Scots Poems From The Devil's Pulpit Poem by Sheena Blackhall

The Enemy Inside
My virr has dwined awa,
The enemy's inside,
Ma face is tae the waa

It's like aybydan snaa,
A deidly, creepin tide
The shakks takk ower aa

My myndin's gaen ta-ta
Blytheness is drave aside
I hyter an whyles faa

Bit fin I dream, it's braa
I'm hale. Dreams dinna bide
I wauken. Corbies craa
My weird is coorse an slaw
My face is tae the waa


Overheard at Wetherspoons
So we sat doon at reception
An Wayne taen Ellie tae the toilet
"That'll be £750, " the quine sez.
"We've nae confirmation o
Ony special deal on yer holiday."

My ma wis gettin annoyed.
"Could ye go an get somebody? "
She sez, "I'm nae pyin that! "

The quine kept on thinggyin
On her computer.
I thocht, she disnae ken my ma.
I thocht, there'll be a riot in a mintie.

Bit then she raged wee Ellie
Fur dingin her bell, an
It wis me that lost it.
I tuik a richt mentler.

That's fin my ma sez
"Sorry aboot this.
We canna wauk awa frae oor kids
Bit men can."
An ma da niver gaed a cheep.


Bullied
Sadie an Georgie, John an Belle
Ivery day makk my life hell
They gar me greet, bit I'm feart tae tell
Dae they pick on me cause I'm wee?

On Monday they caad me a glekit mink
They shouted at me, ‘Drap deid ye stink'
Jist playgrun banter, the teachers think
Foo is it aywis me?

On Tuesday they wyted oot side the haa
They flang ma homework ower the waa
They tripped me up an they made me faa
My life is a misery
On Wednesday they tuik ma phone an hid it
Threw dubs in ma face an denied they did it
Spat on ma hair, an filmed an shared it
Fan will they let me be?

On Thursday they trolled me wi nesty texts
On social media pit feary threats
I wet the bed I wis sae upset
Fan will I iver be free?

On Friday I plunkit the schule again
I sat on the swing bit through my brain
Yer an ugly daftie…their wirds brocht pain
They think it's funny, ye see

My ma is aywis skint…we're puir
Ma wirries are ower sair tae share
Fin I grow up I'll nae bide here
Nae mair bullies for me!


At the Embro Festival
There's torn denim jaikets, there's lycra an satins,
There's dreidlocks, there's mohawks, tattoo Celtic patterns,
Thoosans o fowk are here, waukin an drivin,
On trams, buses, bicycles, lauchin an joggin

An aa tae see theatre, comedy, airt,
That'll empty yer pooch, an set fire tae yer hairt
Music an daunce ower hunners o neuks
Frae Hamlet tae Burns, on the stage, read frae buiks

There's waukin tours veesitin ghaists o the toun
International actors in make-up an goun
There's boorichs o fowk far street jugglers perform
There's umbrellas gaun up in a faist simmer storm

There's caunlelicht soirees, there's smoorichan pairs
There's art wirks hung random ower Embro's steep stairs
There's tub duntin speeches doon basements, in bars,
Will the audience witness the birth o new stars?

Hear fiddlers, hear pipers, see heilanders dauncin
Ett black puddin suppers, see gulls an doos pykin
Watch oot fur drooths sweirin, the polis are hotchin,
As beggars sing solos, an towrists are lippenin
There are hoors, creashie pug dugs, there's cabbies, an sailors,
There's chauncers an chorers, there's bairns haein capers
There's fire eaters, tumblers, balloons on a string
Auld fowk suppin ice cream, an trams that gae ching

In August the hale o the warld tries tae squeeze
Intae Auld Reekie's back wynds far tourin groups heeze
Greyfriar's Bobby maun birl in his grave
Tae ken fit he's missin, Embro's Annual Rave


The Devil's Pulpit
Hyne hyne doon at the foun o the glen
The bluid-reid Carnock's twirlin
Atap a stane in this oorie burn
The deil aince preached a sermon

The Finnich glen is an eildritch airt
It's seen Druids' rituals
An witches, warlocks, deid langsyne
Aince cast their evil spells

There's an emerant cave in the gorge's side
An auld steps dreepin weet
An there in the seenister gloamin licht
Is the flash o faerie feet


The Beheidin Stane, Stirlin
Gin ye've a thocht-fu turn o mind
Seek the beheidin stane
Upon a spur o the Gowan knowes
That eyndit the lives o men

It luiks ootower the wyndin Forth
Set there bi Jeems the First
A monarch wi a grip o steel
Aa Lords fa crossed him, curst

A timmer block wis nailed on it
Tae rest the condemned's heid
The aixeman swung his aixe an syne
The heidin stane ran reid
There Wattie Stewart met his eyne
Guilty o robbery
The Earl o Lennox, an his frien
The Duke o Albany
Sae wauk ye saftly ben thon airt
An in the listenin air
Ye still micht hear the daithly sabs
O them fa perished there


The Golem o Prague
The Rabbi Löw in auncient Prague
He kent the magic wird
That could combine fower elements
Fire, watter, air an yird

He vrocht a sculpture ooto dubs
Kent as the michty Golem
He pit a deerskin necklace
Wi mystic signs, a token
Aroon its neck. Inveesible
This pouer he'd awoken

A whyle the Golem wirked richt weel
Tae keep Jews safe frae skaith
An in its mooth, a tablet sat
Tae gie it life an braith

The Golem grew in virr an pouer
This thing o magic craft
Wird wis brocht tae the rabbi syne
His monster had gaen daft

Insteid o gweed it wirked fur ill
The Rabbi ran richt faist
Tae rug the tablet frae its mou
The life dwined in its breist

Sae did the michty Golem end
Ne'er tae be seen again
The Rabbi larned, as maun we aa
That men canna jink pain



King Charles III: for the bairns
His Auston Martin rins on English wine
His Jaguar is pouered bi cookin ile
He's aywis bin an eco-warrior
An warns fowk it's wrang the warld tae spyle

A history degree in Cambridge toun
He won. He's heidit umpteen charities
His Prince's Trust has gaen a helpin haun
Tae young fowk giein a sair needit heeze.

He has an wechty rowth o royal nemmes;
Lord o the Isles, King an Great Steward o Scotland
A heeze o titles langer than yer airm
As near eneuch's ye'd hae in a pipe band!

He screived a buik for bairns that's braw tae read
It's titled the Auld Man o Lochnagar
He's lued at Birkhaa, Ballater as weel
An likes tae watch the Games up in Braemar

Vlad the Impaler's bluid rins in his veins
His veggies maun be steamed in mineral watter
He likes eggs biled fur sivven meenits exact
Etts lamb wi wild mushrooms on a platter

His peintins hae cost ower twa million dollars
He drinks Darjeelin tea wi milk an hinney
He dived doon tae explore the Mary Rose
Henry the VIIIth's flagship o his Navy

The king's a superman, he's aye oot hikin
Like ony mountain goat, up Heilan bens
He's trained tae flee a jet an helicopter
Tae fish an sheet an hunt up lanely glens

He plays the cello, whyles stauns on his heid
Plays polo, spikks tae flooers, plants mony trees
Disnae like chocolate, garlic, or drink coffee
A park ranger, keeps skepps o royal bees

Himsel & Queen Camilla ain twa dugs
(Jack Russell terriers, Bluebell an Beth
Twa rescue tykes) . They're kintrafowk at hairt
Birkhaa is far they gae tae rest, draw braith

He's sung in the Bach Choir, appeared in soaps
He is a genuine Patron o the Airts
(A walk-on pairt on Coronation Street…
In truth King Charles is a lad o pairts)

He's funded twal new musical commissions
Tae be performed, at his coronation
He'll be anointed syne wi haly ile
Ambergris, jasmine, rose an cinnamon

He hauds strang views on global climate cheenge
An favours cures bi homeopathy
He rins e-cars, recycles in his hames
Hates Brutalism, lues humanity

A Goon Show fan, he's read on Jackanory
Presented weather forecast on TV
He is a member o the Magic Cercle
Faith, is there onythin he canna dee?


Delinquents/Bairns
It's the same the hale warld ower

Rabbie Sanderson aged nine chored twa toys
An a siller watch. His da wis a leerie-man
Thirty strikes o the wheep wis his lawfu punishment

It's the puir that gets the blame

Mary McDonald, bedd in Constitution Street
A tinker's quine fa chored twa neeps
Gaen ten days in jyle

It's the rich that gets the pleisur

A laddie kent as ‘Daftie' chored some rags
Thon earned him thirtysax strikes o the wheep

Isn't it a bloomin shame

Johnnie Simpson's faither, a flax dresser, deed o cholera
Johnnie, aged thirteen chored a worsit plaidie frae an auld caileach
Pawned it at the Gallowgate fur three shillings
Gaed tae a pie shop, bocht tarts an gaed tae the theatre
Bedd ower at Mrs Fyfe's hoose (a kent fence) in Peacock Close
Forty days in jyle

It's the same the hale warld ower

Johnnie Craig aged twal chored twa pun o beef
Wis wheeped twinty times an twinty days in jyle

It's the puir that gets the blame

Willie Black, ‘a puir sowel' aged eleyven
Chored twa toys an wis wheeped
Willie wis illegitimate, his ma selt buckies
St Nicholas parish gied him claes an sheen
His ma an grannie selt them
He wis fand in the street, in rags, beggin

It's the rich that gets the pleisur

Maggie McConnachie aged thirteen a hure
Parents baith boozers, faither a lum swyper
Aged eleyven Maggie chored a cheese
Got saxty days in jyle

Isn't it a bloomin shame


All Nature has a Feeling: by John Clare Scots Owersett of this poem
Aa natur has a feelin: wids, parks, burns
Are life aybydan: an in seelence syne
They spikk hynie ayont the raxx o buiks;
There's naethin mortal in them; an their dwine
Is the green life o cheenge; tae weir awa
An cam again in flooer noo revived
Its birth was heiven, aybydan, here in aa
An wi the sun an meen it shall still bide
Aneth their day an nicht an heiven wide.


Summmer: by John Clare Scots Owersett of this poem
Cam we tae the simmer, tae the simmer we will cam,
Fur the wids are fu o bluebells an the busses fu o bloom,
An the craa is on the aik tree a-biggin o her nest,
An luve is burnin diamonds in ma true luve's breist;
She sits aneth the hawthorn a-pleatin o her hair,
An I will tae ma true luve wi a fond wintin speir
I will luik upon her face, I will in her brawness reist,
An lay ma trauchelt weariness upon her bonnie breist.

The leddylanners treetles on the open flooer o Mey,
The blythesome bee is tramplin the pinky threids aa day,
An the shelfie it is cockin on its grey foggy nest
In the hawthorn buss far I will lean upon ma luver's breist;
I'll lean upon her breist an I'll whisper tae her saftly
That I canna win a wink o' sleep fur thinkin o ma dearie
I hunger at ma maet an I dwine wi luve sairly
Like the wud rose that is brukken in the heat o the day.


Owersett of White Hairs by Wang Wei (Tan Dynasty)
Aince a wee bairn noo an auld bodach.
Fite hairs tae match the saft doon.
Foo the hairt gets hurtit bi life.
Ayont the Yettless Yetts
Far wintin eyns.


Wauchtin by Wang Wei
September lift is clear in the hyne-awa
Clearer still sae apairt frae human kind.
A Lang-Sally bi the puil, a cloud on a ben,
Either o them makks the harns blythe.
The feintest ripples still an gloamin's here.
The meen turns siller an I dream,
This nicht, leanin on a lane oar,
Wauchtin wioot thocht o gaun hame.

In the slant o the sun on the kintra-side,
Kye yowes trauchle hame alang the lane;
An a roch auld cheil in a theekit yett
Leans on a staff an thinks o his loon, the herd laddie.
There are whirrin pheasants, fu wheat-lugs,
Silk-wirms asleep, paired mulberry-leaves.
An the fairmers, returnin wi hyews on their shoulders,
Hail one anither couthily.
...Nae winner I lang fur the simple life
An am soughin the auld song, Ochone, tae gae back again.


Fields and Gardens by the River Qi by Wang Wei
I bide apairt bi the River Qi,
Far the Eastern wilds streetch hyne wioot knowes.
The sun derkens ayont the mulberry trees;
The river glents throwe the clachans.
Shepherd loons depairt, keekin back tae their hames;
Huntin tykes return follaein their maisters.
Fin a cheil's at peace, fit business dis he hae?
I steek faist ma kintraside yett throwe the day.


A Song of a Girl from Loyang by Wang Wei
There's a quine frae Loyang in the yett ower the street,
She luiks fifteen, she's mebbe a thochtie aulder.
...Whyle her maister rides his faist shelt wi jade bit an bridle,
Her haunmaid brings her cod-fish in a gowden ashet.
On her peinted pavilions, facin reid touers,
Cornices are pink an green wi peach-flouers an wi sauch,
Hingins o silk hap her sivven-scentit chair,
An rare fans shade her, hame tae her nine-flouered curtains.
Her lord, wi rank an siller in the breirin o life,
Exceeds in wealth the richest cheils langsyne.
He favours this quine o lowly birth, he has larned her tae daunce;
An he gies awa his coral-trees tae near onybody.
The win o daybrakk jist steers fin his nine saft lichts gae oot,
Thon nine saft lichts like petals in a fleein chyne o flooers.
Atween daunces she has barely time fur singin songs;
Nae suner is she riggit again than incense burns afore her.
Fowk she kens in toun are anely the rich an the lavish,
An day an nicht she is veesitin the hosts o the blythest biggins.
...Fa takks tent o the quine frae Yue wi a face o fite jade,
Humble, puir, alane, bi the river, washin silk?


White Rock Rapids by Meng Haoran, Tang Dynasty)
Wi shanks hingin frae a stane at the edge o the watter,
Sweeshin ben the waves, my mood his run its course.
As the sun gaes doon, it turns cauld on the river,
Wauchtin clouds are dull an wintin colour.


On Qingming Day, a Topic of the Moment by Meng Haoran (Tang Dynasty)
In the emperor's airt, Qingming Day is valued,
A body's hairt turns natural tae thochts o wae.
The clash o cairriages mells on the road,
The colour o sauchs is deep-green bi the east toun-waa.
Flouers faa, as girses breenge up thegether,
Orioles takk flicht, while butterflees play.
In the teem haa jist noo I am myndin on ye,
Poorin tea fur a while insteid o gettin blootert.


Crossing the Jiang at Yangz by Meng Haoran
Frae cassia oars in mid-current I luik hyne aff,
The Jiang near the capital is bricht on baith shores.
A wid shaws the Yangzi post-station,
Ooto bens rises Runzhou toun.
Far the sea eyns, shade his sattled at the sides,
As the river growes cauld, widlan wins arise.
An syne I hear, frae the aneth the leaves,
The reeshin an wheeshlin o autumn's voice passin


The Palace of Lasting Happiness by Meng Haoran
The toun o Qin frae langsyne wis praised as braw an fantooth
The Hoose o Han o a certanty hid mony airts fur "cheengin claes."
Fowk in rouge an pooder fa enticed their lord are to be fand far?
The blae laft-biggins, throwe eyndless nicht sang niver tae see the
dawn.
In the Palace o Laistin Blythness the bells hae since bin smored,
Far singers an dauncers, sae bonnie, wir eesed tae bein eekit on.
Delicht an enjoyment in sic maitters noo has gaen still an seelent,
There is jist, year on year, the lamentin o trees bi the tumuli.