The Ship Of Fools (19 Poems In Scots) Poem by Sheena Blackhall

1.A Scots Owersett o a translation o a poem bi Pushkin:

Gin I wauk the soundin streets,
Or gyang inno a thrang kirk
Or dowp doon amang wud halflins,
Ma harns full wi thochts.

I say tae masel: the years are fleein,
An noo foiver mony there seems tae be,
We maun aa gyang unner the aybydan mools,
An somebody's oor is already nearhaun.

Fin I keek at a lanely aik
I think: the chieftain o the wids.
It'll oorlive ma forgotten times
As it ootlived thon o ma granfaithers'.

Gin I pett a young bairn, Straicht aff I think: fareweel!
I'll gie ower ma place tae you,
For I maun dwine while yer flooer briers.

Ilkie day, ilkie oor
I aywis haud tae thon thocht,
Ettlin tae jelouse frae their nummer
The year which brings ma daith.
And far will ma Weird sen daith tae me?
In war, in my traivels, or on the seas?
Or will the nearhaun glen
Welcome ma cauld aisse?

An although tae the menseless body
It maitters nocht far it rots,
Yet near tae ma best-lued kintra
I wad still raither be beeriet.
An let it be aside ma kistit mools
That young life foriver will be playin,
An impartial, indifferent Natur
Foray be sheenin bonnie.


2.Sri Lankan Safari

They sett us the promise o jumbos
We anely catched the glisk o grey bihoochies
Thin tailed in the plottin trees
Lugs, shanks an muckle heids,
Happit bi wisps o shadda

The Land rover near cowped us,
Garrin us lowp in oor seats like flechy puddocks
The guides grew vexed, kennin their tips
Grew smaaer ilkie meenit

Twa oors we scrauned oor een doon growthy roads
Swyte ran ben the Lankans' wide brimmed hats
Feart o a brakk doon, airmed tae the teeth wi guns.

Hippit, wabbit, scunnered, sterved o breets
We huffed in the taxi takkin us back tae base.
Passed lauchin puggies. A snake in the lang girse
An ugsome lizard slidderin ben a sheuch
The lan fair hotchin, fegs, an unfenced zoo
Sri Lankan breets oot on their ain safari.


3. Mrs Byron, Heiress of Gight

Fower hunner years the Gordon lairds
0 royal bluid an firey makk
Ruled ower the bonnie lans o Gight
A dynasty nae foe cud brakk

Craig Horror, glowrin Carlin's Craig
The Crook a' Peel, the Whiskey Pot
Rang tae their war cries an their pride
The birth-stangs o the Norman Scot

Ane kept his treisur neth the waves
Hagberry Pot...a dowie puil
Nae servant daured tae touch it there
Aa kent thon waters hoosed the Deil

Siller brings wooers roon like flees
Nae Gordon likes a lanely bed
Tae Bath, a Gordon heiress gaed
Catherine...a ne'er dae weel tae wed

Fin Gordon fire met Byron cherm
The lassie's hairt ower-ruled her heid
Romance skipped aff wi cakes an ale
An left ahin cauld kail an breid

Her husband wis a bonnie catch
He bairned her, syne set aff fur France
An yonner in a pucklie years
Wi debt, he gart her dowry dance

His laddie, Geordie, faitherless
Raised in the North at Aiberdeen
By Queen Street, Broad Street, hirpled roon
The wynds an neuks o granite steen

Aff wi his buiks tae Grammar schuil
Hauf Byron lord, hauf Gordon laird
An aa the whyle, frae Lans o Gight
The herons raise an left the yird

Bit Catherine lued her cripple loon,
Whyles, bosied him wi kisses fine
An whyles, haived curses at his back
A bizzim fin the waur o wine

A single parent's darg is dreich
An dreicher wi a heidstrang loon
Sisyphus stane o crushin wecht,
Historians, fa ding her doon.


4.The Watchie: A Tribute to Joan Eardley
n.b. The Watchie was the name of her cottage-studio

Slidderin alang the dubby Mearns braes
Teeterin ower the cliffs o Catterline
In bauchled sheen, auld breeks, the artist skytes
Tae reach the Watchie. Weathered bi the brine
Baith hoose an wumman. Here, she keeps her peints
Fin driven inbye bi the Winter wins
In Simmer, cockin like a reestin gull
Her easel heistit mangst the yalla whin

She loads her brush wi san an girse an peint
Tae catch the birlin, bylin bonnie sea
Crashin tae shore an brakkin intae smush
Or sypin ben the puils in dulse an bree

Her stormy seascapes roar oot frae the frame
Gurly an wersh, wechty wi ice an sna
Auld fishermen wad jeel at thon kent sicht
Myndin on wrackit ships, an turn awa

Her ain hoose in the raw o fisher hames
Wis like a shell. Bark chippins on the fleer
Sail-cloots fur waas an ceilins..nae perjink
Weel seen she bedd ayont the warld's steer

Wyles she'd takk tent o bee-skepps on the braes
The gowden rucks, the linties in the lift
The Simmer parks, the gowans in the sheuch
The rowans turnin in the Autumn's drift

Naebody catched the sea sae weel as her
She felt it in the marra o her makk
Fishin fur image wi a peinter's ee
In Catterline, far storms breenge an brakk

She wis the Watchie o thon Nor East neuk
Far barley rigs rin tae the warld's edge
An ferms an fishers strive tae thole the dunt
0 cloorin wins on Scotlan's craggy ledge


5.A Traivellin Man: for Stanley Robertson,1940-2009

A gran day's start, wi a blink o sun
An the barley, gowd an turnin
A skirl o the pipes tae kittle his fit
An the sun on the birk trees burnin

He's aff tae the widded, wyndy road
The Queen o the Fairies kens
Far the leverock sings an the heron wings
In the hairt o Lumphanan's glens

The crimson rasps an the blaeberries
Are sweet in the sheugh for puin
An the spider sits in her nettle hoose
Her pemickity shawl a-shewin

The laird o the wid, a muckle aik
Kens a frien is passin near
Tho a ghaistie's step is licht's the dyew
An it's monteclara clear

Ay, mebbe the yalla's aff the breem
Sic seeds it's left ahin it!
0 sangs an tales an a crap o bairns
A life wi the pearlins in it

The road o Lumphanan's thrang wi fowk
Far the rainbow booes on the Ben
There's speerits-a-plenty wytin there
Roon the reek at the warld's eyn
•
Sae dinna be wae at the kistin day
Bi the mools o the traivellin man
His sangs ring oot frae the verra stanes
He's ane o the daithless clan


6.For Rab, frae the Mearns Lassies Tune: Duncan Grey

In the Mearns a faimily bedd
Ha ha the wooin o't
Fermin fowk they war tae trade
Ha ha the wooin o't
Burness wis the family name,
Forebears tae a lad o fame
Love & coortin wis his game,
Ha ha the wooin o't

A young chiel Walter Burness etc
Beldie Craig did sae impress etc
Took the lassie for his wife
Tae share his tribbles, joys an life
By Glenbervie, nae in Fife! Etc

Neist there cam tae Brawliemuir etc
James Burness wi Meg Falc'ner etc
Ae son George tae Elfhill gaed
Anither, Rabbie, wooed a maid
Beldie Keith...echt bairns they bred etc

William Burns took Agnes Broun etc
Frae Clochnahill tae Embro toun etc
Delled the bonnie Meadows there
For a whyle, syne moved tae Ayr
Fa wis born sae comely there?
Rab Burns, the wylin o't!

Rotten tatties dinna seed etc
Mearns stock is born tae breed etc
Robbie lued the lassies weel
Shall we name them? A lang dreel
0 flooers he pued, an oor tae steal etc

Anna, Delia, Bessie, Nell etc
Lesley, Jean, Miss Fontarelle etc
Polly, Tibbie, Mary Ann
Bell an Nancy... twis his plan
Tae pleisur aa, a generous man etc

Phyllis, Chloris, Hannah, Meg etc
Jessie, Molly, Sophy, Peg etc
Mysie, Jenny, Clarinda
Lift the sneck an Rab's awa
Conquests doon like blossoms faa etc
Lassies young an lassies auld etc

Say three things keep oot the cauld etc
Firelicht's gran an whisky's fine
Bit luv is better ony time
Tae share it Rabbie thocht nae crime etc


4.The Scots Enlightenment for Helena Anderson-Wright

Lums spewin reek turned Embro's heivens dark
Frae windaes cam the cries o Gardez-Loo
Yet, ower thon cobbled closes, stinkin wynds
Strode men fa's thochts wad makk the Auld Warld new.

Hutcheson, Home, James Boswell, David Hume
Hutton an Adam, Smellie, Scott and Reid
James Watt & Smith brocht licht intae men's lives
Their genius, blawn warld-wide like thrissle seed

In oyster cellar, tavern and inbye
The Poker, Cape, an mony's the Embro club
Gleg judges, poets, artists, tuik their ease
Like spunky mussels byled in a muckle tub

Here Burns reesed oot the tree o liberty
Urgin that man should brither be tae man
Here Ramsay opened up his library
Spikk reengin frae Free Trade, tae Ossian

Tho Lindt cured scurvy, still ye'd hear the skirl
O fowk like Fergusson, in Bedlam's strae
Tho Simpson's anaesthetics dulled birth-dirl
Flees bizzed roon open shops on Castle brae

A mixter-maxter age, bi lear weel-served
Fin genius grew in Scotlan's smaa back yaird


8.The Hen-Wife

My aunt Belle wore blue peenies,
Cried 'tuck-tuck-tucky-tuck
Tae her feathered chairges

Rattlin their seedies intae their roon tin feeders
She brocht them heezin roon like ferm blethers
Kecklin an newsin at a kintra fair

Foremaist ran Chanticleer
His wattles reid as fire
A bigsie breet wi a lang-spurred horn strut
The anely maister in a hotterel brothel

I helped her gaither the eggs, hett in the strae
Cowp broody clockers aff their smaa broon boolies
Cannily, liftin them inno the wuvven basket

Deep litter anely served the toun-fowk's tables
Ma aunt Bell's free-range hennies served her ain
The yokes like yalla sun, shells smeeth as cream

Deep litter hennies bedd inbye for life
Niver lat oot...a flechy, pykit flock
0 shargers, peelie-wallies, hauf-blin birds
Wi feathers ruggit oot frae skull or dock
I didna wyle the eggies frae their shed
Near like tae smoor wi stoor, hen-pish, an dule.


9.Deveronvale Prize Ram

His loins are strang his body's lang
A stoot an sonsie craitur
An let's be hoped like Rabbie Burns,
He has a lovin natur

He'll hae tae cover nicht an day
A rowth o yowes, tae sire
Eneuch wee lambs tae pye the bank
Fur ilkie lowp's a hire

Nae time for dauchlin in the sheuch
Or bleatin in the clover
It's jist slam, bang, an thank-ye m'am
A maist unceevil lover.


10.Tru-Luv, Scots-Style

Para Handy sailed roon the Dark Island
Luikin fur Kate Dalrymple.

Three craws, Taggart, an Nessie pit him richt.
Taggart telt him that there'd bin a murder
The three craws made nae comment
Nessie said aa weeminfowk war fickle.

The Laird o Cockpen wis ettin stovies
Wi Calvin an Columba, girnin aboot feminists
Said men war better aff wioot the jaads
John Knox held his wheesht.
(there wis nae oatcakes nur beetroot)

Kate Dalrymple meanwhile,
Hid run aff wi Rabbie Burns an Kitty Brewster
Tae Balachulish, keepin aa options open

Last heard o, Para Handy
Wis wirkin affshore roon the Shetlan skerries
Coortin a silkie yonner on the sly

It maun be true, the neebors aa agreed
Nae man wad buy sowsed herrin bi the cran
Unless his bidie-in wis three quarts fish


11.Aunt Mary as a Wattergaw

Aunt Mary's parritch, wis fawn as Heilan kilt hose
Her hair wis broon's a wee hairst moosie's fuskers
Her een war blue as cornflooers in the park
An fin she smiled, the warld wis meltin hinney


12.The Bumbaleerie Man

He's glekit, he's bumshayvelt, hudderie an skittery
Crabbit, pernickety, dowie an wae
He sits on his hurdies, luiks sleekit an buttery
He's aff-takkin mealie-moued snottery an blae

In winter, he's girnin an mumphin an grumphin
He's snochrin an pyochrin an dichtin his snoot
In simmer he's plottin an birsslin an hotterin
In swyte like a pottie o jam-bylin fruit

His lugs are like joogs wi a theekin o fur
His oxters are bowfin like bowsters o keech
He's bowdie, pirn-taed, humfy-backit an waur
The farts frae his dowp fyle the air wi wheech

Sae dinna ging inno coorse howfs on a Setterday
Thon's fin he's blootert, pished, connached an fu
As a puggie on wine or a druggie on tinnie-spray
Luik in the keekin-glaiss...Mebbe he's you!


13. Robert de Brus 1274-1329

Young Robert wis a chiel o mense an micht.
The bluid o Gael an Norman in his veins.
Gainst Langshanks an his men wi virr he'd fecht

Reid Comyn's bluid he skaled ower priestly stanes.
Syne, weariet, dogged bi sorras an defeat
He hid inby a cave, jeeled tae the banes.

There, saw a wyver ettlin tae meet
The far side o the waa, seeven times tae try
Agin aa odds, till victory won complete.

Sir Robert badd the wyver a gweed-by;
Gaed on tae conquer aa, rise tae the heicht
0 King o Scots, warrior an sage forby

For he could spakk in Gaelic, an delicht
In Latin, Scots, an Norman, screivit richt.
At Bannockburn, he sent his foemen fleein,

The English host like Autumn leaves, fell deid
On Scottish grun, the chunnerin wirms a-preein,
Brus wis a conqueror, hauns steeped in reid,

The killin o John Comyn bladdit aa
Syne leprosy laid low thon noble heid
By royal decree, howked frae the rib-cage waa,

The kingly hairt a kist o gowd did fill
Tae gyang far Moorish breezes saftly blaa
Syne fell Sir Douglas, fechtin wi a will

Flingin the Bruce's hairt far ben the steer
Ye gyang, I's follae, faes o Christ tae kill
Robert de Brus, yer fame ootlived yer bier
Aa Scots thrill tae yer name. Brave ghaistie, hear!


14.Auld Jonet Wishart

There wis a wife in Aiberdeen, weel skilled in sorcery
Auld Jonet Wishart wis her name, her o the ringle ee

She gart hens dwinnle on the reest, she pysoned milkers' teats
She raised up wins like ony storm, howked deid frae galla's reets

Tae Merket Cross wi ither deils she flew at Halloween
Fin midnicht chapped, she daunced wi Hornie neth the eildritch meen

Some o her fiers tuik makk o bawds, futterats, or skreichin cats
Frae ilkie neuk an airt they cam, a muckle plague o rats

She braggit fu she'd peel the corn, (grown widdershins, twis gweed
Bit in the hungeret years the crap grew sungates, dwined, an deed)

Tae ony man fa quantered her, coorse widdendremes she sent
Nae witch-prick, thoomb-screw, threwsin sair could gar this witch repent

An fin the kirk-fowk sentenced her, a pyot blaik appeared
Tae pyke the een frae witnesses, a cantrip coorse an weird

An sae, wi peats, tar-barrel, coals, the toun wad hae its fun
As thon auld body's birsslin, lichtit up the lift like sun

An sae she skreiched an fleeriched there, by fire, driv'n ooto mind
A dottlit, wrackit, carlin-wife, ane o the scape-goat kind


15.Poem o Russian Proverbs

Aa cats are grey at nicht.
Ye should be feart o a quaet dog.

Ilkie seed kens its time
Ony fish is gweed gin it's on the heuk.

Aabody's nae a cook that wauks wi a lang knife.
As ye cook the parritch, sae ye maun ett it
There'll be tribble gin the souter makks the pies.

Nae aabody weirin a cowl is a monk.
A drap scoops oot a stane
Ye canna brakk throw a waa wi yer broo

A flee winna get inno a steekit mou.
Dinna makk a jumbo ooto a flee.


16.A Poem o Belgian Proverbs

It's daft tae wyte for yer boatie tae come in
Unless ye've sent ane oot

He fa arrives ower latchy
Fins the plate turned ower

He fa etts flame, keechs spirks
God heals, bit the doctor gets pyed

Blythe nations hae nae history
Honour is better nur honours

Ae merk spyles the hale frock
An auld reef needs a rowth o patches
A waa wi cracks sune crummles

The shelt maun ett far it's tethered
Weeds niver dee.

It hings on the faa o the cairds.
Fin the yowe bleats, it losses its moufu
Fa kens foo a goose gyangs barfit?

Dinna makk eese o anither's mou
Unless it's bin leant tae ye.
Experience is the caimb
That natur gies us fin we're baldie.


17. Stottin Cats

Nae bats in the belfry o Ypres, bit squallochin cats
Rainin doon tae the grun tae stot or splat.

On cat-stottin day, the cassies o Ypres ran reid
Wi the bluid o kittlins, mirled an strippit an deid

A queer like ploy, an nae tae be encouraged
The Dukes o the cats agreed
Dugs should be flang frae the belfry
Torties, or rattens, insteid.


18.Jeruzalemkerk, Bruges

Ane Anselm Adornes bi name
Near North Berwick, bi Scotsmen wis slain
Noo he lies in his tomb wi a sword up abune
An wishes he'd bidden at hame


19.Mad Meg

Gyte Meg wis a wife fa wis greedy fur gowd
On a cuddy tae Hell she did ride
Wi a bowl on her heid an a poker in haun A
nd an airmy o weemin aside

They hitched up their peenies, their kitchies they left
Airmed wi spurtle an ladle an seive
Wi their querns an their breid knives tae challenge the Deil
Wi pot lids for shields on each neive

Auld Clootie wis powkin his hunners o imps
Wi cinners a-birsslin their dowps
Fin ower the brae comes gyte Meg wi her band
Wvin neep chappers, speens, an soup stowps

There wis greetin an girnin an gnashin o teeth
There wis derkness as blaik as a craa
Fur Auld Hornie kent, o the torments o Hell
A weemin's tongue's warst o them aa

Sae he teemed oot his kisties, his siller an wine
His Burgundy, jewels an gowd plate
An Gyte Meg fulled her pooches wi aa they could haud
An gaed hame, fur twis gettin rale hett

Thank God, quo the Deil as the weemin turned tail
I wis feart they wid bide here for life
I wad raither thole drooth, hunger, ony auld sair
Than be deaved nicht an morn bi a wife!