Scots Poems From The Incubus Poem by Sheena Blackhall

John Young
John Young he wis a tinkler
Ane o the gangrel clan
Fair skeely as a tinsmith
At claddin pot or pan

His brither wis a ne'r dae weel
Ay, Peter wisnae blate
At rypin, chorin, fisticuffs
He wis born gallow's bait

Bit honest tae a faut wis John
An peaceful in his wyes
Until a kinsman kittled him
Misfitted an unsattled him
Miscaad an warssled doon on him
An aa tae his surprise
A cheil he maun defen himsel
He drew a dirk in haste
His kinsman Jamie Davidson
Wis stabbit throwe the briest
An men on horseback chased him
A cairt they quickly spied
Bun up like ony roastin soo
Puir John wis catched an tied

Lord Dunsinnane an Cullen
Luiked blaik on gangrel cheils
As did the jury bodies
Fa thocht aa traivellers, deils

The judgement wis a hingin
The body tae be gaen
Fur medical dissection
Nae laired like ither men

They dressed him in his grave cloots
The toon serjeant turned up
An wad hae feintit, bit John Young
Gaed him his wine tae sup

He thanked fowk fur his kindness
He pleaded self defence
Bit luikin at his coffin
Clean strippit aa pretence

He gaed a grue an chittered
An syne, composed himsel
The hangman opened up the trap
Frae this warld John Young fell

Twa craas micht cam frae the same nest
Ane luik as blaik's the ither
Bit pairt the feathers, deeper luik
Ye'd see a different brither



Riot 1802
The Ross an Cromarty Rangers
Were billeted in the toon
Wi puckles o Irish strangers
In the first fower days o June
It wis King George's birthday
The sodjers merched at noon
Their battle colours tae display
Drums beat a martial soun

In the toon haa the provost,
Wi the military sat doon
An bi the evenin, echt o clock
Wi drink their heids did stooun

Wi boozing, carouzin, their shanks wir unca weak
A heeze o loons wir wytin, tae greet them on the street

They peltit them wi squibs an keech
Deid cats an sic like stuff
Until the Colonel he roared oot
Ye vratches, thon's enough

He ordered that the drums be beat
Tae turn his sodjers oot
An syne, blin fu, he tint his feet
This warlord, fine an stoot

Captain MacDonagh he tuik ower
A voice cried Halt! Front! Charge!
The sodjers fixed their bayonets,
Breenged on wi sic a splairge

Windaes an yetts on Castle Street wir peppered syne wi shot
A rifleman a twa young loons their mortal wouns they got

The provost ordered aa tae cease
The citizens socht a trial
Wi murder wis the Colonel chairged
Echt sodjers clapped in jyle

On Tuesday neist, the midnicht oor
The regiment crept awa
The echt wir sent tae Embro toun
Bit bailed an lat awa

The faither o the rifleman he brocht a prosecution
The citizens raised funds fur thon…apublic subscription
D'ye think that justice it wis daen? Not Guilty an Not Proven
The sodjers jinked the hangman's noose…the rule o Justice broken

Bit wyte an list…gin aa be true
Thon regiment sae coorse
Years eftir they wir billeted
Nearbye the Custom Hoose

A sentry posted in the derk
Bi mornin wis fand deid
His rig bane brukken,bi breet force
Richt roon wis yarked his heid

Thon daith wis Aiberdeen's revenge
Fate doles ootups an doons
Bluid will hae bluid the auld spikk rins
Killt fur the murdered loons


Janet Paisley: 1948-2018:
Janet Paisley wis in it fur the Lang Haul
Nae fur Glory, a Refuge
Fur readers sikkin a true voice.

Cutty tales, plays, films, TV
At hame wi Breid an Circuses,
An newspapers forbye,
She spakk at Russian academic gaitherins
Tolstoy myndins, like Dickens
Toured an read her wirks in
Paris, Moscow, Slovakia
Lithuania, the Ukraine
A richt kenspeckle body

Raised sax laddies hersel (nae smaa tcyauve)
Her wirk'sbin owersett intae German,
Russian, Lithuanian, Slovak, Spanish,
Hungarian, Ukranian an Italian
She screived o Jacobite links
Wis ahin the character stations
At Culloden's Veesitor Centre

Hae ye seen her darg, The Lasses O?
(There's nae a Scot fa isnae touched bi Burns)
Her mantra wis ‘Literature cams frae yer ain doorstep
An voices that ye ken.'

Her voice lives on in the darg she leaves ahin


Sisyphus, lay doon yer stane
Sisyphus, lay doon yer stane
Orpheus, set by yer lyre
Death teirs holes in faimilies
Like a muir brunt broon bi fire

Sun slipps saftly ower the howe
Meen sclimms like a siller gird
Starnies glimmer ower the mools
Far kin lie kistit in the yird

Meenlicht on a heidstane faas
Lichts the names I ken fu weel
Ach, that I staun livin yet
The rotten tattie in the dreel

I hae grat till tears ran dry
I micht murn till seas turn black
Nae amount o wae an grue
Will bring thon sair-missed sleepers back


A Dutifu Quine
Fin I wis wee
I wis a lowse bit o a jigsaw
An odd sock
Mither wis as auld as a granny

I lived wi the fear o daith
Ma real granny
Wis aulder as Methuselah
Mair precious than the Taj Mahal

I played wi elephants ahin her chunty
An slept at her back
A cosie, luvin, bield


Mither
Ma mither wis a fridge
Misfit her, she'd jeel ye
Ye'd be turned tae an icicle
Till her humour thawed
Mynd, she wis a clean fridge
Onythin fooshty binned richt aff


Masonic Granfaither
A cornkister screiver
A drooth, a cairter,
A fermer,
A kenspeckle cheil
A handsome billie
A fechter, a star o ceilidhs
Past maister o the masons
Far eneuch ben tae be gien
A Masonic funeral
Singer byordnar, asthmatic
Socht bi the lairds tae entertain their soirees
His rich braid Scots sweetent
Bi strang maut fusky


Advent
owersett frae an English poem bi L.Scott ‘A Sudden Line' OUP, pub 1976

The Yuletide wytin is lang
The days drap ane bi ane
Like the hinmaist deid leaves frae the trees

An still its Novemmer
The scurries furl their wye inlan
Frae cauld an gurly seas
Mewlin an screichin in the dwined lift
An aipples rowe on the grun

The shoppers already breath Yule
The grocer's is biggit heich wi candied fruit
An plum duff vrocht fur the masses
Sonsy tinnies o traicle
An saft broon demara sugar
The shee shop his fause snaa
An plastic icedraps hing blate
Hung atween its wyves

The paper shop is stappit wi cairds
Ilkie ane wi their blithesomelines o crambo clink
Picturin self satisfied vergens in fantoosh barns
Mebbe the wytin wi slang fur her as weel
The days gaun slawly by
Wi the bairn growin wechtier
An the weather caulder
An fit wis there fur her at the eyn o't?
Anely a drauchty stable
Wi the cauld nicht air blawin in
A howpie o strae tae lie on
An a lang hard birth on a Yuletide nicht


The Blaik Drummer Murder (1807)
In the year o echteen hunner an sivven
In the toun o Aiberdeen
Ahoor -hoose keepit bi Maggie Creek
Wis the stert o a murder scene

John Sampson, a Negro drummer
Frae Barbadosjyned tae fecht
Wi the regiment, the 29th
He stude sax fit in heicht

He wis kent as a pouerfu boxer
Free-style, in a fecht he ran
An dashed a challenger tae the grun
Won faes fin he killed the man

Three cheils o the Argyle Militia
Frae the barracks that stude nearhaun
Set aff fur the hoor hoose eftir drink
They said, bit wis thon the plan?

They smashed a windae, skirlin lood
‘Pi the blaik b…… oot! '
An his bluid steered up, the drummer obleeged
Fearless an strang an stoot

Bit a haived steen caad him senseless
A bayonet ran throwe his back
It pierced his hairt an killed him
Sae wud wis thon attack

At the High Coort sax month eftir
O his murder, the three wir tried
An their defence lawyers blaiked the names
O the witnesses that wir cried

Peter Skinner three years earlier
Robbed a corpse in Aiberdeen
At the beach…a deid flax dresser
Stole the buckles frae her sheen

He'd bin pit in the cooncil pillory,
Syne banished fur sivven years
An fin he returned tae his hame toon
He wis whipped till brocht tae tears

An Margaret Creek kept a bawdy hoose
Wis she a body ye'd trust?
The jury wir urged tae ignore thon twa
An gang fur a judgement just

The jury didnae dauchle
‘Not Proven' the court wis telt
An the three wauked free frae the coortroom
Wis justice thon day dealt?



The Clachan
In simmer, Shetlan shelties
Gied hurls tae the clachan bairns
Ower the bonnie green flees bizz ower sheltie keech

Tam the peinter iled his wavy hair
Gied the gled ee tae ony quine wi a pluse

Courtesy o the barracks
A different regiment- a different faither tae ae clachan quine
Fa couldnae resist a sodjer
Dod tarred the road, red up the Heilan Games park
Shaved the caber, served hett beer in the tent

In windaes, yeast brewed ginger beer
In cloudy jars. Seerup tins on brakkfast tables
Left clarty cercles, fochtaroon bi wasps


The Postie
Nummer ane….three bills, child maintenance frae a da
Nummer sax…..a summons frae the coort
Nummer echt…a postcaird frae Ibitha
Nummer nine….a medical appyntment
Nummer twal….the ainer'sgaen awa'
Nummer twinty….birthday caird, a note o sympathy

Blootered
Hauf seas ower, legless, pissed
Aff yer face, yer wellied, bladdered
Boozy, pie-eyed, stocious, fleein
Sowsed an shit faced, rat arsed, smashed

Oot yer tree, yer Brahms an Liszt
Blotto, plaistered, blootered, mashed
Stottin, foonered, teeterlogic
Steamboats, paralytic, sloshed

Inuits hae wirds in hunners
Tae describe their types o snaa
Scots hae wirds fur drooths an boozers
Banjaxxed, an awa wi't aa


Ode to Glen Garioch
O aa Scotch drams the pride o place
Gaes tae Glen Garioch's velvet taste
Sae raise a glaiss o rarest grace
An drink wi zest
Matured in casks o oak- showcase
O aa that's best

The giant, Jock of Bennachie
Gin he had supped the barley bree
An drunk GlenGarioch's wizardy
That cream o whisky
He'd be as strang's thon steel kelpie
An twice as frisky
Takk oot yer siller, buy yer fill
VAT 69, frae copper still
Founder's Reserve, a quarter gill
Beats gin or brandy
Glen Garioch's far they can distil
A dram maist hearty

It's cauld? Drink doon a warmin toddy
Glen Garioch's made tae warm a body
Or mix it up wi amber honey
Or drink it neat
Raisin the bar at ony party
A whisky treat!

Drink it tae mark a luver's meetin
At Hogmanay, the New Year's greetin
Glen Garioch'squickly supercedin
Aa competition
Drink it at Burn's nicht, eftir giein
The recitation


The Muckle Hound
As I cam ower Potarch man
I heard a muckle hound
Its roar wis like a cyclone
That zoomed up frae the ground

Chorus
It's true man, aa true man
This hound wis vrocht frae steel
It fed on nuts an bolts man
An washed them doon wi ile

This hound it hid a tail, man
As heich as Scoltie's tap
An fin it wagged it gart ten thoosan
Fir trees like tae drap

Chorus

Its een war fiery coals, man
As fires o Hell sae reid
Its teeth war sherp's the Lunnon Shard
A batterin ram its heid

Chorus

Its lugs wir deep'sa quarry
Its snoot, like Blanket Bog
Its tongue like a reid river
Rolled as far as Tir nan Og

Chorus

Wauk cannie in the gloamin,
This hound's a fearie breet
An gin it howls, be wary
Its seekin human meat