S C O T S P O E M S
Frae The Bosom Core
AT THE BOTTOM
When Nature Had Her Work Complete
When nature had her work
She clos'ly Scanced ower
Frae tap to tae she scanced
Wi' meikle pride an' meikle
Syne scanced she a' her
But, oh! her lithesome day
there turned tae night!
That she had shaped her very
Noo beauty yearned as onie
Quo she: ye sad mishanter
o my sweat,
May beauty fand aside yon
I here shall shape as my
Untainted beauty high an'
Syne she gathered a' her
An plyed 'em saftly through
Nae breath nor sound amang
Her features pictured soaring
'Till there it stood, afore
The form that's Wilma Kennedy.
On the Machair actress/folk singer/presenter,
Wilma Kennedy who hopes to have a CD out rather
sooner than later.
All may enter thro this gate:
Be ye alone or wi yer mate;
Dressed in high fashion or basic claith -
E’en i’ ye ne’er mind the faith:
Mak yersel at hame.
All are welcome ahin this deur:
Be ye cheerfu or be ye sour;
Be ye goadfu or fu a bore -
E’en be ye rich or painfu puir:
Mak yersel at hame.
All we welcome in this place:
Ye wha’r classed as creatures base;
Ye wha get but joy and praise;
E’en ye wha walk in warly ways:
Mak yersel at hame.
Gi’e Me Haggis
Haggis, tatties an neeps,
Haggis, tatties an neeps;
I have ’em thrice-a-week:
Haggis frae the butcher shop
Or haggis oot o a tin -
Either tastes fou braw
An' neither is a sin.
Response To Susan Hall
Susan Hall, was so angry that I
pursued a claim against her that, with her cheque, she enclosed a very
angry poem to me without spacing or punctuation of any kind, filling an
entire A4 sheet of paper from margin to margin, all in capitals.
Not having penned a single line for over two years, due to pressures with
my business, I was fired right into gear!
Ae welcome then black Susan Hall!
Ye cheeck-maist witch among them all:
Here cams the storm - noo stand or fall! -
For in this ward,
Parnasus welcomes aboon them all -
The braw Scots Bard!
Sure, Cloot hae toiled his hans this season;
‘pon a my works wi’ guile and treason;
Bu’ wha then can declare the reason? -
It is the word:
That gert the serpent, wha’er his station,
Eternally crawl ower the earth.
Nae doubt at times i’m growing weary,
As it seems my warld gaes tapsalteerie;
But though the deil in hell made ye his deary,
For yer black faith,
Ye’ll rue the day when he cams near ye
In shape o goat!
Sae wad I care yer rich or puir?
O that, cheeck witch, I need na spier!
Nae doubt ye toil thro ilka hour
Yer gaud to conquer -
E’en beguile the honest working sair,
When’er ye think ye’are the stranger.
Bu’ aye, ye lass; it is fou sure:
Wi pangs an wae he ca’s the puir:
Blessed be the rich wha' seek his duer;
An draw the line,
To ne’er upon the’r warly gear
Put heart an mind.
But yet! aye, still, I thank ye dear,
For provoking’ my clink right into gear:
Ne’er stringed a line for ower twa year
A for my toil!
Till yer ill-metered rhyme cam near -
Sae'n lack o sleight, flare an style.
Oh! I see ye raging thro yer station:
Frae left to right, nae punctuation;
A capitals, nae mense, nae spaci’n -
Frae tap to toe:
Deil in hell yer wrat hot-blazin’,
Blaw after blaw!
Sae here in honour o my ward,
As ye doured provokin’ ae Scots Bard,
Wi sic painfu, stacher, menseless, art,
Cursed wi’ the ‘limp-an-dimple’,
Ye ugliest witch in a the north,
I proclaim: yer art’s as dim as ane pimple.
The Marriage Of Yvonne Mckay
Ae friend of mine, Yvonne Mckay
whom got married at the end of June
Then welcome, wedlock tae yer space,
Twa faithfu hearts ca’d tae yer grace,
In truth tae answer tae yer phrase,
True luv tae bind -
As dote’s devotion’s warm embrace
Cuid e’er fand!
T’was hogmany (blithe foremaist day)
As nature aff-loof plyed the way,
When cupid swayed upon them tway,
An’ porr the dart -
Taen ilk th’ither at an ee,
Deep i the heart!
Sweet luv conveyed twa moons or near,
T’was aquarius to mak the sphere,
An gert the wooer kiss his fair,
Aneath the charming moon -
Blithe was the day, light was the air
As passion there did mak her trone!
Upon waves of virtue, there by the clyde,
Throu better an waur, true luv was tried;
For teen lang years ‘till, as a light,
Deep i the bosom lit,
Amour declared the groom and bride -
Without delay, forthwith!
Let menkin’s envious ee then see,
Wha’ gracefu‘, bonie bride has he,
An kindling, wishing-well agree,
Sich weel-bred lallan blume;
Sich beauty and integrity;
Deserves ae honest, handsome, wordy groom!
Behold then them, most high creator;
Ower a’ o’ beast an mankind frater;
The first, the last; eternal nature;
An bless them twa fou braw thegither,
In th’ane eternal trinity.
The Blood We Share
A’ ye wha the Irish brethren scorn
(First fruits o yer precious, ancient, Celtic
Oot o the very Irish ye were born;
Maist ilka Scot has Irish blood.
Wha then wad Caledonia belong to,
Had paddy not rowed o’er the sea?
Britannia fiere! Britannia’s true!
And Bonie Scotland...she wadna be.
The Simmer O 1998
Ye mighty powers wha rule the skies aboon,
Wha poor the rain an burn the sun,
Or light the night wi the sillery moon:
Whaur’s the simmer!?
O her glowing smile, the mark o noon,
We see sparse a glummer.
When April did her wings unfold,
An her carpet green the land ower rolled,
Lightsome days she than foretold -
Noo frowning folk aneath laden cloud
Is a’ we see!
Fierce spears o corn point to the sky,
(Where silent birdies joyless fly)
As if to press the pow'rs on high
To gie them sun an water mair;
Whilst the grey, dreigh days are wearing
An harder grows their faith to bear.
Buzzing bees can noo but cry,
As sparsely laden they maun fly;
While unopened buds are standing by -
Wi bended heid:
To unfold their flow’r they can but try,
Aneath the pressing arm o ruthless death.
While neebors dear are ruthless slain,
A wilting rose tries but in vain
Wi nee'le-sharp thorns to
fend her bane,
Fae frost-armed air:
Bu’, drained an crippled by the pain,
Her end is drawing near.
The daisy fae her frosty bed,
Can greet the weary farmer yet,
As he roves amang the rashes wet,
To see wha' for his toil -
An e’en hear him whisper unco sad:
‘This year it’s nocht but spoil’.
Then alang a murmurin’ streemlet’s root,
The farmer plies the way by foot,
At hame to meet his wivie-guid
In sober air:
His laden heart she’ll kindly soothe -
And, as ae guide wive, share his care.
AE Burns Night Without Grampian Television!
Ye rulers o this siller station,
Wha took to ser our weel-bred nation
An build a fine an kind relation -
Wha’ ye hae done!
How could ye take sic cruel decision
To lea’ us stan?
Fu merry in heart we arose in the morn:
Sweet thoughts o the night our day did adorn;
The pudding we cooked it meikle an northern;
An when cam the night:
Fu high rose the health to him that was borne
To ’pon a’ shine his light.
While them that broadcast at the border
Did haud the’r hoos sae fine in order:
Say here’s the health! Look nae further -
An there’s the sin!
Ye gart the north shout hell an murder -
An see wee bardie grab his pen!
By this, dear fieres, ye thus did err
It seems to me beyond repair:
E’en the deil himsel wad spier nae mair
But class it treason!
Then if to a bardie ye care to lend an ear,
Honestly tell us: wha’ ’s the reason?
Fickle fortune flicked on again,
Late this cauld October;
Bu’ tha teasin bitch I nae wanna ken -
She drained my heart fou sober!
Tho glowin’ bright, my hope awaukenin’
Her fause disguise canna warm my heart;
For, as I ken, ’tis ruthless lies and promise-brakin’
Tha constitutes this flirtin’ tart.
So I behold her deceitfu, bewitchin’ fire,
As I await her fadin’ light;
Her perverted joys I shall deny her:
And hope this whore flicks oot o’ sight!
Sir By Birth
To a' ye wha's titled 'sir' - Note:
I am far more a sir,
Than any sir
Wha this vain title requires,
For such base to confirm!
To A' Ye Dame-Titled
To a' ye wha embrase the title o 'dame':
I ken ten times a million lassies
Wha were born by that name!
To The Sae-Called 'Lords'
A ye wha gae by the title o lord!
Folly and vanity embrace,
Ye yersel ken wha yer worth -
The sensefu ye canna amaze!
For as truly as the days o’ the week count seven:
There is but one lord - and he’s in heaven!
On The Irish Peace Deal
Noo brithers hae wi brithers signed
To blood an torment leave behind,
May ne’er again a bomb be fand
On the precious soil o dear Ireland!
Auld cloot’s been fidgin’ awfu blithe
As brither on the hand o brither died: -
As when lang syne he witfu tried it,
An the kirk he managed to divide it.
The storms o hatred savagely raged,
In war an murder our children aged;
Innocent blood the pavement stained,
Wi little mair than vengeance gained.
An cloot he charged an charged them mair:
Ane wi hatred an' th’ither wi fear -
As when lang syne he banged and banged
Upon Ireland’s heid,
’Till mense an mercy baith dropped deid!
But, o! by mense hersel ’t was proven able,
For fiere an fae to share the table
Where peace for Ireland is the goal
An ilka ane maun pay the'r toll.
Monie a hour we've spend negotiatin’,
Monie a mile we've walked deliberatin’;
Sae rocky the road we aft hae stumbled,
But, deil bereaved! we ne’er tumbled!
Our weary bosoms noo loaded an fu,
’Boot sic compromised a deal wha’ maun we dae?
Our pride an convictions we canna just wave! -
Propose tha to the coward! No to the brave!
Bu’ pride an faith baith firm in hand,
Fu straight let ilka ane then stand!
Our mense an mercy le’s then show’t -
For peace an well-being we maun vote!
May relentless then the fight proceed,
Wi grace for ane anither’s creed:-
An should death onie ane untimely hit,
It be not the score o a gunman’s bullet,
Or a bombers ruthless semtex blast,
Nor a rioter’s missile tha o’er a wall was cast:
But’, at worst, the straining task it be,
O gatherin’ strength - frae sea to sea.
Hotel Crook Scot Montgomery
Former owner of the Sutherland arms hotel in
Lairg - 1997
Alert! Alert! a’ the nation!
Ilk public hoos an police station!
A heartless crook is on the loose!
Deliver him here! - we’ve hung the noose!
A picture he dinna lea’ behin’,
Bu’ ye maun be acquaint wi the mean o a swine
An, this unco distinction on his hand,
Soon or late he maun be fand!
But why, some may ask, sic stern demand
Fae these folk o law an order?
Well, our integrity we need no defend -
E’en angels got the’r border!
Monie a pocket ye’ve scraped Montgomery,
Fae supplier, fiere an staff;
Then, faster then onie could close an ee,
Ye packed yer bags - an aff!
Bu’ where’er ye hide yer crooked hurdies,
We’ve charged ilka bee an a’ the birdies:
This crook ye go an find!
Puir Scot: yer faith we hae it signed!
Days O Wae - 1997
The sun it lights-up a’ the land,
The sea and a’ the sky;
A little lamb drinks frae its mum,
Wild flock rovin by.
The rowan tree stands red wi fruit,
Wild plants all in flour;
The fair green land is yielding good,
Yet I can’t enjoy one hour.
The flow’ry bens are tempting me,
The fresh green twigs beckoning;
Bu’ joyfu rovin is no to be,
My heart it kens but moaning.
Thro high green land, tween shrub and bush,
Fresh water’s downwards flowin’;
Hielan deer a’ rovin loose,
Fresh hielan breeze sweet-blowin’.
There’s little swallows swervin’,
Twa bees eat from a blume;
Tho a’ these natural charms observin’,
My heart remains in gloom.
Sae, tell then me, ye peacefu beast,
Tha rove yon heather glen:
How can enjoy I natures feast,
While the pangs and woes my heart bereave,
Pile higher than the highest ben?
Why ilka morn unfold my een,
To wi pang and woe torment be?
And yet try find the answer wise,
For therewith fine to mend me?
For ance mair, charms, I’ll fold my een,
To ne’er again unfold be:
And may my soul then for e’er abide
In the hielan glens amang ye.
THE BONIE WEST