled an maned in the bed Swyte weetin her hair Sax littlins gaithered an glowered at me As I wirked at the howdiein Aside her lay her man Face tae the waa, whyles snoring 'Is it oot yet? ' he speared o a suddenty Gin I'd a pail o bylin watter syne I'd hae teemed it ower his skin. I hid the strang notion That the meenit the bairn wis ooto the wumman Thon bastart wad be back in! 14.Scots owersett o poems bi Basho. Flechs, flees Ma shelt piddles richt Aside ma bowster. 15.Aiberdeen Rap Aabody come listen tae the Aiberdeen Rap We've got golf, ile, excitement, on the global city map Oor exhibition centre hauds twa thousand delegates We'll pit commerce on the menu; we'll pit salmon on your plates Aiberdeen's the city that the towrists like tae gyang Wi leisur, fun an netwirkin, oor streets are unca thrang We're the Dallas o the North, for oor ile expertise Keeps the gas an ile flowin aa aroon the Seeven Seas We hae bens an glens an mystery, we hae castles bi the score We hae cherm, tradition, history; we hae restaurants bi the shore Students flock frae mony kintras tae oor universities We are famed the warld ower for oor cuttin-edge degrees For a warld conference venue there is naethin that we lack If yer lukin for a winner, Aiberdeen's the ane tae back! 16.At the Mou o the Moots: For John Law 25/10/1951- 13/2/2010 At the mou o the mools, gin ye'd speir Fit mainner o chiel wis John? Ay at the pynt o the pick like his faither afore him A radical arch-organiser, wi electronic flair Streetchin his warld frae Silicon Glen Tae the Heichts o Macchu Pucchu, On the wings o Chapman an barderie Wi scarce a meenit tae spare Ram-stam forrit, a chiel o causes an virr Herdin the Scots leid on tae future paths wi the hairt o a Bruce Wi a tongue as gleg as Garioch Wi the hams o a lamed don Nae mony chiels like thon. At the mou o the mools, gin ye'd speir Fit consams lay close tae his briest? Luv o his faimly, neebors, the wider clan 0 Virgil, Neruda an Soutar Luv o the airts far his hyne-affkin tuik reest Sooth Africa, Lanark, Mull, The years gaen by in a glisk... Niver ane tae coor frae a storm, This skeely skipper o boats Launched noo on his hinmaist voyage Can bide content, haein steered a course fur Lallans An aa Scots maitters politick an national Ay wi a steidfaist haun tae eident herbours Wirk an the screivers' darg, his keenest pleisurs Sae wis't a winner, syne, At the verra heicht o his pouers, he upped an flitted? Auld age's bauchled sheen wad ne 'er hae fittit. 17.The Alien's Shoppin List The Queen weirs gloves tae ett her tea Sae I weir socks tae sweem For as the queen maun hide her hauns My taes should nae be seen. A passin shark micht takk them fur A tasty cheesy dish Bit in ma skyrie strippit socks He'll think they're jeely fish