HORSES by Edwin Muir
Those lumbering horses in the steady plough,
On the bare field - I wonder, why, just now,
They seemed terrible, so wild and strange,
Like magic power on the stony grange.
Perhaps some...HORSES by Edwin Muir
Those lumbering horses in the steady plough,
On the bare field - I wonder, why, just now,
They seemed terrible, so wild and strange,
Like magic power on the stony grange.
Perhaps some childish hour has come again,
When I watched fearful, through the blackening rain,
Their hooves like pistons in an ancient mill
Move up and down, yet seem as standing still.
Their conquering hooves which trod the stubble down
Were ritual that turned the field to brown,
And their great hulks were seraphims of gold,
Or mute ecstatic monsters on the mould.
And oh the rapture, when, one furrow done,
They marched broad-breasted to the sinking sun!
The light flowed off their bossy sides in flakes;
The furrows rolled behind like struggling snakes.
But when at dusk with steaming nostrils home
They came, they seemed gigantic in the gloam,
And warm and glowing with mysterious fire
That lit their smouldering bodies in the mire.
Their eyes as brilliant and as wide as night
Gleamed with a cruel apocalyptic light,
Their manes the leaping ire of the wind
Lifted with rage invisible and blind.
Ah, now it fades! It fades! And I must pine
Again for the dread country crystalline,
Where the blank field and the still-standing tree
Were bright and fearful presences to me.
From The Scots Language Centre website...
Comin Hame, by Ann MacKinnon
Comin hame fae Krakov
I met a young lad
on his way tae Glesga
fir wark.
His hail faimilie were seein
him aff tae his new stert,
gretin an...From The Scots Language Centre website...
Comin Hame, by Ann MacKinnon
Comin hame fae Krakov
I met a young lad
on his way tae Glesga
fir wark.
His hail faimilie were seein
him aff tae his new stert,
gretin an lauchin
at aince.
He telt me he hid a job
aw lined up. He wid stay
a few years an send siller
hame.
He wis worriet aboot his English
but I telt him no tae fret
fir we dinnae spake English
onyway
For a generation we have despaired of finding well published, entire books in Scots, such has been the resistance to the market. We can take heart from developments at Tapsalteerie Press, who have published the booklet, Nae Flooers, by Ann MacKinnon, from which this poem is taken. That Ann MacKinnon received a Scottish Book Trust New Writers Award in 2014 has to be good news, too, because her Scots is confident, her vocabulary unerring and her spelling consistent within her own work. This writing is by someone who knows Scots as a complete language.
The deceptively simple poem, Coming Hame, above, transposes the poet’s concern for Scottish culture to an immigrant leaving another country. She shines a powerful light on where he is coming to, and who it is coming home to an understanding of Scotland.
As we approach Veterans/Remembrance Day...
Cha Till Maccruimein
(Departure of the 4th Camerons)
The pipes in the streets were playing bravely,
The marching lads went by
With merry hearts and voices singing
...As we approach Veterans/Remembrance Day...
Cha Till Maccruimein
(Departure of the 4th Camerons)
The pipes in the streets were playing bravely,
The marching lads went by
With merry hearts and voices singing
My friends marched out to die;
But I was hearing a lonely pibroch
Out of an older war,
‘Farewell, farewell, farewell, MacCrimmon,
MacCrimmon comes no more.’
And every lad in his heart was dreaming
Of honour and wealth to come,
And honour and noble pride were calling
To the tune of the pipes and drum;
But I was hearing a woman singing
On dark Dunvegan shore,
‘In battle or peace, with wealth or honour,
MacCrimmon comes no more.’
And there in front of the men were marching
With feet that made no mark,
The grey old ghosts of the ancient fighters
Come back again from the dark;
And in front of them all MacCrimmon piping
A weary tune and sore,
‘On gathering day, for ever and ever,
MacCrimmon comes no more.’
Ewart Alan Mackintosh (1893-1917)
For Marilyn in her loss...
Elegy On The Late Miss Burnet Of Monboddo
Robert Burns
Life ne'er exulted in so rich a prize,
As Burnet, lovely from her native skies;
Nor envious death so triumph'd in a blow,...For Marilyn in her loss...
Elegy On The Late Miss Burnet Of Monboddo
Robert Burns
Life ne'er exulted in so rich a prize,
As Burnet, lovely from her native skies;
Nor envious death so triumph'd in a blow,
As that which laid th' accomplish'd Burnet low.
Thy form and mind, sweet maid, can I forget?
In richest ore the brightest jewel set!
In thee, high Heaven above was truest shown,
As by His noblest work the Godhead best is known.
In vain ye flaunt in summer's pride, ye groves;
Thou crystal streamlet with thy flowery shore,
Ye woodland choir that chaunt your idle loves,
Ye cease to charm; Eliza is no more.
Ye healthy wastes, immix'd with reedy fens;
Ye mossy streams, with sedge and rushes stor'd:
Ye rugged cliffs, o'erhanging dreary glens,
To you I fly - ye with my soul accord.
Princes, whose cumb'rous pride was all their worth,
Shall venal lays their pompous exit hail,
And thou, sweet Excellence! forsake our earth,
And not a Muse with honest grief bewail?
We saw thee shine in youth and beauty's pride,
And Virtue's light, that beams beyond the spheres;
But, like the sun eclips'd at morning tide,
Thou left us darkling in a world of tears.
The parent's heart that nestled fond in thee,
That heart how sunk, a prey to grief and care;
So deckt the woodbine sweet yon aged tree;
So, rudely ravish'd, left it bleak and bare.
More about this elegy
Elizabeth Burnett (1765-1790) was the youngest daughter of the Scottish lawyer and Enlightenment philosopher Lord Monboddo.
After her death from consumption on the 17th June 1790, Burns spent months composing a suitable elegy. He sent it to Alexander Cunningham on 23rd January 1791, without lines 25-28. The omitted lines appeared in a version which he sent to Mrs Dunlop on 7th February.
Ralph Richard McLean
Jock of Hazeldean by Sir Walter Scott
Why weep ye by the tide, ladie?
Why weep ye by the tide?
I'll wed ye to my youngest son,
And ye sall be his bride:
And ye sall be his bride, ladie,
Sae comely to be see...Jock of Hazeldean by Sir Walter Scott
Why weep ye by the tide, ladie?
Why weep ye by the tide?
I'll wed ye to my youngest son,
And ye sall be his bride:
And ye sall be his bride, ladie,
Sae comely to be seen"--
But aye she loot the tears sown fa'
For Jock of Hazeldean.
"Now let this wilfu' grief be done,
And dry that cheek so pale;
Young Frank is chief of Errington,
And lord of Langley-dale;
His step is first in peaceful ha'
His sword in battle keen"--
But aye she loot the tears down fa'
For Jock of Hazeldean.
"A chain of gold you sall not lack,
Nor braid to bind your hair;
Nor mettled hound, nor managed hawk,
Nor palfrey fresh and fair;
And you, the foremost o' them a',
Shall ride our forest queen"--
But aye she loot the tears down fa'
For Jock of Hazeldean.
The kirk was deck'd at morning-tide,
The tapers glimmer'd fair;
The priest and bridegroom wait the bride,
And dame and knight are there.
They sought her baith by bower and ha';
The ladie was not seen!
She's o'er the Border and awa'
Wi' Jock of Hazeldean.
Autumn Fires by Robert Louis Stevenson
In the other gardens
And all up the vale,
From the autumn bonfires
See the smoke trail!
Pleasant summer over
And all the summer flowers,
The red fire blazes,
The ...Autumn Fires by Robert Louis Stevenson
In the other gardens
And all up the vale,
From the autumn bonfires
See the smoke trail!
Pleasant summer over
And all the summer flowers,
The red fire blazes,
The grey smoke towers.
Sing a song of seasons!
Something bright in all!
Flowers in the summer,
Fires in the fall!
Two short poems by James Thomson
Sunday up the River by James Thomson
MY love o'er the water bends dreaming;
It glideth and glideth away:
She sees there her own beauty, gleaming
Through shadow and ripple a...Two short poems by James Thomson
Sunday up the River by James Thomson
MY love o'er the water bends dreaming;
It glideth and glideth away:
She sees there her own beauty, gleaming
Through shadow and ripple and spray.
O tell her, thou murmuring river,
As past her your light wavelets roll,
How steadfast that image for ever
Shines pure in pure depths of my soul.
_________________________________________
The Vine by James Thomson
THE wine of Love is music,
And the feast of Love is song:
And when Love sits down to the banquet,
Love sits long:
Sits long and arises drunken,
But not with the feast and the wine;
He reeleth with his own heart,
That great, rich Vine.
From the Rampant Scotland website...
A Wish for The Children
by Walter Wingate
Through the summer paradise
May their golden hours
Flit like wildered butterflies
...From the Rampant Scotland website...
A Wish for The Children
by Walter Wingate
Through the summer paradise
May their golden hours
Flit like wildered butterflies
In a maze of flowers!
Pleasure wake them morn by morn;
Roses deck them from the thorn:
Poppies crown them from the corn;
Night with her enchanted horn
Woo them like a Hamelin band
Over vale and steep
To a fairer wonderland
Through the gates of sleep;
Till the pools along the shore
Can enrich them nothing more;
Till the meadows jeweled floor
Weary with familiar love;
Till the home-thought comes to croon
Sweetly o'er the seas
As to languid afternoon
Comes the sweet sea-breeze!
Meaning of unusual words:
Hamelin - refers to the Pied Piper of Hamlin
The Sidlaw Hills
by R. Ford
There's nae hills like the Scottish hills
'Mang a' that rise and fa',
The Lowthers and the Grampions,
Sae buirdly and sae braw ;
The Pentlands and the Ochils,
Sae comely aye to...The Sidlaw Hills
by R. Ford
There's nae hills like the Scottish hills
'Mang a' that rise and fa',
The Lowthers and the Grampions,
Sae buirdly and sae braw ;
The Pentlands and the Ochils,
Sae comely aye to see, -
O' a' the hills o' Scotland still,
The Sidlaw Hills for me.
An' why sae dear the Sidlaws ?
Ah, that's the tale to tell ;
It's no' their buik, - though a' in ane
They wadna match Goatfell.
They wadna mak Ben Nevis,
Though biggit three on three,
Yet Goatfell nor Ben Nevis
Is hauf sae dear to me.
Oh. I can leave Ben Nevis,
Nor feel a partin' pang ;
Goatfell, too, and Ben Lomond,
Sae bauld the hills amang ;
But aye my heart gaes dunt for dunt,
Whaurever I may be,
If ane but names the Sidlaws,
The hills o' hame, to me.
Ilk' time we cross the Ochils
My e'e darts ower Strathmore -
It's first Kinnoull, then Murray's Ha',
Syne ithers hauf a score ;
Dunsinnan and Kinpurnie,
And a' sae fair to see :
They're wee bit knowes the Sidlaws,
But, oh, they're dear to me.
They're dear to me for mony ties
My heart will never tyne,
For sichts an' soun's their very thocht
Reca's frae auld lang syne.
O' those wi' whom I speil'd their broos
Bare-leggit to the knee,
An' but to clasp their han's again
There's nocht I wadna gi'e.
Then sing's ye like o' ither hills,
And a' their glories tell,
The Lowthers an' the Grampions,
Ben Nevis an' Goatfell ;
But dinna ferlie though I sit
An' never lift an e'e :
They're wee bit knowes the Sidlaws,
But, oh, they're dear to me.
a poem by Her Majesty Mary Stuart, Queen of Scots.
Diamond Speaks
'Tis not because my strength outranks both flame and brand,
Nor because my facets display a cunning hand,
Nor because, set in fine-wrought...a poem by Her Majesty Mary Stuart, Queen of Scots.
Diamond Speaks
'Tis not because my strength outranks both flame and brand,
Nor because my facets display a cunning hand,
Nor because, set in fine-wrought gold, I shine so bright,
Nor even that I'm pure, whiter than Phoebus' light,
But rather because my form is a heart, like unto
My Mistress' heart (but for hardness), that I'm sent to you.
For all things must yield to unfettered purity
And she is my true equal in each quality.
For who would fail to grant that once I had been sent,
My Mistress should thus, in turn, find favour and content?
May it please, from these omens I shall gather strength
And thus from Queen to equal Queen I'll pass at length.
O would I could join them with an iron band alone
(Though all prefer gold) and unite their hearts as one
That neither envy, greed nor gossip's evil play,
Nor mistrust, nor ravaging time could wear away.
Then they'd say among treasures I was most renowned,
For I'd have two great jewels in one setting bound.
Then with my glitt'ring rays I should confound the sight
Of all who saw me, dazzling enemies with my light.
Then, by my worth and by her art, I should be known
As the diamond, the greatest jewel, the mighty stone.
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