Author Topic: Scottish Poetry  (Read 164531 times)

Stirling Thompson

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Re: Scottish Poetry
« Reply #135 on: October 05, 2009, 06:20:15 AM »
The following poem may serve as a "lassies' reply," as well as a rejoinder to Tam o' Shanter. It was contributed, via a circuitous Internet route, by a Burns Night celebrant from Burray, in the Orkney Islands.


    Kate O'Shanter

    And where do you suppose was Kate
    When market days were wearin late
    While Tam frequented wretched dives
    and fooled aroond wi landlord's wives?

    And rode poor Meg through mud and ditches
    and had an eye for handsome witches

    Played peepin Tam at Alloway
    And yelled and gave himself away
    And fled from there amid the din
    And Maggie hardly saved his skin

    Kate slaved away the lifelong day
    They had so many bills to pay
    The twins just had to have new shoes
    And Tam he spent so much on booze

    She bathed and clothed and fed the twins
    She baked the bread, she knits and spins
    She does the wash, she mends the clothes
    And what all else God only knows!

    She keeps the house all neat and trim
    And makes the lunch for ploughboy Jim
    A neighbour lad they hire by day
    Who does Tam's work while Tam's away

    She herds the sheep and cattle too
    Feeds hens, milks cows and when she's through
    makes cheese and butter and gathers eggs
    And puts the homebrew in the kegs

    For Tam to sell on market day
    And drink the proceeds half away

    At harvest time from early morn
    Her sickle reaps the oats and corn
    And many a bonny summer day
    She and ploughboy Jim - make hay

    When Tam got home that night at 4
    And Maggie found the stable door
    Tam stumbled senseless to the floor
    To sleep it off 8 hours or more

    He tossed and turned through hail and rain
    And through the nightmare ride again
    Aboot the middle of the day
    The livestock had a lot to say

    The chickens, donkeys, geese, hens and cows
    Said we want food we want it NOW
    Tam stirred then from his lowly bed
    and saw Meg's stump above his head

    An awfu thought ran through his brain
    Oh God - that wisna hail and rain!

    Tam struggled slowly tae his feet
    He wisna clean he wisna neat
    He scraped aff what he could but when
    He made his way from but to ben

    Tam stood dumbfounded - what the hell
    For Kate was gone - the twins as well

    But Kate had left a note for him
    "I've sailed to Montreal wi Jim"
    And we expect to settle soon
    Out on a farm near Saskatoon!

    Forgive me Tam and don't be sore
    A couldna tak it any more
    I had tae find a better way
    Before I'd slaved my youth away

    I had tae try and save myself
    (You'll find the oatmeal on the shelf)
    Don't fash yourself aboot the twins
    I might as well confess - they're Jims!!
Semper Fidelis! Semper Familia!
Stu

Donna

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Re: Scottish Poetry
« Reply #136 on: October 06, 2009, 12:55:55 AM »
Hey Y'all, our Stu's back!

Donna
ANY DAY ABOVE GROUND IS A GOOD DAY !

Stirling Thompson

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Re: Scottish Poetry
« Reply #137 on: October 06, 2009, 10:18:53 AM »
I do not know the author and it is quite long but worth the read.

John Tamson's Bairns

DEDICATION.

To Her who of her palaces hath made
A Home wherein the lowly Christ might dwell
And off, in simple guise, beneath the shade
Of cottage roof hath found, and loved it well,
A palace richer than her own, arrayed
With heavenly peace and joy unspeakable
To Her would I, far off, on bended knees;
Devotion's unskilled offering, offer these.

I.

Edenic Toil! who would not hope to share
Thy silken yoke and uncomplaining breast?
No groan from lungs of brass then vex'd the air,
Nor beads of grime dropt from the brow oppress'd,
Mingling with bread of tears, life's daily fare,—
More sweet thy labour was than is our rest
When in the calm of Sabbath morn embower'd,
And with the breath of dewy roses dower'd.

II.

John Tamson dwelt in Eden;—not that place
Where no sharp weeds bestrewed the velvet floor;
Where never taint of sorrow marr'd the face;
Nor cripple vagrant limped from door to door;
Nor mossy fields were stoned in deep disgrace;
Nor naked feet by frosts were bitten sore;
It stood—still stands—apart from Scripture story,
Somewhere not far from Fife, or Tobermory.

III.

On lawful days a cobbler's craft he plied
At open door, close by the babbling street;
With cunning art well-spent on brutish hide
He gave heroic help to human feet,—
Thence well prepared, whatever might betide,
To wade thro' bloody fields, or blustering sleet,
To tread the snow-drift, leap the moorland hag,
Or tempt the frowning brows of mountain crag.

IV.

He was not old, but he had crossed the line
Which bounds the middle stream from farther shore;
Neighbours could see his "croon" begin to shine,
And how the sable hair was tinged with hoar;
He thumped his knee, and rax'd the resinous twine
(Himself well knew) less bravely than before;
And oft would pause and gaze on passers-by
With weary, wistful, unperceiving eye.

V.

Yet was he blessed sevenfold in gentle wife,
Of stature small, but with enshrined soul
Just large enough to grace a lowly life,
And clasp the earth in love from pole to pole;—
If Thought means Power and tears can hinder strife,
Kings felt but did not know her sweet control
Not less from cottage than Cathedral chair
God hears the wrestling spirit's inwrought prayer.

VI.

These two were mated years past three times ten,
Each to the other's changeless full content;
Blithesome they took their little "but and ben,"
And there in frugal peace their days were spent,
Near by the echoing murmurs of the glen
Where once their lover's troth to heaven was sent,
And carrier angels came with glad accord
To bless their honest toil, their bed and board.

VII.
Humble their cares and small their household stock,
Simple and few, yet of substantial kind,—
Plain dresser, chest of drawers, the eight-day clock,
Meal-kist and bookcase, food for frame and mind;
Cupboard of curious wares, a dainty flock
That shyly peep'd from crystal doors behind;
Cat and canary—cage with muslin frill;
Flower-pot with moss-rose on the window-sill.

VIII.

The Bible foremost, undisputed lord,
To whom all else paid reverential due;
Not least, a rusty basket-hilted sword
Which some brave hand for God and Covenant drew;
Next, the broad stool whereon the cobbler bored
And beat the pliant leather old and new;—
And rocking-cradle, that need rock no more,
Not in dishonour laid behind the door.

IX.

Within a score of summers, one by one
Nine bairns had come to fill that downy nest;
Three died ere yet their infant days had run
One at the Cape, two dwelt in the Far West;
A maid who saw her bridal year begun
Had kirkyard gowan's growing on her breast
Before it closed; a sailor lad was drown'd;
Another lost and searched for—never found.

X.

In Israel's palmy age no godly seed
Was ever rear'd with holier fear than they
Was earlier taught that God was God indeed,
Guardian of human frailty night and day,
Whence they might look for help in time of need,
Whom only serve, on whom alone might stay;
And when the righteous cause was in the field
Might staunchly die, but neither spare nor yield.

XI.

The Sabbath came, for pleasure not their own;
Benignant angel from Jehovah sent,
To salve the eyes, and move the heart of stone
With thankfulness, and love, and pure intent;
That seed of life might not in vain be sown,—
So to their Hill of Zion forth they went
In clean attire, and of the little band
Not one drew near to God with empty hand.

XIII.
Not one sat listless in the House of Prayer,
The high-back'd pew, familiar family nook;
Mother, well-pleased, would smooth her lambkin's hair,
And scent the fragrant leaf that mark'd her book;
Nor would the boys, from love and reverence, dare
To tempt the solemn father's side-long look;
God spake, and all alike felt wholesome dread
What might befall to callous heart or head.

XIII.

Incense more free and holier still would rise
When John and she, the priestess of the hearth,
Each day renewed their fireside sacrifice,
And worshipp'd God with mingling fear and mirth;—
Like Jacob's ladder lifted to the skies,
So did the aspiring soul surmount the earth,
To drink unspoken joy at heavenly springs
Amid sweet odours waft by angels' wings.

XIV.

The floor swept clean, as tho' for Christ's own feet;
No sloven attitude, nor thing mislaid;
Each child well knew, with face most gravely sweet,
The very fly, if buzzing noise it made,
Would be rebuked when father took his seat
And took the Book, and sang, and read, and prayed;
And so God's blessing caught them on their knees—
How strong the nation built of homes like these!

XV.


Alas! this pious home was vacant now
Of chattering voices and of children's cares;
A silent sadness on the cobbler's brow
Long since had settled almost unawares.
Most kind was she who shared his nuptial vow
And proud parental joy that once was theirs;
But love will sooner stay the sunset sheen
Than brighten hope with bloom that might have been.

XVI

At eve one day of wet and wintry breeze
John sat demurely at the Book and read
"Whoso shall give to drink to one of these;"
Just then a bairnly voice broke in and said,
"Help a puir wean the nicht, mem, if you please;"
The pleading of a beggar boy for bread.
He tried the latch, by rarest chance not fast,
Peep'd in, his eyes with recent tears o'ercast.

XVII.

Up rose the cobbler's wife, his gentle Ann,
Took in the boy and said, "What brings ye here
In sic a nicht sae late, my puir wee man?"
"My mither's dead," said he with gathering tear;
"I'm cauld and hungry and my name is Dan;
My mither's dead and gane this mony a year."
"But wha's your faither,—you're no left your lane?"
"My faither, mem! oh, please, I ne'er had nane."

XVIII.

"Nae faither!" and she eyed the little elf,
The while her bosom heaved with strange desire.
With a shrewd glance at John, her other self,
She set the boy to dry before the fire,
Syne rax'd a barley bannock from the shelf;
"Rae, lad, nae better does a king require;"
So whilst the lad consumed this kingly fare
They spent the interrupted hour of prayer.

XIX.

Oh, saddest in a child! a worn, sad face
Had Dan, but haply nothing to forbid;
No infant crimes had there their nursing-place,
Nor crafty glance was lurking 'neath the lid;
His very rags had tongues to plead his case
In such a home as this—and so they did.
John's voice groan'd deep, with burden'd soul oppress'd:
"God of the fatherless, Thou knowest best!"

XX.

The Book laid by, the cobbler then began
To ask him whose he was and whence he came;
But this did sore perplex our little man—
He did not know, and he was not to blame.
His memory could reach no further than
A place beyond the sea he called his hame
A darling mother who had clasped him there,
Patted his dimpled cheek and stroked his hair.

XXI.

That night, with no begrudging hand, they spread
A woolly couch for weary Dan to sleep;
Kind sleep! the poor man's Paradise!—his bed
Of roses balmed with slumbers soft and deep,
Where thorn is not, where never tear is shed—
The gate whereat so many wail and weep;
But few of all the jewelled throng pass in
To ease them of their pleasures and their sin.

XXII.

Ye who by honest labour win your crust,
And ye who beg it (now more seldom found
Honest as well), because, alas ! ye must,—
Know that your brows with golden peace are crown'd,
Whilst Kings are bare, tho' cringing in the dust—
For you, sweet rills of sleep-provoking sound
Flow evermore in Nature's vale of rest,
And rise the dreamless mansions of the blest.

XXIII.

Dan dropt asleep; beside him lingered long
The woman's wakeful eye and brooding heart;
His tartan breeks had suffer'd fearful wrong;
No good Samaritan the healing art
Applied more deft to make the feeble strong
Than she, with thread and needle, did her part
For that dear Master whom her task might please:
It may be done, thought she, to "one of these."

XXIV.

Beneath His guiding hand she clipped and sewed,
Her house His home, her toil a sacrament;
The Christ had come into her mean abode—
It was His garment's hem o'er which she bent,
And by the touch a healing virtue flowed,
A saving health to heart and finger sent;
And through her spirit swept such wondrous thrill
As High Priest yearly felt on Zion's hill.

XXV.
By chance, some shred of crumpled paper fell
She looked, and turned away, and looked again;
What might it be, how dropp'd she could not tell;
A while it lay, she eyed it now and then;
At last she took it up and searched it well,—
A printed leaf, and scratched with ink and pen;
And lo! some hair within the inmost fold,
Two tiny locks, one black, and one like gold.

XXVI.

She gazed on these and on the slumbering child,—
A stony gaze, as tho' her soul had fled;
A long time gazed, whilst many a fancy wild
Flew far and near, with living folk and dead;
She frowned, she sighed, she all but wept, she smiled,
A sudden start, she rose, and reached the bed
Where John a good hour since had lain and slept,—
She had a secret that might not be kept.

XXVII.

He woke; he took the relics in his hand;
Viewed them with care, with wonderment not less
Than she; anon the printed leaf he scann'd;
'Twas from the Bible, nor unlike the dress
That had concealed it, tatter'd, worn, and tann'd,-
What might it mean, not he nor she could guess,
But words of God scarce absent from his mind
One waking hour, were there, and underlined.

XXVIII.
"I waited,"—long had served this patient man,
Motto whereby he toiled, and hoped, and thrived;
Thro' all his loss and lingering griefs it ran,
From Holy Writ and jubilant Psalm derived,
Whence courage comes to hands that nothing can,
And strength to hearts of every hope deprived;
The words were these: "I waited patiently,
And He to me inclined and heard my cry."

XXIX.

Swift as the clans by chieftain's clarion wake;
As fluttering wings by crack of huntsman's gun;
As when a stone disturbs the placid lake;
As rippling songsters greet the rising sun,—
So did old echoes of remembrance break
On John afresh, with gladness full, or none,
When by the sacred word which marked this leaf
Past years rushed back; and one bright day in chief:

XXX.

It was the day when Rab, his youngest child,
A clever lad, well-grown, sweet-natured, good,
And wise, left home, and every prospect smiled;—
There was a spot within a wayside wood
Where sire and son the parting hour beguiled
With blessings hardly breathed but understood;
Their words were few, that sacred word the last,
Rab wept, and vowed that he would hold it fast.

XXXI.

So parted they; and many a look behind
Each to the other gave, till lost to view;
Ah me! the frequent letters soon declined;
They could but murmur there was nothing new;
And then the lad slipp'd off where none could find;
The old folks' joys thereafter had been few,
Save in the grace that by the Saviour's Cross
Might still prove more than victor over loss.

XXXII.

'Twas so this night; they both with chastened heart
Quite melted o'er the old familiar name;
Their heads had long the grey that griefs impart,
And now the cheek anew was flush'd with shame;
What crime can make a mother's love depart?
"Puir Rab," said Ann, "he should hae stayed at hame."
"We'll wait," quoth John, "we'll trust the laddie's vow;
We kenna what God's will may bring, nor how."

XXXII!.

Faith sowed the seed, and Hope went forth to reap
Harvests of joy from the well-watered lands:
But when she saw "wild oats" instead of wheat
She strewed her head with dust and wrung her hands;
So did old Jacob leave, with fretful feet,
The promised soil, and tread the alien sands,
Nor knew nor hoped his father's God would save
His hoary head from an unhallowed grave.

XXXIV.
Now when the kindly tear had soothed her grief
Ann laid with one more look, the slips of hair,
As on God's breast, within that guardian leaf;
She had a secret drawer, she laid it there;
She turned to Dan: "Gude kens thou art nae thief;
And in His ain braw time He'll mak' it bare."
"We've seen young hearts," quoth John, "made hard as aim."
"We'll dae our best, guidman—we'll keep the bairn!"

XXXV.

And at the cobbler's hearth from day to day
This poor lost lamb was folded, nursed, and fed;
Ofttimes the minister was heard to say
He was a wondrous boy for heart and head;
And when the "master" pursed his quarter's pay,
"That lad will be a bishop yet," he said;
Ann too that vision had which brightest gleams
In every Scottish peasant's pious dreams.

XXXVI.

Ten times has Winter made the beech tree bare
Whose stalwart form beside her cottage stood;
Ten times the throstle's young high-nested there
Have raised their clamorous heads and gaped forfood;
The kirk-bell rings, and to the House of Prayer
Eden ascends devoutly, as it should;
The bell has ceased; the preacher takes his place;
An anxious awe broods in his pale young face.

XXXVII.

It was our Dan; and many strangers drew
To hear his first "discoorse " for many a mile;
Among the rest, more obvious to the view,
A kilted soldier strode along the aisle;
He sat him down in the old cobbler's pew,
And in the good man's face he gazed awhile;
But at the wee auld wife—for she was there—
A glance he threw as tho' he hardly dare.

XXXVIII.

"I waited" was the text; when he began
The preacher trembled, but he soon grew bold;
He spoke of hope in trickling rills that ran
Thro' seer and psalmist in the days of old;
How patient Mercy waits on guilty man;
How Grace can bring the lost sheep to the fold;
And home, long desolate, rings with joyful sound:
"My son was dead—was lost, and now is found!"

XXXIX.

In stillness rapt and reverential fear
They heard; they gazed; they saw his visage glow;
Spell-bound, entranced; they felt that Presence near
Who treads unseen the sacred courts below,
And salveth unused eyelids with the tear
Of saintly joy or penitential woe;
Thankful, they drew a deep breath at the close;
Then, with the unction of his blessing, rose.

XL.
When now the murmuring throngs retook their way,
And spoke in solemn speech their soul's delight,
The stranger said, "Gudeman, you aiblins may
Give an old soldier quarters for the night;
I hoped to rest at home this Sabbath-day-
The road was long, nor is my burden light."
"My cot is there," said John, "and nane e'er saw
The puir man or the stranger turned awa'."

XLI.

In twilight's lone sad hour he breathed the story
That marr'd his fair young life with rueful strains;
And how he fought for Britain's gain or glory
The turban'd tribes on Indian hills and plains;
What years had pass'd, unsmiling years and gory,
Since first he followed to the bagpipe strains;
How often Scotia's onset swept the field,
And Sikh and Afghan like the drunkard reel'd.

XLII.

But 'War's wild din," he cried, "to me was less
Than Love's deep woes, for I had woo'd and wed—
My wife! my child! whom, if he lives, Heaven bless
We parted—met no more—I fought, I bled—
They knew not mine, nor I knew their distress;
I was a captive long—they thought me dead—
God help! whose comfort is where needed most—
The mother pined and died—the child was lost!"

XLIII.

"The preacher's text 'I waited,'" murmured John;
"Tis in my heart," the soldier cried, "not here;"
He showed his Bible where the leaf had gone;
Told how his wife once gave, for parting cheer,
Two locks—like jet, like yellow gold they shone—
Her own hair and the child's; he held them dear,
Dear as the Scripture page he loved the best;
Enfolded there, she sewed them to his vest.

XLIV.

He bore them far, thro' many fields of strife;
He lay a-dying long, nor knew what pass'd,
Nor where the trifles treasured more than life;
And when from death-like wounds he woke at last—
But now, ere he had ceased, the cobbler's wife
Drew from the secret place which held them fast
The leaf, the tufts of hair with silk entwin'd
He looked, he stared on them like one stone-blind.

XLV.
She told how in his rags the little man
Had brought them, as it seemed, across the sea;
"Your bairnie's name?" she asked him; "was it Dan?"
To's feet he sprang and cried, "Twas he! 'twas he!"
While down his hardy cheek the tear-drop ran;
Living or dead, where might his darling be,
Thrice in one breath he pled with them to say.
"Patience," quoth John, "you heard him preach to-day."

XLVI.

Then Dan, for he was there and heard it all,
Flew to his father's heart and firm embrace;
And oh I how sweetly then did love recall
The sainted mother in the youth's pale face!
She knew that God, should hapless times befall,
Would lead the shorn Iamb to a sheltered place;
The vest, torn from her soldier's wounded side,
She found it, shaped it for his child—and died.

XLVII.

She died, nor did her last hope seem to fail;
One friend—for friends not absent were, tho' few—
A kindly captain, heard the orphan's tale;
He thought the father's kindred once he knew
Whither his good ship soon was bound to sail.
The ship went down, the home port full in view,
And he, the surly billows long had braved,
Was lost. His charge, the orphan child, was saved.

XLVIII.

And in that town, washed by the salt sea spray,
The little stranger, friendless and alone,
A vagrant woman kept in such rude way
As might by loose sobriety be shown;
From scanty store in wallet day by day
His bread she doled, who mostly begged her own.
Poor wastrel boy! half-homeless, till at last
Blown to the cobbler's hearth by God's rough blast.

XLIX.

Then said the stranger to the aged pair:
"Our God is just, and wonders He hath done;
The curse I brought, by His decree I bare;
My sins of youth have found me one by one;
And now prevails the long parental prayer—
My name is Rab, and I was once your son."
He tried, and tried again, but could no more;
Love could but speak with tears at Mercy's door.

L.

It might not be in human words to tell
The love that overflowed and would not cease;
Ann's joy ran from her eyelids like a well,
Crime could not crush, but made her love increase;
And when at worship on their knees they fell,
"Fain would I now," cried John, "depart in peace!
Wait on the Lord! I waited patiently,
And He to me inclined, and heard my cry!"

LI.

Not far had they, thro' mists of coming years,
This aged Simeon and his spouse, to go;—
In that still place where Love her tribute rears
To souls above and slumbering dust below,
Two often stand, and in their tranquil tears
The lingering rays of sunset sweetly glow;
Then drooping Night, and to their lifted eyes,
The jewell'd gates of opening Paradise!
Semper Fidelis! Semper Familia!
Stu

Thomas Thompson

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Re: Scottish Poetry
« Reply #138 on: October 06, 2009, 12:27:40 PM »
Yes long but good.
Tom

Stirling Thompson

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Re: Scottish Poetry
« Reply #139 on: October 15, 2009, 08:31:02 AM »
The Poetic Writings of Robbie Kennedy Bennett has several poems featuring Thomsons in football but since they are all copyrighted I will only post a link to the RKB website at http://www.rkbpoetry.co.uk/index.htm

See especially the following poems:
THEY WALKED ALL THE WAY FROM GLASGOW  http://www.rkbpoetry.co.uk/page24.htm
BLESS THE QUEEN OF THE SOUTH  http://www.rkbpoetry.co.uk/page38.htm
A POPULAR NUMBER 3  http://www.rkbpoetry.co.uk/page38.htm
Semper Fidelis! Semper Familia!
Stu

Stirling Thompson

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Re: Scottish Poetry
« Reply #140 on: November 02, 2009, 08:27:24 AM »
O Waly, Waly
 
Anonymous
 
 
O WALY waly up the bank,   
  And waly waly down the brae,   
And waly waly yon burn-side   
  Where I and my Love wont to gae!   
I leant my back unto an aik,          
  I thought it was a trusty tree:   
But first it bow’d, and syne 1 it brak,   
  Sae my true Love did lichtly 2 me.   
 
O waly waly, but love be bonny   
  A little time while it is new;          
But when ’tis auld, it waxeth cauld   
  And fades awa’ like morning dew.   
O wherefore should I busk 3 my head?   
  Or wherefore should I kame 4 my hair?   
For my true Love has me forsook,          
  And says he’ll never loe me mair.   
 
Now Arthur-seat sall be my bed;   
  The sheets shall ne’er be prest by me:   
Saint Anton’s well sall be my drink,   
  Since my true Love has forsaken me.          
Marti’mas wind when wilt thou blaw   
  And shake the green leaves aff the tree?   
O gentle Death, when wilt thou come?   
  For of my life I am wearíe.   
 
’Tis not the frost, that freezes fell,          
  Now blawing snaw’s inclemencie;   
’Tis not sic cauld that makes me cry,   
  But my Love’s heart grown cauld to me.   
When we came in by Glasgow town   
  We were a comely sight to see;          
My Love was clad in the black velvèt,   
  And I mysell in cramasie. 5   
 
But had I wist, before I kist,   
  That love had been sae ill to win;   
I had lockt my heart in a case of gowd 6          
  And pinn’d it with a siller 7 pin.   
And, O! if my young babe were born,   
  And set upon the nurse’s knee,   
And I mysell were dead and gane,   
  And the green grass growing over me!          
 
Note 1. Destroy. [back]
Note 2. Wretched stuff. [back]
Note 3. Then. [back]
Note 4. Slight. [back]
Note 5. Adorn. [back]
Note 6. Comb. [back]
Note 7. Crimson cloth. [back]
 
Semper Fidelis! Semper Familia!
Stu

Stirling Thompson

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Re: Scottish Poetry
« Reply #141 on: November 04, 2009, 12:14:55 PM »
The rounded hills of the Scottish Borders are carved by numerous rivers and streams which meander through the area, contibuting to the character of the land - and its people. This poem by J B Selkirk, sings the praises of these meandering burns (a burn is the Scots word for a stream). It is noticeable that, like the running water, the poem is not broken up in any way into verses but flows continuously from start to finish. Indeed, the middle section is somewhat breathless as it runs on without any full stops!


             A Border Burn

    Ah, Tam! gie me a Border burn
       That canna rin without a turn,
    And wi' its bonnie babble fills
       The glens amang oor native hills.
    How men that ance have kend aboot it
       Can leeve their after lives withoot it,
    I canna tell, for day and nicht
       It comes unca'd-for to my sicht.
    I see 't this moment, plain as day,
       As it comes bickerin' owre the brae,
    Atween the clumps o' purple heather,
       Glistenin' in the summer weather,
    Syne divin in below the grun,
       Where, hidden frae the sicht and sun,
    It gibbers like a deid man's ghost
       That clamours for the licht it's lost,
    Till oot again the loupin' limmer
       Comes dancin doon through shine and shimmer
    At headlang pace, till wi' a jaw
       It jumps the rocky waterfa',
    And cuts sic cantrips in the air,
       The picture-pentin man's despair;
    A rountree bus oot owre the tap o 't,
       A glassy pule to kep the lap o 't,
    While on the brink the blue harebell
       Keeks owre to see its bonnie sel,
    And sittin chirpin a its lane
       A water-waggy on a stane.
    Ay, penter lad, thraw to the wund
       Your canvas, this is holy ground:
    Wi' a its highest airt acheevin,
       The picter's deed, and this is leevin.

    Meaning of unusual words:
    kend=knew
    bickerin owre the brae=moving quickly and noisily over the hill
    Syne=since
    loupin' limmer=leaping rascal
    cantrips=frolic, witch's spell
    rountree bus oot=rowan tree (mountain ash) pushing out
    harebell=Scottish bluebell
    Keeks=peeps
    water-waggy=wagtail (a variety of bird)
Semper Fidelis! Semper Familia!
Stu

Stirling Thompson

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Re: Scottish Poetry
« Reply #142 on: November 09, 2009, 07:52:55 AM »
From Google Books:
Eighty years' reminiscences, Volume 2
 By John Anstruther-Thomson (1904)

JACK THOMSON.

Who sprang to lift me when I fell,
And heaved my Sheltie up as well?
That Devon common drain could tell—
                                         Jack Thomson.

Who hunts upon the edge of frost
Rather than let a day be lost?
Ae man, but in himself a host—
                                         Jack Thomson.

Who rides the country up and down,
With smile like morn for peer and clown?
Most genial lad beneath the crown—
                                         Jack Thomson.

Who makes the shire one family—
A freen to all in each degree—
Gars Whig and Tory brithers be ?—
                                         Jack Thomson.

"John Thomson's bairns" means easy free—
Auld Fife phrase for guid company—
Our common father yet is he—
                                         John Thomson.

Anonymous.
Semper Fidelis! Semper Familia!
Stu

Stirling Thompson

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Re: Scottish Poetry
« Reply #143 on: November 17, 2009, 12:05:58 PM »
From the author of "The Seasons", James Thomson (1700 - 1748).

Farewell to Ravelrig


Sweet Ravelrig, I ne'er could part
From thee, but wi' a dowie heart.
When I think on the happy days
I spent in youth about your braes,
When innocence my steps did guide,
Where murmuring streams did sweetly glide
Beside the braes well stored wi' trees,
And sweetest flow'rs that fend the bees:

And there the tuneful tribe doth sing,
While lightly flitting on the wing;
And conscious peace was ever found
Within your mansion to abound.
Sweet be thy former owner's rest,
And peace to him that's now possess't
Of all thy beauties great and small,
Lang may he live to bruik them all!
Semper Fidelis! Semper Familia!
Stu

Stirling Thompson

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Re: Scottish Poetry
« Reply #144 on: December 02, 2009, 08:05:09 AM »
In the Highlands by Robert Louis Stevenson (1850 -1894)


IN the highlands, in the country places,
Where the old plain men have rosy faces,
And the young fair maidens
Quiet eyes;
Where essential silence cheers and blesses,
And for ever in the hill-recesses
Her more lovely music
Broods and dies--

O to mount again where erst I haunted;
Where the old red hills are bird-enchanted,
And the low green meadows
Bright with sward;
And when even dies, the million-tinted,
And the night has come, and planets glinted,
Lo, the valley hollow
Lamp-bestarr'd!

O to dream, O to awake and wander
There, and with delight to take and render,
Through the trance of silence,
Quiet breath!
Lo! for there, among the flowers and grasses,
Only the mightier movement sounds and passes;
Only winds and rivers,
Life and death.
Semper Fidelis! Semper Familia!
Stu

Stirling Thompson

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Re: Scottish Poetry
« Reply #145 on: December 17, 2009, 08:01:13 AM »
'Marmion' Christmas Poetry by Sir Walter Scott

Heap on more wood! – the wind is chill;
But let it whistle as it will,
We’ll keep our Christmas merry still.
Each age has deem’d the new-born year
The fittest time for festal cheer:
Even, heathen yet, the savage Dane
At Iol more deep the mead did drain;
High on the beach his galleys drew,
And feasted all his pirate crew;
Then in his low and pine-built hall
Where shields and axes deck’d the wall
They gorged upon the half-dress’d steer;
Caroused in seas of sable beer;
While round, in brutal jest, were thrown
The half-gnaw’d rib, and marrow-bone:
Or listen’d all, in grim delight,
While Scalds yell’d out the joys of fight.
Then forth, in frenzy, would they hie,
While wildly loose their red locks fly,
And dancing round the blazing pile,
They make such barbarous mirth the while,
As best might to the mind recall
The boisterous joys of Odin’s hall.

And well our Christian sires of old
Loved when the year its course had roll’d,
And brought blithe Christmas back again,
With all his hospitable train.
Domestic and religious rite
Gave honour to the holy night;
On Christmas Eve the bells were rung;
On Christmas Eve the mass was sung:
That only night in all the year,
Saw the stoled priest the chalice rear.
The damsel donn’d her kirtle sheen;
The hall was dress’d with holly green;
Forth to the wood did merry-men go,
To gather in the mistletoe.
Then open’d wide the Baron’s hall
To vassal, tenant, serf and all;
Power laid his rod of rule aside
And Ceremony doff’d his pride.
The heir, with roses in his shoes,
That night might village partner choose;
The Lord, underogating, share
The vulgar game of ‘post and pair’.
All hail’d, with uncontroll’d delight,
And general voice, the happy night,
That to the cottage, as the crown,
Brought tidings of salvation down.

The fire, with well-dried logs supplied,
Went roaring up the chimney wide;
The huge hall-table’s oaken face,
Scrubb’d till it shone, the day to grace,
Bore then upon its massive board
No mark to part the squire and lord.
Then was brought in the lusty brawn,
By old blue-coated serving-man;
Then the grim boar’s head frown’d on high,
Crested with bays and rosemary.
Well can the green-garb’d ranger tell,
How, when, and where, the monster fell;
What dogs before his death to tore,
And all the baiting of the boar.
The wassel round, in good brown bowls,
Garnish’d with ribbons, blithely trowls.
There the huge sirloin reek'd; hard by
Plum-porridge stood, and Christmas pie;
Nor fail’d old Scotland to produce,
At such high tide, her savoury goose.
Then came the merry makers in,
And carols roar’d with blithesome din;
If unmelodious was the song,
It was a hearty note, and strong.
Who lists may in their mumming see
Traces of ancient mystery;
White shirts supplied the masquerade,
And smutted cheeks the visors made;
But, O! what maskers, richly dight,
Can boast of bosoms half so light!
England was merry England, when
Old Christmas brought his sports again.
‘Twas Christmas broach’d the mightiest ale;
‘Twas Christmas told the merriest tale;
A Christmas gambol oft could cheer
The poor man’s heart through half the year.

Semper Fidelis! Semper Familia!
Stu

Stirling Thompson

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Re: Scottish Poetry
« Reply #146 on: March 02, 2010, 08:51:28 AM »
- A Mither's Lecture Tae Her Ne'er-dae-weel Son

    It is easy to picture a Scots mother wagging the finger at her grown-up son and giving him a lecture when he comes back home, the worse for a wee drink (or two or three) in the days when mothers perhaps had more influence over the actions of their offspring than they do today! This poem is by Charles Nicol (1858-?) who often wrote light-hearted verses about every-day incidents.

        A Mither's Lecture Tae Her Ne'er-dae-weel Son

            Ye thochtless tyke, what time o" nicht
            Is this for tae come hame?
            Whan ither decent fouk's in bed -
            Oh! div ye no think shame?
            But shame's no in ye, that I ken,
            Ye drucken ne'er-dae-weel!
            You've mair thocht for the dram-shop there -
            Aye, that ye hae, atweel!

            Ye drucken loon, come tell me quick
            Whaur hae ye been, ava?
            I'm shair it's waefu' that frae drink
            Ye canna keep awa.
            An' bidin' tae sic 'oors as this,
            When you should be in bed;
            I doot there's something in this wark;
            Come, tell the truth noo, Ted?

            Can ye no speak? What's wrang wi' ye?
            Ye good-for-naething loon,
            Yer gettin' juist a fair disgrace,
            An' that ye'll be gey soon.
            Noo, dinna stan' there like a mute -
            The truth I want tae ken,
            Sae tell me noo the truth for aince,
            It's nae too late tae men'.

            You've been wi' twa-three bosom freens
            At Bob Broon's birthday spree;
            Aweel, aweel, if that's the case,
            You this time I'll forgie.
            But mind, sic wark as this, my man,
            Will never, never dae;
            Ye maun gie up that waefu' drink,
            Aye, frae this very day!

        Meaning of unusual words:
        tyke=dog
        div=do
        ken=know
        drucken=drunken
        loon=boy
        ava=at all
        gey=very
        maun=must
        waefu'=woeful

Semper Fidelis! Semper Familia!
Stu

Stirling Thompson

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Re: Scottish Poetry
« Reply #147 on: March 03, 2010, 12:30:49 PM »
- Wha Daur Meddle Wi' Me?

    The royal coat of arms in Scotland has the Latin motto "Nemo me impune lacessit". The English translation of this is "Nobody interferes with me with impunity" and this is often defiantly expressed in broad Scots as "Wha daur meddle wi' me?" which is the title of this anonymous poem. But on this occasion it is being aggressively repeated by a member of the Elliot family, one of the Border families who not only fought their neighbours but were part of the first line of defence against marauding English invaders - and could sometimes defy the Scottish monarch as well!

        Wha Daur Meddle Wi' Me?

        Ma castle is aye ma ain,
        An' herried it never shall be,
           For I maun fa' ere it's taen,
        An' wha daur meddle wi' me?
        Wi' ma kit i' the rib o' ma naig,
           Ma sword hingin' doon by ma knee,
        For man I am never afraid,
        An' wha daur meddle wi' me?
           Wha daur meddle wi' me?
           Wha daur meddle wi' me?
        Oh, ma name it's wee Jock Elliot,
           An' wha daur meddle wi' me?

        Fierce Bothwell I vanquished clean,
        Gar'd troopers an' fitmen flee;
           By my faith I dumfoondert the Queen,
        An' wha daur meddle wi' me?
        Alang by the dead water stank,
           Jock Fenwick I met on the lea,
        But his saddle was toom in a clank,
        An' wha daur meddle wi' me?
           Wha daur meddle wi' me?
           Wha daur meddle wi' me?
        Oh, ma name it's wee Jock Elliot,
           An' wha daur meddle wi' me?

        Whar Keelder meets wi' the Tyne,
        Masel an' ma kinsmen three,
           We tackled the Percies nine -
        They'll never mair meddle wi' me.
        Sir Harry wi' nimble brand,
           He pricket ma cap ajee,
        But I cloured his heid on the strand,
        An' wha daur meddle wi' me?
           Wha daur meddle wi' me?
           Wha daur meddle wi' me?
        Oh, ma name it's wee Jock Elliot,
           An' wha daur meddle wi' me?

        The Cumberland reivers ken
        The straik ma airm can gie,
           An' warily pass the glen,
        For wha daur meddle wi' me?
        I chased the loons doon to Carlisle,
           Jook't the raip on the Hair-i-bee,
        Ma naig nickert an' cockit his tail,
        But wha daur meddle wi' me?
           Wha daur meddle wi' me?
           Wha daur meddle wi' me?
        Oh, ma name it's wee Jock Elliot,
           An' wha daur meddle wi' me?

        Ma kinsmen are true, an' brawlie,
        At glint o' an enemie,
           Round Park's auld Turrets they rally,
        An' wha daur meddle wi' me?
        Then heigh for the tug an' the tussle,
           Tho' the cost should be Jethart tree;
        Let the Queen an' her troopers gae whustle
        An' wha daur meddle wi' me?
           Wha daur meddle wi' me?
           Wha daur meddle wi' me?
        Oh, ma name it's wee Jock Elliot,
           An' wha daur meddle wi' me?

        Meaning of unusual words:
        herried=plundered, robbed
        maun fa' ere it's taen=must fall before it's taken
        naig=nag, horse
        Gar'd=made
        dumfoondert=amazed, perplexed
        toom=empty
        clank=severe blow
        Percies=an English aristocratic family
        ajee=crooked, awry
        cloured=struck, battered
        reivers=border bandits
        ken=know
        loons=rascals
        Jook't=duck, evade a blow
        Hair-i-bee=place of execution at Carlisle
        Ma naig nickert=my horse whinnied
        brawlie=in good health
        Jethart tree=a jury that tries a case after inflicting punishment

Semper Fidelis! Semper Familia!
Stu

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Re: Scottish Poetry
« Reply #148 on: March 04, 2010, 10:02:13 AM »
Weellll it's not poetry...
 but........
 I just finished reading "Scotland: The Story of a Nation" by Magnus Magnusson. Super book, very well written and I was surprised by how much of the history was familiar. Maybe I wasn't absent that day at school.......

He gave equal time & information about the Border Clans rather than sticking with the Highlands. AND while I understood the reasoning behind the "45" (and all the other risings)............ I was not so taken with "Bonnie Prince Charlie" a bit of a loose cannon if you ask me. And another thing............ King Henry VIII? Not a nice guy.

There, now that I've put a match to the powder..................

Fascinating stuff, though I am rather glad I was born in 1953 instead of 15, 16, or 1753. Probably would have burned for a witch.

OK I'm off to the book store for more history!
Be well all,
Sherry
The bad news? There is no key to the universe. The good news? It was never locked.

Stirling Thompson

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Re: Scottish Poetry
« Reply #149 on: March 04, 2010, 03:32:48 PM »
Sherry,
I've always been fascinated by history, in fact it was my major in college. Now that I've retired perhaps I'll have more time to catch up on my reading.
Semper Fidelis! Semper Familia!
Stu