21 Poems In Scots And Gaelic From 'Mr Charon' Poem by Sheena Blackhall

1.The Robin(A Scots Owersett o the poem bi John Clare)

Noo the snaa haps the grun, far the wee birdies flee
Tae the but an the ben for wee crummles tae pree
Whylst the robin, weel-lued, gyangs far ither birds doot
(Wi its wings drappin doon an roch feathers splayed oot)

Cams teetle oor windaes, as muckle's tae cry
‘I wid flee throw the door gin I cud fin the wye
I'm hungeret an wint tae win oot o the cauld
O makk me a roadie an think me nae bauld'

Och, puir teenie craitur thy veesits reveal
Complaints sic as thon tae the hairt that can feel
Nor shall sic complainins be priggit in vain
I'll makk ye a hole gin I takk oot a pane


Cam in, an a welcome reception ye'll find
I keep nae coorse kittlins tae murder yer kind
—Bit och, teenie robin takk tent that ye shun
Thon hoose far a ferm lad makks eese o a gun
For gin ye bit taste o the seed he has strew'd
Yer life he will takk, as the pyement for food

His aim disna falter, his hairt it is hard
An yer race, tho sae hermless, he'll niver regard
Distinction wi him frien, is naethin at aa
Baith the wren an the robin wi spurgies maun faa
For his sowel (tho he ootwirdly luiks like a man)
Is in natur like wolves o the ill-daein clan

Like them, on his prey he will doggedly spy
Like them he will ett fit he sees in his wye
Syne ca cannie an shun fit micht bring yer doonfaa
An flee frae thon men-maskit wolves, hyne awa

Cam inbye ma hoosie an ye shall be free
Tae cock on ma finger or dowp on ma knee
Ye shall ett o the crummles o breid, takk yer fill
An hae leisur tae dicht baith yer feathers an bill

Syne cam teenie robin an niver believe
Sic warm invitations war vrocht tae deceive
In duty I'm bound tae shaw mercy ye see
For God disna deny it tae sinners like me


2.Napoleon's makk-ower
I thocht some pamperin wad be in order
A Thai massage, ane o the sodjer's kind
A fitness guru tae futtle doon his stammache
A psychotherapist tae soothe his mind

For brakkfast, snailie parritch dished wi croutons
A smoothie..puddocks' shanks an Athol Brose
An on the table, fleur de lys frae Paree
Aside a sprig o Scotia's wee fite rose

Tae heichten Boney's stature as heid bummer
New buits, wi platform soles baith polished bricht
A pouerpynt o ‘Corsica for traivellers'
An interview wi TV's ‘News the Nicht'

I'd send him for a new-luik-chiel's makkower
Tae hae his kiss-curl prinkit tae a quiff
An ban the eese o modern pharmasooticals
Wi anely snuff for Bonaparte tae sniff


3.The Sea at Nicht
Aa nicht fin ye are sleepin soun
The tide rins on unmindin
An like an iverlaistin clock
It niver needs rewindin


4.Dialogues
Gin it wis anely a question o spikk
Quo the tattie tae the Romany

Dinna luik noo! skreiched the roosty nail
Tae the nerra gauge railwye

Hae ye thocht o reducin the dose?
Speired the ghaist, tae the Hoose o Usher
Ye've bin here ower aften!
Gurred the brandy bottle tae the butler

Ony news frae Alec's allotment?
The sunflooer speired o Autumn


5.The Alki
Noo…fit wid ye class as an alki?
A chiel on a bottle a day?
In estates in the toon an the kintra
Thon is kent as ‘A Scotsman at play'

Sae fit merks a chiel as an alki?
Is it bowfin up bile melled wi bluid?
Na..in Scotlan yer anely an alki
Fin yer liver packs up an yer deid.


6.The Witches of Pendle Forest: 1612
Oh Pendle Wids are derk an deep
An there Witch Demdike aince did creep
Past fower-score years, she raised her kin
In the Blaik Airts o spell an sin

She had a quine, Lizzy Device
An grandson Jeems, fa pyed the price
O witchcraft, fin his sister smaa
Jennet Device, condemned them aa

Demdike's sworn foe wis Annie Whittle
Kent as Auld Chattox, quick tae kittle
Tho blin, she yet could cast a cherm
An claik a spell tae bring men herm

Anne Redferne wis Auld Chattox' quine
Fa wirked wi ithers in thon line
(Slee Alice Nutter, Kate Mould Heels
An ither fower, aa eildritch deils)

They'd makk a dally ooto clay
Stickit wi preens, tae bring fowk wae
Cause beasts tae sicken, dwine an dee
An shipwreck mony a boat at sea

Their trystin place wis Malkin Tower
Till Nowell an Bannister, wi power
O law ahin them, held them ticht
An jyled them ere they aa tuik flicht

Tae Lancaster they gaed at last
An sentence on their heids wis passed
Fand guilty, hanged, till they war deid
Tae fleg aa ithers o their breed

Oh gin ye wauk on Pendle Hill
Ca-cannie, for nae man can kill
The speerit o the murderet fowk
Auld dottlet weemin an a gowk
Fa in anither age wad hae
Yer mercy an men's charity



7.The Waa-Gaun o October
The kye in the park are happit wi pirls o weet
The lift is dreich as far as the craas can flee
The sheughs are smored wi leaves, hae tint their virr
Seggs chitter in the mids o a burn's cauld bree

The waa-gaun o October's a mixter-maxter,
Merriematanzies, trampolines, staun teem
Dug waukers stride heids forrit, hoodies dreepin
A time for the auld tae coddle their banes an dream


8.Boat Reivin
A Scots Owerset of ‘The Stolen Boat', from Wordsworth's Prelude

Ae simmer gloamin (led bi her) I fand
A wee bit boatie yoked tae a sauch tree
Inbye a steeny cave, its ordnae hame.
Straicht aff I lowsed her chyne, an steppin in
Pushed frae the shore. It wis an darg o stealth
An tribblet pleisur, nor withoot the voice
O Ben-spikk-echoes did ma boat meeve on;
Leavin ahin her still, on ilkie side,
Wee cercles glimmrin latchy neth the meen,
Until they melled thegither tae ae track
O skinklin licht. Bit noo, like ane fa rowes,
Prood o his skill, tae reach a chusen pynt
Wi an unswervin line, I fixed ma een
Upon the verra tap o a steeny rig,
The horizon's benmaist boun; there, hyne abeen
Wis naethin bit the starnies an grey lift.
She wis an eildritch peak; wi smeddum syne
I dipped ma oars inno the seelent loch,
An, as I raise abeen the straik, ma boat
Gaed breistin ben the watter like a swan;
Fin, frae ahin thon steeny knowe, till then
The horizon's bound, a muckle Ben, blaik, heich,
As if wi voluntary pouer instinct,
Raxxed up its heid. I strukk an strukk again,
An growin yet in makk thon gurly shape
Touered up atween me an the starnies, still,
Sae I jeloused, wi a virr o its ain
An meisured meevement like a leevin ferlie,
Strade efter me. Wi trimmlin oars I turned,
An ben the seelent watter rowed awa
Back tae the hidie-hole o the sauch tree;
There in her moorin-airt I left ma boat, -
An eftir, ben the lea I hamewird gaed, in derk
An seerious mood; bit efter I had seen
Thon stammygaster, for mony days, ma harns
Vrocht wi a blearie, mixter-maxter sense
O unkent wyes o bein; ower ma thochts
There hung a derkness, caa it laneliness
Or teem desertion. Nae weel-kent shapes
War left, nae pleisunt picturs o trees,
O sea or lift, nae colours o green parks;
Bit heich an michty forms, that dinna live
Like leevin men, meeved slawly ben ma the harns
Bi day, an war a tribble tae ma dreams.


9.October Retreat, Pluscarden

Wrens flee frae the rose hips
Turn-takkin on the coconut bird feeders

A teem washin line bellies doon in the jeeled day
A deer wi twa littlins in towe
Nudges the girse wi her neb

The air's sae still ye could bottle it
Nae skalin a single drap
Foo mervellous, the skeltons o trees,
Shakkin aff the claddin o the leaves!

The heich mass o the clouds
Uphauds the cerclin erne
Like incense roon a cross

I'm hunkered here, sere as the leaves
Crined aneth ma feet
A teenie robin soothes ma een
Like rain on a druchtit park


10. The Haimmer's Lament

I am auld, a haimmer wi booed cleuks
Vrocht noo frae tooshts o oo

The haimmer that brakks glaiss forges metal
I hae dane baith in ma time, as ma ainer can confirm

Finiver I saw a nail defyin me
I haimmered it doon
(Until the nail was strukk, it refused tae believe in the haimmer)

It's a puir wirkman that blames his tools
Bit fa will wint me noo,
Wi ma shaft split an baith my claas agley?

11.T´anaig long ar Loch Raithneach / A Boatie's Appeared on Loch Rannoch. (in Scots, from Bard Macintyre of Badenoch's poem)

A boatie's appeared on Loch Rannoch,
A boatie hurtfu an coorse,
A gangrel boatie, licht an ready,
Gapin, fearless an ill-faurt.

Thon boatie we spakk o
Nae Makker vrocht afore;
It's a warssle tae tell o her wunners
An tae describe her timmers.

Brods o brummil leaves
Alang the pynts o her fair side;
An likewise the nails
That jyne her brods are brummil prods.

Stringgles o wizzent seggs,
Plaids o smeeth flat stakks o girse;
Oars o reid bracken shavelins,
Tae thole the cauld an gurly sea.

The mast o stoot seggs,
Agin a sea bylin an roch;
Ahin the mast is a fooshtie yaird;
A dowie crew on her deck

Towes o barley husks
As she rowes foraye on the currents;
The blaik boatie raxxes a sail o flimflammery,
While the waves fecht wi a wersh stramash.

The boatie o cyard weemen
Is the name that aa hae for the ill faurt, fremmit boatie
The boatie should hae mair bodies,
Tae hurl her agin the wave.

The weemen, blootert an vauntie,
Makk orra spikk in her stern;
The brine cams ower their hochs in the boatie;
Their darg is a sair weird wioot honour.

Thon nyakkit shamefu hoors
Lie painfu on a bed o thorn;
The satt sea rins ower their feet in the boatie;
The gurly win hashes them on.

The sklaikin weemen staun on ilkie side o her
Upon the boatie's brods
Cooerin aside the waves;
The clash o eynless claik

Thon weemen, orra an fey,
Are abune the lave on thon mast;
Their hinner-eyns nyakkit tae the wins o the glens,
Whylst aroon them's the bleeze o a lowe.

Thon aff-takkin weemen
Aa are on the tapmaist o the fair boatie;
There is no isle nor rock,
Bit the ocean kinnlin its roose.

Michty thunner on the muckle sea,
The braidth o the air is gurly;
The steeny rocks are angeret;
The ocean´s tides hap the boatie.

Roch shooers wi Merch win;
Nyaakit rocks cercle the breengin boatie;
The boorichs o waves are roosed;
The wind hashes on roon them.

Roch storm wi win an snaa
Heichtens the waves aroon the weemen;
Agin a gurly sea she's nae stoot boatie;
It's a fool ship that hauds them.

Baith haun an fit an heid,
Thon weemen suffer nae wint o coorse cloors,
Oot on the ocean´s breist
Storm-gangrels in a strang sea.

In the boatie o MacCailein, roon-eed Duncan,
There's a Deil´s load for skaith
For customs, for hue,
O weemen wi dyed palms.


12.Chieftainship

Cha tèid nì sam bith san dòrn dùinte.
Naethin can win inno a steekit neive.

Gabhaidh an connadh fliuch, ach cha ghabh a' chlach.
Weet fuel micht kinnle, bit a stane niver will.

Is sleamhainn leac doras an taigh mhòir.
The chief's hoose has a skyty doorstep.

Chan fhiach cuirm gun a còmhradh.
A feast is nae eese wioot guid claik.
Far an taine ‘n abhainn, ‘s ann as mò a fuaim.
Far the burn is shallowest, it makks maist soun.

Ge b'e thig gun chuireadh, suidhidh e gun iarraidh.
Fa cams unsocht will dowp doon unbidden.
Cha sgeul-rùin e ‘s fios aig triùir air.
It's nae a secret gin three ken it.


13.Luv an Merriege

Cha robh dithis riamh a' fadadh teine nach do las eatarra.
Twa niver kinnlit a lowe bit it lit atween them.

Ge milis a' mhil, cò dh'imlicheadh o bhàrr dri i?
Hinney may be sweet, bit naebody licks it aff a thorn.

Is fheàrr teine beag a gharas na teine mòr a loisgeas.
The wee lowe that warms is better nur the muckle lowe that burns.

Teine chaoran is gaol ghiullan - cha do mhair iad fada riamh.
A lowe o brukken peat, an a loon's love, dinna laist.

Is luath fear doimeig air fàire, latha fuar Earraich.
Faist is the hoor's man ower the knowe, on a dreich day in Spring.

Socraichidh am pòsadh an gaol.
Mairriage takks the heat ooto love.

Is fad' an oidhche gu latha do dh'fhear na droch mhnatha.
The nicht is lang for the man wi a coorse wife.


14.Thrift

Na toilich do mhiann gus am feuch thu do sporan.
Check yer siller afore ye please yersel.

Is uaisle am breid na toll.
A patch is better nur a hole.

Ge milis am fìon, tha e searbh ri dhìol.
The wine is swete, the pyin wersh.

Cha dèan ‘Tapadh leis an fhìdhlear' am fìdhlear a phàigheadh.
A ‘thank ye' disna pye the fiddler.

Dùnan math innearach, màthair na ciste-mine.
A guid midden is mither tae the meal kist.


15.Oliver Cromwell. (Old Ironsides)

A puggie tuik Oliver Cromwell
Frae his cot as a span-lang bairn
An yarked him up tae his gransire's reef
Wad Oliver cam tae herm?

History tells that the puggie drappt him
Did he lan dowp doon as a fell?
I'd sweir twis his heid that struck the grun
For his harns war as iron's hissel


16.Florence

Florence Nightingale wis a nurse
Fa ained near 60 cats
(Nae aa at aince, bit throw her life)
Fowk thocht that she wis bats

She keepit a hoolet in her pooch
It flew aboot her hoose
Nae wird o Health an Safety
Wi fleein poo on the loose


17.Noo ye'll feel nae Rain: Scots Owersett o an Apache Waddin Prayer

Noo ye'll feel nae rain
For ye'll be a bield tae each ither

Noo ye'll feel nae cauls
For ye will be warm tae each ither

Noo there is nae laneliness for ye
Noo there is nae mair loneliness

Noo ye are twa bodies
Bit there's anely ae life afore ye

Gyang noo tae yer hame
Tae enter inno yer days thegither

An may yer days be gweed
An lang on the Eirde


18.The Bull Steps Oot

They heist his sharny tail, sluice oot his dowp
Dicht doon his baas stap fu o future calves

Baptised wi soapy watter, sudsey cloots
His curly powe is rinsed a snawy fite

Douce like he stauns, the sire o the herd
Pedigreed, primped, horns iled
On a bleached-clean towe, led roon the ring
Tae cheerin crouds, star o the milky wye

His pitmirk een, aneth the blin fair lashes
Glowerin aroon at stockmen, wives, an bairns


19.Leddylanners (owerset in Scots of ohn Clare's ‘Clock o Clay'

In the cooslip pips, see me,
Happit frae the bizzin flee,
The green girse I lie abeen
Is pearled wi dyew like fishies' een,
Leddylanners blythe an gay
Wytin for the pass o' day.

Fylst the widlans shakks wi grue,
An the wud win sabs anew,
My hame showds, near faas unseen,
On its shank sae heich an green;
Fin the pammerin rain draves by
Leddylanners ay bides dry.

Day bi day an nicht bi nicht,
Aa the wikk I hide frae sicht;
In the cooslip pips I lie,
In the rain aye warm an dry;
Day an nicht I hide my heid,
Leddylanners, blaik an reid

My hame shakks in win an shooers,
On my green shank, that's tapped wi flooers,
Booin at the wud win's braith,
Till I touch the girse aneth;
Leddylannners in the girse
Time ticks by, I watch it pass


20.Bigsie (Scots Owersett of Braggart by John Clare)

Wi cannie step tae keep his balance richt
He rowes on tentily alang the streets,
Slivverin at the moo, a hyterin stoop,
Gibbers…gies angeret glowers tae aa he meets.

Bigsie an vauntie, prood, see him squar up
An wad be somethin gin he could, eenoo;
Tae ony chiel aroon he winna boo
Bit sklaiks o wark, o cuddies an the ploo.

Prood o his glekit spikk, the drams he quaffs,
He niver heeds the insult lood that lauchs:
Wi rosy lass he tries tae joke an blaw, -
She gies the hee-haw tae thon bigsie loon.
An caas him 'blootert breet' an rins awaa-
King tae hissel an gype tae aa aroon.


21.The Breets are Dwinnlin Awa Scots Owerset of The Animals are Passing From Our Lives by Philip Levine


It's winnerfu foo I jog
on fower pared-doon ivory taes
ma muckle hurdies skytin
like iled pairts wi ilkie licht step.

I'm for the mart. I can smell
the soor, grooved block, I can smell
the blade that lowses the hole
an the creashie fite fingers

that shakk oot the intimmers
like a hankie. In my dwaums
the snoots slivver on the merble,
sufferin bairns, sufferin flees,

sufferin the consumers
fa winna meet their steady een
for fear they micht see. The laddie
fa herds me alang believes

that ony meenit I'll faa
on ma side an drum ma taes
like a typewriter or skirl
an keech like a new hoosewife

discoverin TV,
or that I'll turn like a breet
sleekit like, tae clook his teeth
wi ma teeth. Na. Nae this grumphie.