Scottish poems

[Govangirl]

The subway poems would obviously be required to include Edwin Morgan. I love his Glasgow Sonnets and the last line of this one is haunting:

from Glasgow Sonnets

A mean wind wanders through the backcourt trash.
Hackles on puddles rise, old mattresses
puff briefly and subside. Play-fortresses
of brick and bric-a-brac spill out some ash.
Four storeys have no windows left to smash,
but the fifth a chipped sill buttresses
mother and daughter the last mistresses
of that black block condemned to stand, not crash.
Around them the cracks deepen, the rats crawl.
The kettle whimpers on a crazy hob.
Roses of mould grow from ceiling to wall.
The man lies late since he has lost his job,
smokes on one elbow, letting his coughs fall
thinly into an air too poor to rob.

[Govangirl]

Oh, how I remember this wee plea from the weans a couple o' years ago!

A DUG, A DUG

Hey,daddy, wid yi get us a dug?
A big broon Alsation? Ur a wee white Pug,
Ur a skinny wee terrier ur a big fat bull.
Aw, daddy. Get a dug. Will ye?
N whose dugll it be when it durties the flerr?
and peesn the carpet,and messes the sterr?
Its me ur yur mammyll be taen fur a mug.
Away oot an play. Yur no needin a dug.

Bit, daddy? Thur gien thum away
doon therr at the RSPCA.
Yull get wan fur nothin so ye wull.
Aw daddy. Get us a dug. Wull ye?
Doon therr at the RSPCA
Dae ye think ahve goat nuthin else tae dae
bit get you a dug that ahll huftae mind?
Yur no needin a dug. Ye urny blind!

Bit, daddy, there rerr fur guardin the hoose
an thur bettern cats fur catchin a moose,
an wee Dannys dug gies is barra a pull.
Aw, hey daddy. Get us a dug. Wull ye?
Dae ye hear im? Oan aboot dugs again?
Ah hink that yins goat dugsn the brain.
Ah know whit yell get; a skiten the lug
if ah hear any merr aboot this bliddy dug.

Bit daddy, it widnae be dear tae keep
N ahd make it a basket fur it tae sleep
N ahd take it fur runs away orr the hull.
Aw, daddy. Get us a dug. Wull ye?
Ah dont think thurs ever been emdy like you.
Ye could wheedle the twist oot a flamin coarkscrew.
Noo get doon aff mah neck. Ah dont want a hug.
Awright thats anuff. Ahll get ye a dug.
Aw daddy! A dug! A dug!



by Bill Keys

Isn't that great?

[Govangirl]

Sound of Sleat

Jackie Kay


I always looked out at the world,
And wondered if the world looked back at me,
Standing on the edge of something,
On my face- the wind from the cold sea.


Across the waters were mirrors to see
Faces that looked like me,
People caught between two places,
People crossing over the seas.


And it seemed from my croft
-With the old stones and the sheep,
And the sound of the songs in my sleep-
That the music of folk somewhere meets


On the edge of the place we would be.
I’ve lived through some hard times.
My face is lined; my body so frail.
I used to think I might be able –


When the river ran to meet the sea,
When the sun and moon shared the sky-
To look out as far as the eye could see,
And raise a glass to the girl looking back at me.



Soun o Sleat

Jackie Kay


I aye keekit oot at the warld,
And wunnered gin the warld keekit back at me,
Staunin at the lanimer o somethin,
On my face – the blast frae the cauld sea.


The watters atour wis a keekin-gless tae see
Faces that kythed lik me,
Fowk snecked atween twa airts,
Fowk flittin atour the seas.


And it seemed frae ma toft
– Wi its auld stanes and yowes,
And the soun o sangs in nicht’s laich howes –
That the music o fowk somewey jines


On the edge o the airt we fain wid be.
I’ve tholed a wheen sair times.
Ma face is poukit; ma bouk that bruckle.
I langsyne jaloused that I micht could –


Whan the river skailed til the sea,
Whan the lift held baith sin and mune –
Tae glower oot as faur as an ee can keek,
And raise a tass tae the lass keekin back at me.

Sound of Sleat
translated into Scots by Matthew Fitt

[Govangirl]

Oor Wullie

Fair fa' your rosy-cheekit face,
Your muckle buits, wi' broken lace,
Although you're always in disgrace,
An' get your spanks,
In all our hearts ye have your place,
Despite your pranks.

Your towsy held, your dungarees,
Your wee snub nose, your dirty knees,
Your knack o' seeming tae displease
Your Ma an' Pa.
We dinna care a tuppenny sneeze
We think you're braw.

You're wee, an' nae twa ways aboot it,
You're wise, wi' very few tae doot it,
You're wild, there's nane that wad dispute it,
Around the toon. But maist o a' ye are reputit
A lauchin' loon.

Weel-kent, weel-liked, you're aye the same,
Tae Scots abroad and Scots at hame.
North, south, east, west, your weel-won fame
Shall never sully.
We'll aye salute that couthie name:
Oor Wullie.

By that prolific writer: Anon

[Govangirl]

The Shipyard Apprentice (aka The Fairfield Crane)

The Fairfield Crane

Archie Fisher / Norman Buchan / Bobby Campbell

I was born in the shadow of the Fairfield crane
Where the blast of a freighter's horn
Was the very first sound that reached my ears
On the morning I was born
I lay and I listened to the shipyard sound
Coming out of the great unknown
And was sung to sleep by the mother tongue
That was to be my own

But before I grew to be one year old
I heard the sirens scream
As a city watched in the blacked-out night
A wandering searchlight's beam
And then at last I awoke and rose
To my first day of peace
For I'd learned that the battle to stay alive
Was never going to cease

I sat and I listened to my father tell
Of the days that he once knew
When you either sweated for a measly wage
Or you joined the parish queue
As times grew harder day by day
Along the riverside
I oft-times heard my mother say
It was tears that made the Clyde

Now I've sat in the school from nine till four
And I've dreamed of the world outside
Where the riveter and the plater watch
Their ships slip to the Clyde
I've served my time behind shipyard gates
And I sometimes mourned my lot
But if any man tries to mess me about
I'll fight like my father fought

(as sung by Archie Fisher)

You can hear Archie sing this song at http://www.bbc.co.uk/scotland/music/features/clyde Choose the session player>Archie Fisher