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| Posted by: Cù Dubh 27-May-2005, 09:27 AM |
| kidspoem / bairnsang Liz Lochhead it wis January and a gey dreich day the first day Ah went to the school so my Mum happed me up in ma good navy-blue napp coat wi the rid tartan hood birled a scarf aroon ma neck pu?ed oan ma pixie an? my pawkies it wis that bitter said noo ye?ll no starve gie?d me a wee kiss and a kid-oan skelp oan the bum and sent me aff across the playground tae the place Ah?d learn to say it was January and a really dismal day the first day I went to school so my mother wrapped me up in my best navy-blue top coat with the red tartan hood, twirled a scarf around my neck, pulled on my bobble-hat and mittens it was so bittterly cold said now you won?t freeze to death gave me a little kiss and a pretend slap on the bottom and sent me off across the playground to the place I?d learn to forget to say it wis January and a gey dreich day the first day Ah went to the school so my Mum happed me up in my good navy-blue napp coat wi the rid tartan hood, birled a scarf aroon ma neck, pu?ed oan ma pixie an? my pawkies it wis that bitter. Oh saying it was one thing but when it came to writing it in black and white the way it had to be said was as if you were posh, grown-up, male, English and dead. |
| Posted by: Cù Dubh 27-May-2005, 09:29 AM |
| 'The 6 O'Clock News' Tom Leonard this is thi six a clock news thi man said n thi reason a talk wia BBC accent iz coz yi widny wahnt mi ti talk aboot thi trooth wia voice lik wanna yoo scruff. if a toktaboot thi trooth lik wanna yoo scruff yi widny thingk it wuz troo. jist wanna yoo scruff tokn. thirza right way ti spell ana right way to tok it. this is me tokn yir right way a spellin. this is ma trooth. yooz doant no thi trooth yirsellz cawz yi canny talk right. this is the six a clock nyooz. belt up. |
| Posted by: Cù Dubh 27-May-2005, 09:32 AM |
| in the beginning was the word Tom Leonard in the beginning was the word in thi beginning was thi wurd in thi beginnin was thi wurd in thi biginnin wuz thi wurd n thi biginnin wuz thi wurd nthi biginnin wuzthi wurd nthibiginnin wuzthiwurd nthibiginninwuzthiwurd in the beginning was the sound |
| Posted by: Cù Dubh 27-May-2005, 09:33 AM |
| A short History of the British Judiciary Tom Leonard And their judges spoke with one dialect but the condemned spoke with many voices. And the prisons were full of many voices, but never the dialect of the judges. And the judges said, "No-one is above the Law." |
| Posted by: Cù Dubh 27-May-2005, 09:34 AM |
| THE GOOD THIEF Tom Leonard heh jimmy yawright ih stull wayiz urryi ih heh jimmy ma right insane yirra pape ma right insane yirwanny us jimmy see it nyir eyes wanny uz heh heh jimmy lookslik wirgonny miss thi gemm gonny miss thi GEMM jimmy nearly three a cloke thinoo dork init good jobe theyve gote the lights |
| Posted by: Cù Dubh 27-May-2005, 09:37 AM |
| J. M. Caie The Puddock A Puddock sat by the lochan's brim, An' he thocht there was never a puddock like him. He sat on his hurdies, he waggled his legs, An' cockit his heid as he glowered throu' the seggs The bigsy wee cratur' was feelin' that prood, He gapit his mou' an' he croakit oot lood "Gin ye'd a' like tae see a richt puddock," quo' he, " Ye'll never, I'll sweer, get a better nor me. I've fem'lies an' wives an' a weel-plenished hame, Wi' drink for my thrapple an' meat for my wame. The lasses aye thocht me a fine strappin' chiel, An' I ken I'm a rale bonny singer as weel. I'm nae gaun tae blaw, but the truth I maun tell- I believe I'm the verra MacPuddock himsel'." A heron was hungry an' needin' tae sup, Sae he nabbit th' puddock and gollup't him up; Syne 'runkled his feathers: "A peer thing," quo' he, "But-puddocks is nae as fat as they eesed tae be." |
| Posted by: Cù Dubh 27-May-2005, 09:49 AM |
| Urn Burial George Bruce It wis hardly worth peyin for a casket the body wis that peely-wally. nae bluid in't lukit like a scrap o' broun paper papyrus mebbe? nae gran eneuch for that. but there wis some gran mourners, the Editor o' the Scottish National Dictionary, Heid o' the Depairment o' Scot. Lit., President o' the Burns Federation, President o' the Lallans Society, President o' the Saltaire Society, a' present in strict alphabetical order an' ane/twa orra Scot. Nats. Syne cam a fuff o' win' an' liftit it oot o' the bowlie ahn' hine awa, a wee bird sang Dew dreep'd on the beld heids o' the auld men stude gloweran at the tuim tomb. "She's jinkit again, the b*tch!" said the man wi' the spade. |
| Posted by: CelticRose 30-May-2005, 12:12 AM |
| Hey Cu Dubh! These are great! Thanks! Keep em coming! |
| Posted by: Eiric 30-May-2005, 08:06 AM |
| Beautiful!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! |
| Posted by: Cù Dubh 30-May-2005, 10:34 AM |
 Anybody else feel free to post your favourite Scottish poem. The Boy in the Train by Mary Campbell Smith Whit wey does the engine say 'Toot-toot'? Is it feart to gang in the tunnel? Whit wey is the furnace no pit oot When the rain gangs doon the funnel? What'll I hae for my tea the nicht? A herrin', or maybe a haddie? Has Gran'ma gotten electric licht? Is the next stop Kirkcaddy? There's a hoodie-craw on yon turnip-raw! An' seagulls! - sax or seeven. I'll no fa' oot o' the windae, Maw, Its sneckit, as sure as I'm leevin'. We're into the tunnel! we're a' in the dark! But dinna be frichtit, Daddy, We'll sune be comin' to Beveridge Park, And the next stop's Kirkcaddy! Is yon the mune I see in the sky? It's awfu' wee an' curly, See! there's a coo and a cauf ootbye, An' a lassie pu'in' a hurly! He's chackit the tickets and gien them back, Sae gie me my ain yin, Daddy. Lift doon the bag frae the luggage rack, For the next stop's Kirkcaddy! There's a gey wheen boats at the harbour mou', And eh! dae ya see the cruisers? The cinnamon drop I was sookin' the noo Has tummelt an' stuck tae ma troosers. . . I'll sune be ringin' ma Gran'ma's bell, She'll cry, 'Come ben, my laddie', For I ken mysel' by the queer-like smell That the next stop's Kirkcaddy! |
| Posted by: Cù Dubh 31-May-2005, 02:17 AM |
| The Sair Finger by Walter Wingate You've hurt your finger? Puir wee man! Your pinkie? Deary me! Noo, juist you haud it that wey till I get my specs and see! My, so it is - and there's the skelf! Noo, dinna greet nae mair. See there - my needle's gotten't out! I'm sure that wasna sair? And noo, to make it hale the morn, Put on a wee bit saw, And tie a Bonnie hankie roun't Noo, there na - rin awa'! Your finger sair ana'? Ye rogue, You're only lettin' on. Weel, weel, then - see noo, there ye are, Row'd up the same as John! |
| Posted by: CelticRose 03-Jun-2005, 11:12 PM |
Really great, Cu Dubh! My favorite still is the 6 o'clock news. I love it when it says about talking with the BBC accent.  |
| Posted by: Cù Dubh 04-Jun-2005, 06:27 AM |
| Aye tht yin's a belter I like kidspoem / bairnsang. They way it goes from Scots to Standard English which is the way the wee girl learns to speak at School |
| Posted by: Cù Dubh 04-Jun-2005, 01:45 PM |
| Aboot time wi hid yin fae Rabbie. Of an Inn at Stirling, on seeing the Royal Palace in ruin. Robert Burns Here Stuarts once in glory reigned, And laws for Scotland's weal ordained; But now unroof'd their palace stands, Their sceptre's sway'd by other hands; Fallen indeed, and to the earth Whence groveling reptiles take their birth. The injured Stuart line is gone, A race outlandish fills their throne; An idiot race, to honour lost; Who know them best despise them most. |
| Posted by: Cù Dubh 04-Jun-2005, 01:55 PM |
| Anither yin fae the Bard. Robert Bruce's March To Bannockburn Robert Burns Scots, wha hae wi' Wallace bled, Scots, wham Bruce has aften led, Welcome to your gory bed, Or to Victorie! Now's the day, and now's the hour; See the front o' battle lour; See approach proud Edward's power- Chains and Slaverie! Wha will be a traitor knave? Wha can fill a coward's grave? Wha sae base as be a Slave? Let him turn and flee! Wha, for Scotland's King and Law, Freedom's sword will strongly draw, Free-man stand, or Free-man fa', Let him on wi' me! By Oppression's woes and pains! By your Sons in servile chains! We will drain our dearest veins, But they shall be free! Lay the proud Usurpers low! Tyrants fall in every foe! Liberty's in every blow!- Let us Do or Die! |
| Posted by: Cù Dubh 04-Jun-2005, 01:58 PM |
| wan mair and wan o ma favourites tae. Such A Parcel Of Rogues In A Nation Robert Burns Fareweel to a' our Scottish fame, Fareweel our ancient glory; Fareweel ev'n to the Scottish name, Sae fam'd in martial story. Now Sark rins over Solway sands, An' Tweed rins to the ocean, To mark where England's province stands- Such a parcel of rogues in a nation! What force or guile could not subdue, Thro' many warlike ages, Is wrought now by a coward few, For hireling traitor's wages. The English stell we could disdain, Secure in valour's station; But English gold has been our bane- Such a parcel of rogues in a nation! O would, or I had seen the day That Treason thus could sell us, My auld grey head had lien in clay, Wi' Bruce and loyal Wallace! But pith and power, till my last hour, I'll mak this declaration; We're bought and sold for English gold- Such a parcel of rogues in a nation! |
| Posted by: stoirmeil 12-Jul-2005, 09:00 AM |
| I hope it's OK to put this poem here, as well as a nice bit of commentary on it. It's a brilliant, funny, canny bit. The link at the end is to a photo of Schiehallion. VOICES OFF THE MAP: PLACE-NAMES IN A POEM BY EDWIN MORGAN Canedolia An Off-Concrete Scotch Fantasia oa! hoy! awe! ba! mey! who saw? rhu saw rum. garve saw smoo. nigg saw tain. lairg saw lagg. rigg saw eigg. largs saw haggs. tongue saw luss. mull saw yell. stoer saw strone. drem saw muck. gask saw noss. unst saw cults. echt saw banff. weem saw wick. trool saw twatt. how far? from largo to lunga from joppa to skibo from ratho to shona from ulva to minto from tinto to tolsta from soutra to marsco from braco to barra from alva to stobo from fogo to fada from gigha to gogo from kelso to stroma from hirta to spango. what is it like there? och it's freuchie, it's faifley, it's wamphray, it's frandy, it's sliddery. what do you do? we foindle and fungle, we bonkle and meigle and maxpoffle. we scotstarvit, armit, wormit, and even whifflet. we play at crossstobs, leuchars, gorbals and finfan. we scavaig, and there's aye a bit of tilquhilly. if it's wet, treshnish and mishnish. what is the best of the country? blinkbonny! airgold! thundergay! and the worst? scrishven, shiskine, scrabster, and snizort. listen! what's that? catacol and wauchope, never heed them. tell us about last night well, we had a wee ferintosh and we lay on the quirang. it was pure strontian! but who was there? petermoidart and craigenkenneth and cambusputtock and ecclemuchty and corriehulish and balladolly and altnacanny and clauchanvrechan and stronachlochan and auchenlachar and tighnacrankie and tilliebruaigh and killieharra and invervannach and achnatudlem and machrishellach and inchtamurchan and auchterfechan and kinlochculter and ardnawhallie and invershuggle. and what was the toast? schiehallion! schiehallion! schiehallion! From Selected Poems by Edwin Morgan, printed by permission of Carcanet Press. What the reader notices at once is that something is going on here at a level of meaning that seems to bypass that of ordinary discourse. A supreme attentiveness to language is felt to be at work, with every place-name milked for meaning or associations it might convey to the ear or eye, on its own or in association with its neighbours. There is a mercurial, shifting quality, a celebratory nervous energy that makes the hair stand on end when you read the poem aloud. Some kind of dialogue is going on between two or more speakers, of which one seems to be a stranger, asking for and receiving information or reassurance from another who seems to be part of a larger group. To whom might these voices belong? One of the abiding concerns of Edwin Morgan's poetry is to voice the unvoiced, to endow with speech those -whether people, creatures, or things-who cannot speak for themselves. As he says in an interview with W.N. Herbert, '[t]he world, history, society, everything in it, pleads to become a voice, voices!' (Gairfish, 1:2). In his poem, 'Afterwards', a Vietnamese child speaks; in other poems, an apple, a hyena; the sounds of Prospero's island, the Glasgow starlings; and Shakespeare in the moving 'Instructions to an Actor'. It should come as no surprise, then, to find he may have given a voice to the place-names of Scotland, to Caledonia-or rather Canedolia. One of the great strengths of Morgan's poetry is that it comes at the world obliquely, from a different perspective, and this oblique stance, as Robyn Marsack has suggested in her essay, 'Edwin Morgan and Contemporary Poetry', may be conditioned by his homosexuality. He has said that it is always the human story that attracts him, and many of his poems give dramatised speech to those on the margins of society. Canedolia is 'Caledonia' re-arranged, seen from a different perspective, and this anagram gives us the first hint that we should prick up our ears for all possible forms of word-play. 'Canedolia' itself sounds as though it might mean 'the howling of dogs', and the first line of the poem , with its monosyllabic, almost consonant-less cries, does indeed sound like that. The answer to the first question, 'who saw?', couples together place-names which are still monosyllabic, but more complex. The question also suggests that these are entities capable of seeing. Some conjunctions seem to involve like with like, as in 'rigg saw eigg', while others seem to offer an attraction of opposites, as in 'nigg saw tain', or 'garve saw smoo'. Given that 'garve' [Gaelic garbh] means rough, and that 'smoo' sounds like smooth, we know that meaning will be found at the level of near-pun. That what is going on here is actually an exuberant and joyful coupling becomes clear as body-parts start emerging, with legs and hair entangled in 'lairg saw lagg. . . . largs saw haggs', and a lusty tongue going about its business. Moreover there are parts that more often go unmentioned, except as obscenities, but which are here given voice and recognition: 'unst saw cults. . . weem saw wick. trool saw twatt.' What is intriguing about the answer to the question, 'how far?', is the way place-names ending in o and a are paired. These words have the look of first names in a Romance language-men's names ending in o, and women's in a. Moreover they are arranged back to back: the repeated pattern is 'from o to a from a to o' throughout the stanza, with no dividing punctuation. Notice that alternative couplings may take place on the back of the rhythm; on the off-beat, as it were, couplings like 'to a from a' and 'to o from o' are accommodated like a rich syncopation, with near-rhyme or full rhyme, as in 'to stobo from fogo', or 'to minto from tinto'. Asked, 'what is it like there?', the Canedolian comes up with words that have the look and feel of adjectives. What they all share is a kind of lack of definition, a comfortable, fuzzy quality. Even the 'och' at the beginning of the line sounds as though the speaker feels it would be impossible to convey in a word what the essence of canedolia might be, but that it might be all of these things-a generous, compendious kind of place. As for 'what do you do there?', the names suggest that congress of the most uninhibited and imaginative kind takes place, from the obvious 'foindle and fungle' and 'bonkle', and the physicality of 'we scotstarvit, armit, wormit, and even whifflet', to the ludic infantilism of 'we play at crossstobs, gorbals and finfan', and the teasing precision of 'if it's wet, treshnish and mishnish'. 'Scavaig' suggests stravaig, while 'tilquhilly' reminds us of the old Scots word for penis-quhilly. The three sonorous names epitomising 'the best of the country', are suggestive of clear-sightedness, air, daylight, and an outspoken confidence in sexual orientation; while 'the worst' are more like sneers and snorts of disapproval-sounds suggestive of tightly-pursed mouths, and the twitch of net curtains. Indeed, it may be the catcalls of homophobia that are heard in 'catacol', whose taunts the stranger is invited to disregard as worthless or stale. The phrase, 'we had a wee ferintosh' evokes the ghost of an old whisky, once made by Duncan Forbes of Culloden, an anti-Jacobite, who was afterwards granted a licence to distil whisky when taxes made this prohibitive to anyone else; and, remembering that the parish of Strontian gave its name to the radio-active element, strontium 90, it is tempting to feel that the pleasures of lying 'on the quirang' (the sound of a springy divan?) are potentially dangerous. Ever playful, Morgan dares us to ignore or pursue such historical resonances. You will not find 'petermoidart' or any of his companions on any map, except one of 'canedolia', of course. All these names have been allowed to indulge in linguistic promiscuity and swap their usual partners for others. Some have done a straight swap, like peterculter and kinlochmoidart, but others, more daring, have ventured further afield, or even come to the party on their own. You will look in vain for 'hannish' -'machri''s usual partner-and have fun deciding whether 'tillie' has been partnering 'whally' and 'tudlem'. What is interesting is how natural these new couples sound, as though the land of 'canedolia' had space enough for all. In the poem's final lines, homophobic abuse is mischievously and wittily recuperated: as the reply to 'what was the toast' rings out three times, we imagine glasses being raised, and the effect of this upward movement is to make us see Schiehallion. itself - the fairy hill of the Caledonians - rising up before our eyes. Anna Crowe (Selected Poems by Edwin Morgan can be obtained from CARCANET PRESS LTD, 208-212 Corn Exchange, Manchester M4 3BQ.) http://www.dallestate.co.uk/images/Schiehallion%20-%20small.jpg |
| Posted by: stoirmeil 12-Jul-2005, 10:49 AM |
| Here is another beautiful, sad little gem by David Morrison. This appears in the volume Contemporary Scottish Verse 1959-1969, edited by Norman McCaig and Alexander Scott. This volume is wonderful -- a good English, Lallans and Gaelic (with translations) mix of poems. The Root You cut the root o the tree And left tae dee, that flower Sae reid an fresh A sang, witherin wi the sun. Petals crack i the haun And ashes lie aneath Branches that sheltered the yerd Where roots aince twined. Aye, you cut the root o the tree And left tae dee, that sang Tae ma hauchlin* hert A sang weel sung. You cut the root o the tree. *limping, stumbling |
| Posted by: stoirmeil 02-Aug-2005, 02:17 PM |
| And here's another from the same volume, by T. S. Law: Importance He daesnae juist drap a name or set it up and say grace wi 't, he lays it oot on his haun and hits ye richt in the face wi 't. Generous, tho, tae a faut. Aye, no a ticht* man, no mean wi 't. Gie him anither chance and he'll hit ye atween the een wi' t. *ticht -- tight, miserly. |
| Posted by: sorbus 10-Aug-2005, 09:15 AM |
| I was Lucky to Be inGlasgow when Tom Leonard Tom McrGrath Danny Kyle Eric Bogle Gerry Rafferty Billy Connolly The Tannnahill Weavers Matt MacGinn Hamish Imlach all walked abroad in The Scotia The Third Eye oftimes I argued with Tom Leonard : That Glaswegian was a separate Language with it`s own grammar and punctuation Like This Wher Hiv Aw Rha"Tossin` Schools" Gon? _________________________________ Wher hiv aw rhe "Tossin` Schools" gon "Pitch an` Toss " and "Moshie" tae? When AH wis a wee smaw lad, Ah`d go on a Sunday Wi Mah Dahd Doon tae Rha Glesca Green , Tae Rha Biggest "Tossin` School" Ye ever did see . Ye`d get Fity ,Sixty, A Hunner ur mair Aw tryin` tae "Even up Rha Score" Bit Ye Cannae Play "Moshie IN CUMBERNAULD Cos Ye Cannae Maik "Moshie" Holes in Concrete Ye Ask Mi Wher aw Rhe "Tossin` Schools Hiv Gon? Well AH`ll Tell Ye . Rher Aw DEID. Rheh Died wen "RHEH" Demolished AW RHASTREETS Wher hi aw rhe "Tossin` Schools Gon? Rhey`re aw BURIET Under Rhe GlESCA MOTORWAE Cos Rhe Folks RHat Ran Rhem WUR AW MOVED AWAY.  Sorbus Nov 1977 |
| Posted by: stoirmeil 10-Aug-2005, 10:26 AM |
Well, you know what they say. A language is a dialect with an army and a navy.  Wicked spelling system on that sample you wrote (which I like, though it's sad). I take it that's how it sounds? Is that actually a standard way of spelling the dialect, or yours? I love Billy Connolly, btw. I'm guessing his bit about the Weegie lad who wrestled with Ivan the Terrible is in the Glasgow inflection. It about paralyzes me laughing, but I confess I can only catch maybe 2 out of 3 words. |
| Posted by: sorbus 10-Aug-2005, 12:00 PM |
| Well this is what all the arguement was about I argued it was an actual Language with different grammar and punctuation A Fusion of Gaelic Erse Lallans English and American English Tom Leonard said it was a matter of inflection a Dialect Yet Glaswegian is not place of just One Dialect but a multitude. Yet a Guy From Parkhead Can Chat to a Girl from Partick both are speaking different dialects of the one Language and it`s neither Gaelic or English it`s Broad Glaswegian  Look at these Three Sentences "Heh Hen Dae ye Fancy a wee donner doon tae Kelvingrove" "Will Ye gang tae Kelvingrove Bonnie Lassie O" "Will you go to Kelvingrove Beautiful Maiden" "Will Ye gang tae Kelvingrove Bonnie Lassie O" "Will you go to Kelvingrove Beautiful Maiden" These Two can be seen as being related This is a separate Language "Heh Hen Dae ye Fancy a wee donner doon tae Kelvingrove" Yet all Say The Same Thing |
| Posted by: stoirmeil 10-Aug-2005, 12:10 PM |
| Hard for me to say. I know the same problem exists with yiddish, which had an incredibly wide-flung speaking terrain at the beginning of the 20th century. Lots of larding with local languages and dialects, and huge variation in the way it's pronounced (so that a speaker from Transylvania, say, would not have a prayer of understanding either speech or nonstandard writing from Siberia). But it still all came under the one name "yiddish", for nationalistic and political reasons -- which is perhaps the most important criterion after all. So -- how about another of your verses? |
| Posted by: stoirmeil 17-Aug-2005, 08:13 PM |
| Here are two in plain english, if that will be all right, by George Mackay Brown. But so scottish in spirit, and so attuned to the sense of women. I love these. The second one has an old-religion feel to it, something of Lammas. Jess of the Shore The three fishermen said to Jess of the Shore "A wave took Jock Between the Kist and the Sneuk. We didn't get him. We wouldn't give much for his life." They left Jock's share of fish at the door. She laid off the gray shawl. She put on the black. She took the score of shrugging fish And a sharp knife And went the hundred steps to the rock. A cold wife In a cold measured ivory ritual. Country Girl I make seven circles, my love For your good breaking. I make the gray circle of bread And the circle of ale And I drive the butter round in a golden ring And I dance while you fiddle And I turn my face with the turning sun till your feet come in from the field. My lamp throws a circle of light, Then you lie for an hour in the hot unbroken circle of my arms. |
| Posted by: stoirmeil 06-Sep-2005, 12:15 PM |
| Time for another? These are anonymous. Dolly Mary had a little lamb, its fleece was slightly grey, It didn't have a father, just some borrowed DNA. It sort of had a mother, though the ovum was on loan, It was not so much a lambkin, as a little lamby clone. And soon it had a fellow clone, and soon it had some more, They followed her to school one day, all cramming through the door. It made the children laugh and sing, the teachers found it droll, There were far too many lamby clones for Mary to control, No other could control the sheep, since their programs didn't vary, So the scientists resolved it all, by simply cloning Mary. But now they feel quite sheepish, those scientists unwary, One problem solved, but what to do, with Mary, Mary, Mary. Ye Cannae Shove Yer Granny Aff a Bus! Ye cannae shove yer granny aff a bus, Oh ye cannae shove yer granny aff a bus, Ye cannae shove yer granny, for she's yer mammy's mammy, Ye cannae shove yer granny aff a bus. Ye can shove yer other granny aff a bus, Ye can shove yer other granny aff a bus. You can shove yer other granny, for she's yer daddy's mammy, Ye can shove yer other granny aff a bus. |