Scots Poems From Number 6 Poem by Sheena Blackhall

Matthew Booth farmer, Hillhead of Carnie, Skene
Matthew Booth wis a kirk precentor
God sees aathin. Watches aa
Matthew merriet a lass caad Lizzie
Ruled bi the Bible. Its wird wis law

Matthew Booth wis a dairy fermer
God sees aathin. Watches aa
Sired three bairns and raised them moral
Ruled bi the Bible. Its wird wis law

Bairns hauf grown, his life wis ower
God sees aathin. Watches aa
Matthew'd pyed fur his Heivenly Mansion
Ruled bi the Bible. Its wird wis law

Lizzie his wife wiscouthie, cantie
God, her maister, wis kind an crouse
She wis satt tae her Matthew's pepper
Read the Bible, bit read it douce


Past Master
Weel, gransire, a question or twa, frae a grandbairn born eftir ye deed
Ye luik like a weel-daein cheil..Are ye pleased fit becam o yer seed?

Archie, killed bi a car crash, Arthur, bi TB slain
Catched in the desert at wartime. Ian, bi Cancer taen
Faither, Alan an Jimmy. Mary, Helen an Eve
Rose, yer bonniest dochter. Billy, the semibreve
O a musical kintra family. Time passes, still mourners grieve

Weel gransire, I'm telt ye hid asthma, that drink wis the medicine o choice
An fitiver the richts an wrangs o't, it keepit ye in guid voice
Ye screived a rare puckle o ballads-an in-law brunt them aa
Fur thon is the wye o Fortune, twa secunts o fame….yer awa.


A Bairn's Prayer
Now I lay me down to sleep
I pray the Lord my soul to keep
If I should die before I wake
I pray the Lord my soul to take

God bless Craigendarroch
Craig Coilleich, Lochnagar
God bless the Muick, the Gairn
The bandie in my jar

God bless my faimily granny sez
My brither? Jist a tooshty
Bit God, he mebbe needs a haun
Tae stop him bein fooshty


Puir
Fin I wis wee, I wis a lowse bit o jigsaw
An odd sock. I lived wi the fear o daith.
Mither wis middle aged
Granny wis aulder than Methuselah,
As precious as the Taj Mahal.

I played wi elephants ahin her chunty
I slept like a pack at her back
A cosy, couthie bield, a granny bosie

We bedd in a 5 bedroomed hoose
Granite, Victorian, cauld
In the Wast Eyn, like a time warp
Gas lichts, cobbles, railins

I thocht we wir puir, wis affrontit o ma hame
In the toon far I grew up in, tae be fantoosh, genteel
Ye hid tae spikk pan loaf
We spakk braid- Scots, thick as third day broth

Gaun Forrit: The Future o Doric
The Mither Leid should niver be tongue tackit,
Nur should the nae-sayers gar it grue
It'll be threipit lang eftir we'reaa stoor,
Gin we can gie it a cannie heist up noo
Spukken in howf,haa, TV, shoppin mall
It'll bide bonniean braa in the antrin bairnie's moo

It'll be shooder tae shooder wi Catalan, Norsk
Liveeftir the deid thraa craik o the waa-gaun
Naethin wirth haein is gotten easy ozy
An mony wirkin thegither, stincher staun

Warssle an tcyauve an fash maun aye cam first
Stert wi the bairns, wi sang wi rhyme, wi tale
Plant the seed in their lug fur the future's hairst

Ye bigg a hoose wi tools, a leid wi wirds
Buiks an plays, an broadcast programmes tae
Gie gweed Scots a pedestal, an airin
Nae whyles in the by-gaun, dammit, ilkie day

Oor Scottish peinters, Farquharson, McBey-
Fit's their wirk cut ooto their frames, their settin?
Doric wints a professional display

In schules gie the leid a place at the subjeck table
Nae beggin bowl fur scraps frae Burns Day
Pass on the spikk, the soun o it, the luve o it
Ohdinna swick the future o its say!


October 11th
October, an the hairst has shorn
The rigs o simmer's bonnie corn
This wis the month ma loon wis born
Wad that he'd cam an haunt me

Nae parent should their bairn ootlive
Life's tint its taste, a steekit neive's
Ma hairt,lued ghaist can ye forgive
The puir cairds that I dealt ye?


Twa Scots Owersetts o John Clare Poems

The Mavis Nest, Scots Owersett of a John Clare Poem
Inbye a thick an spreidin thorn buss
That owerluiked a mowdie knowe sae roon
I heard frae morn tae morn a mavis blythe
Sing hymns tae daybrakk, whyle I drank the soun
Wi joy an aften an ill faschent guest
I watched her secret warssles day bi day
Foo true she vrocht the fogg tae bigg her nest
An papered it inbye wi wid an clay
An aftentimes like heathbells bricht wi dyew
There lay her sheenin eggs as braw as flooers
Ink-spirkit abune shells o greeny blue
An thonner I saw in the simmer oors
A heeze o natur's sangsters chirp an shift
Gled as the sunsheen an the lauchin lift


Bawds at Play
The birds are gaen tae bed, coos lie an mumph
An yowes lie pechin on a mowdie humph
An in aneth the sauch's grey-greeny bough
Like darg a-restin lies the sleepin ploo
The feartie bawds haive daylicht flegs awa
On the lane's road tae stoor, an daunce an play
Syne dibble in the grain bi nocht deterred
Tae lick the dyewfaa frae the barley's beard
Syne oot they lowp again an roon the knowes
Like blythesome thochts, daunce, hunker, dauchle still
Till milkin lassies in the early morn
Jungle their yokes an stert them in the corn
Throw weel-kent beaten paths ilk bawd jinks loose
Sterts faist as fear an seeks its secret hoose


Sunrise Sang: Tune: Wild Mountain Thyme
Oh a cheenge is in the air
An far mairare proodly usin
The Scots spikk that's their birthricht
Ye can hear it in their newsin

Lat us takk the future on
Lat us text an blog each ither
Lat us message tweet and e-mail
Lat Scots intae life an blether

Lat us larn frae Gaelic friens
Lat us larn frae Ulster brithers
Lat us takk Scots tae schules
Dinna dauchle,dinna swither

Takk it tae the press an stage
Takk it tae the media bodies
Takk it tae the fundin maisters
MSPs an uni studies

Oh a cheenge is in the air
An far mairare proodly usin
The Scots spikk that's their birthricht
Ye can hear it in their newsin


Twa Jaikies
Twa jaikies sat on a ferm lum
Bletherin awa aboot this an thon
Watchin the stirlins on the weer
Gaitherin tae flee in search o sun

‘Fair weather fowk I canna thole, '
Quo jaikie ane tae jaikie twa,
‘thon flee-bi-nichts…nae smeddum ava
Feart o a wee bit ice an sna…

Somelike the craiturs that buy a hoose
An leave it teem fur hauf a year
Fin local bodies frae hereaboots
Sleep wi their kin or on a fleer.'

Quo jaikie twa tae jaikie ane
Whyles this lum's ower sma fur twa
As she cowped him aff his feathery dowp
An lauched as she watched her gudeman faa


Winter in Buchan
The knowes are lit like smuchterin aisse
The stibble parks haud ghaists o grain
An ikie cloud strung ben the lift
Draps antrin pearls o weety rain

Ilk timmer branch o leafless tree
Is twistit like Medusa's snakes
Blaik hairtit craa flees ower a lum
It spies a corp, devauls an skraichs

For winter dings the weakest doon
The shilpit, hurtit, born ower sune
An ower the derkenin gloamin lan
The greetin-faced Novemmer mune
Luiks doon as Daith stravaigs the grun
Like huntsman wi his deadly gun


Win at New Deer October 2018
The win at New Deer's like a threshin mill
It blaws the heids o the trees near aff
The wanderin willies, like boats at sea
Blaw hither an yont, like toozlit chaff

The beeches shakk like sheltie's manes
Lowpin wud on a stormy day
The sycamores wheech like washin skelped
Near rugged frae the reets, as soople's strae

Nae bird cud thole thon ramstam cloor
O win, as forecy as thon roch blast
The lift is teemed o aa bit clouds
Skuddin alang as the win roars past

Hauf ben the night, the win dees doon
Daybricht cams an the birdies sing
The trees staun quate, ye'd niver ken
Late, they wir rived till they near tuik wing

Somelike fowk are the New Deer trees
Tribbles micht yark an twist them raw
Bit life gaes on fin the steer is by
Thole an staun, or gie up an faa


Scots Owersett of a poem
Tae a Buddha Dowpit on a Lotus bi Sarojini Naidu

Lord Buddhadowpit on yerthrone
Wi prayerful een an hauns sae still
Fit mystic blytheness dae ye ken
Aybydaun, stinch an speeritual?
Fit peace, unfyled yont fit we ken
Is hyne abune the warld o men?

The win o cheenge foriver blaas
Aa ben oor stramash wud an keen
The morn's unborn sorras dicht
The waes we tholed anely yestreen
Dwaum yields tae dwaum, fecht follaes fecht
Daith snips oor threid an dims oor licht
Fur us the warssle an the heat
The brukken secrets o oor pride
The forcey lessons o defeat
The flooer bypassed, the fruit denied
Bit nae the peace abune aa won
Lord Buddha o yer lotus throne

Wi eeseless hauns we sikk again
Oor langings ay yont oor command
Ay ettlin tae sikk greater prize
Faith fooners an feet canna staun
Bit nocht can ding doon or control
The Heivenwird hunger o the sowel

The eyn, sae sliddery an afar
Aye trysts us wi its beckonin flicht
An aa oor mortal meenits are
Bit secunts o the Infinite
Foo can we the Aybydan meet
Nirvana, o yer Lotus seat?


Scots Owersett of ‘Sang on the Eyn o the Warld' bi Czeslaw Milosz
On the day the warld eyns
A bee cercles clover
A fisher laddie mends a glentin net
Blythe porpoises lowp in the sea
Bi the rainspoot young spurgies are playin
An the snake is gowd-skinned as it should aye be

On the day the warld eyns
Weemen wauk ben parks aneth their brollies
A boozer grows sleepy at the side o a gairden
Veggie sellers skirl in the streets
An a yalla sailed boatie cams nearer the isle
The voice o a fiddle hings in the air
An leads inno a starnie nicht

An them fa expeckit thunner an lichtnin
Are disappyntit
An them fa expeckit signs an archangels' tooteroos
Dinna believe it is happenin noo
As lang as the sun an the meen are abune
As lang as the bumbee veesits the rose
As lang as reid-cheekit bairnies are born
Naebody believes it is happenin noo

Anely a fite-haired auld bodach, fa wid be a prophet
Yet isnae a prophet, fur he's far ower eident
Repeats whyle he ties up his tomataes
Nae ither eyn o the warld there will be
Nae ither eyn o the warld there will be


A Scots Owerset of a poem Coromandel Fishers, bi Sarojini Naidu
Rise brithers, rise; the waukenin lift prays tae the mornin licht
The win lies asleep in the airms o daybrakk like a bairn fa's grat aa nicht
Cam, let us gaither oor nets frae the shore, lat oor catamarans be free
Tae catch the lowpin wave o the tide, fur we are kings o the sea

Dinna dauchle langer, let's hash awa in the lee o the scurries kraa
The sea is oor mither, the cloud is oor brither, the waves are oor fiers anna
Fit tho the dunt at the faa o the sun frae the haun o the sea-god drives?
He fa hauds the storm bi the hair, he hides in his briest oor lives

Swete is the cweel o the coconut glade an the scent o the mango dyew
An swete are the sans at the full o the meen wi the soun o the voyces we lue
Bit sweter o brithers the kiss o the faem an the daunce o the spindrift's bree
Row brithers row tae the eyn o the edge far the laigh lift mells wi the sea


Scots Owersett of ‘At a Certain Age, bi Czeslaw Milosz
We wintedtae confess oor sins, bit there wir nae takkers
Fite clouds widnae accept them, an the win
Wis ower eident veesitin sea eftir sea
We didnae mange tae interest the breets
Tykes, disappyntit, expeckit an order
A powser, as iver, coorse-naturet, wis faain asleep
A body we aye thocht close
Didnae wint tae spikk o things langsyne
Blether wi friens ower vodka or coffee
Shouldnae raxx oot ayont the first hint o scunneration
It wid be affrontin tae pye bi the oor
A cheil wi a diploma, jist fur lippenin
Kirks. Mebbe kirks. Bit tae confess thonner, fit?
That we eesed tae see oorsels as bonnie an braw?
Yet later in oor place, an ugsome taed
Hauf unsteeks its thick eelid
An ye see clearly: Thon's me'