On the anniversary of the death of Robert Burns. Sorry I don't have a recording of this song you'll have to settle for the lyrics.
The Star o' Rabbie Burns
Words: James Thomson
Music: James Booth
There is...On the anniversary of the death of Robert Burns. Sorry I don't have a recording of this song you'll have to settle for the lyrics.
The Star o' Rabbie Burns
Words: James Thomson
Music: James Booth
There is a star whose beaming ray
Is shed on every clime.
It shines by night, it shines by day,
And ne'er grows dim wi' time.
It rose upon the banks o' Ayr,
It shone on Doon's clear stream.
A hundred years are gane and mair,
Yet brighter grows its beam.
Refrain:
Let kings and courtiers rise and fa'
This world has mony turns,
But brightly beams abune them aw'
The Star o' Rabbie Burns.
Though he was but a ploughman lad
And wore the hodden grey,
Auld Scotland's sweetest bard was bred
Aneath a roof o' strae.
To sweep the strings o' Scotia's lyre,
It needs nae classic lore;
It's mither wit an' native fire
That warms the bosom's core.
Refrain:
Let kings and courtiers rise and fa'
This world has mony turns,
But brightly beams abune them aw'
The Star o' Rabbie Burns.
On fame's emblazon'd page enshrin'd
His name is foremost now,
And many a costly wreath's been twin'd
To grace his honest brow.
And Scotland's heart expands wi' joy
Whene'er the day returns
That gave the world its peasant boy
Immortal Rabbie Burns.
Refrain:
Let kings and courtiers rise and fa'
This world has mony turns,
But brightly beams abune them aw'
The Star o' Rabbie Burns.
The Watergaw
in the original Scottish vernacular
by Hugh MacDiarmid (1892-1978)
The Watergaw
Ae weet forenicht i’ the yow-trummle
I saw yon antrin thing,
A water...The Watergaw
in the original Scottish vernacular
by Hugh MacDiarmid (1892-1978)
The Watergaw
Ae weet forenicht i’ the yow-trummle
I saw yon antrin thing,
A watergaw wi’ its chitterin’ licht
Ayont the on-ding;
An’ I thocht o’ the last wild look ye gied
Afore ye deed!
There was nae reek i’ the laverock’s hoose
That nicht–an’ nane i’ mine;
But I hae thocht o’ that foolish licht
Ever sin’ syne;
An’ I think that mebbe at last I ken
What your look meant then.
translated from the Scotts Gaelic version by Hugh MacDiarmid
The Watergaw
One wet, early evening in the sheep-shearing season
I saw that occasional, rare thing–
A broken shaft of a rainbow with its trembling light
Beyond the downpour of the rain
And I thought of the last, wild look you gave
Before you died.
The skylark’s nest was dark and desolate,
My heart was too
But I have thought of that foolish light
Ever since then
And I think that perhaps at last I know
What your look meant then.
"Favorite Place" read by Scotland's National Poet Liz Lochead.
http://www.scottishpoetrylibrary.org.uk/connect/au...
I have no clue what this is about but I like it anyway!
Louis MacNeice (1907 - 1963)
Bagpipe Music
It's no go the merrygoround, it's no go the rickshaw,
All we want is a limousine and a ticket for the p...I have no clue what this is about but I like it anyway!
Louis MacNeice (1907 - 1963)
Bagpipe Music
It's no go the merrygoround, it's no go the rickshaw,
All we want is a limousine and a ticket for the peepshow.
Their knickers are made of crepe-de-chine, their shoes are made of python,
Their halls are lined with tiger rugs and their walls with head of bison.
John MacDonald found a corpse, put it under the sofa,
Waited till it came to life and hit it with a poker,
Sold its eyes for souvenirs, sold its blood for whiskey,
Kept its bones for dumbbells to use when he was fifty.
It's no go the Yogi-man, it's no go Blavatsky,
All we want is a bank balance and a bit of skirt in a taxi.
Annie MacDougall went to milk, caught her foot in the heather,
Woke to hear a dance record playing of Old Vienna.
It's no go your maidenheads, it's no go your culture,
All we want is a Dunlop tire and the devil mend the puncture.
The Laird o' Phelps spent Hogmanay declaring he was sober,
Counted his feet to prove the fact and found he had one foot over.
Mrs. Carmichael had her fifth, looked at the job with repulsion,
Said to the midwife "Take it away; I'm through with overproduction."
It's no go the gossip column, it's no go the Ceilidh,
All we want is a mother's help and a sugar-stick for the baby.
Willie Murray cut his thumb, couldn't count the damage,
Took the hide of an Ayrshire cow and used it for a bandage.
His brother caught three hundred cran when the seas were lavish,
Threw the bleeders back in the sea and went upon the parish.
It's no go the Herring Board, it's no go the Bible,
All we want is a packet of fags when our hands are idle.
It's no go the picture palace, it's no go the stadium,
It's no go the country cot with a pot of pink geraniums,
It's no go the Government grants, it's no go the elections,
Sit on your arse for fifty years and hang your hat on a pension.
It's no go my honey love, it's no go my poppet;
Work your hands from day to day, the winds will blow the profit.
The glass is falling hour by hour, the glass will fall forever,
But if you break the bloody glass you won't hold up the weather.
The following poem may serve as a "lassies' reply," as well as a rejoinder to Tam o' Shanter. It was contributed, via a circuitous Internet route, by a Burns Night celebrant from Burray, in the Orkney...The following poem may serve as a "lassies' reply," as well as a rejoinder to Tam o' Shanter. It was contributed, via a circuitous Internet route, by a Burns Night celebrant from Burray, in the Orkney Islands.
Kate O'Shanter
And where do you suppose was Kate
When market days were wearin late
While Tam frequented wretched dives
and fooled aroond wi landlord's wives?
And rode poor Meg through mud and ditches
and had an eye for handsome witches
Played peepin Tam at Alloway
And yelled and gave himself away
And fled from there amid the din
And Maggie hardly saved his skin
Kate slaved away the lifelong day
They had so many bills to pay
The twins just had to have new shoes
And Tam he spent so much on booze
She bathed and clothed and fed the twins
She baked the bread, she knits and spins
She does the wash, she mends the clothes
And what all else God only knows!
She keeps the house all neat and trim
And makes the lunch for ploughboy Jim
A neighbour lad they hire by day
Who does Tam's work while Tam's away
She herds the sheep and cattle too
Feeds hens, milks cows and when she's through
makes cheese and butter and gathers eggs
And puts the homebrew in the kegs
For Tam to sell on market day
And drink the proceeds half away
At harvest time from early morn
Her sickle reaps the oats and corn
And many a bonny summer day
She and ploughboy Jim - make hay
When Tam got home that night at 4
And Maggie found the stable door
Tam stumbled senseless to the floor
To sleep it off 8 hours or more
He tossed and turned through hail and rain
And through the nightmare ride again
Aboot the middle of the day
The livestock had a lot to say
The chickens, donkeys, geese, hens and cows
Said we want food we want it NOW
Tam stirred then from his lowly bed
and saw Meg's stump above his head
An awfu thought ran through his brain
Oh God - that wisna hail and rain!
Tam struggled slowly tae his feet
He wisna clean he wisna neat
He scraped aff what he could but when
He made his way from but to ben
Tam stood dumbfounded - what the hell
For Kate was gone - the twins as well
But Kate had left a note for him
"I've sailed to Montreal wi Jim"
And we expect to settle soon
Out on a farm near Saskatoon!
Forgive me Tam and don't be sore
A couldna tak it any more
I had tae find a better way
Before I'd slaved my youth away
I had tae try and save myself
(You'll find the oatmeal on the shelf)
Don't fash yourself aboot the twins
I might as well confess - they're Jims!!
Scotland Yet!
by Henry Scott Riddell
Gae bring my guid auld harp ance mair,
Gae bring it free and fast,
For I maun sing anither sang
Ere a' my glee be past;
An' trow ye, as I sing, my lads,
The burden o't sh...Scotland Yet!
by Henry Scott Riddell
Gae bring my guid auld harp ance mair,
Gae bring it free and fast,
For I maun sing anither sang
Ere a' my glee be past;
An' trow ye, as I sing, my lads,
The burden o't shall be --
Auld Scotland's howes, and Scotlands knowes,
And Scotland's hills for me;
I'll drink a cup to Scotland yet,
Wi' a' the honours three!
The heath waves wild upon her hill
And foaming through the fells,
Her fountains sing of freedom still,
As they dash down the dells;
For weel I loe the land, my lads,
That's girded by the sea --
Then Scotland's vales, and Scotland's dales,
And Scotland's hills for me;
I'll drink a caup to Scotland yet,
Wi' a' the honours three!
The thistle wags upon the fields
Where Wallce bare his blade,
That gave her foemen's dearest blude,
To dye her auld grey plaid;
And looking to the lift, my lads,
He sang this doughty glee --
Auld Scotland's richt, and Scotland's micht,
And Scotlant's hills for me;
I'll drink a cup to Scotland yet,
Wi a' the honours three!
They tell o' lan's wi' brichter skies,
Where freedom's voice ne'er rang;
Gie me the lan' where Ossian dwelt,
And Colla's minstrel sang --
For I've nae skill o' lans', my lads,
That kenna to be free --
Then Scotland's richt, and Scotland's micht,
And Scotland's hills for me;
I'll drink a cup to Scotland yet,
Wi' a' the honours three!
"Scotland's Winter" - Edwin Muir (1887 - 1959)
Now the ice lays its smooth claws on the sill,
The sun looks from the hill
Helmed in his winter casket,
And sweeps his arctic sword across the sky.
The water ..."Scotland's Winter" - Edwin Muir (1887 - 1959)
Now the ice lays its smooth claws on the sill,
The sun looks from the hill
Helmed in his winter casket,
And sweeps his arctic sword across the sky.
The water at the mill
Sounds more hoarse and dull.
The miller's daughter walking by
With frozen fingers soldered to her basket
Seems to be knocking
Upon a hundred leagues of floor
With her light heels, and mocking
Percy and Douglas dead,
And Bruce on his burial bed,
Where he lies white as may
With wars and leprosy,
And all the kings before
This land was kingless,
And all the singers before
This land was songless,
This land that with its dead and living waits the Judgement Day.
But they, the powerless dead,
Listening can hear no more
Than a hard tapping on the floor
A little overhead
Of common heels that do not know
Whence they come or where they go
And are content
With their poor frozen life and shallow banishment.
Don Paterson reads "Rain"
Uploaded by Howpedestrian on 2011-02-28.
The Clydeside Highlander
My folks are from here;
I have travelled South as
They once travelled North
To find...something.
My ma never got used to Highland ways,
Her thinly veiled scorn poured through m...The Clydeside Highlander
My folks are from here;
I have travelled South as
They once travelled North
To find...something.
My ma never got used to Highland ways,
Her thinly veiled scorn poured through me,
Indentity becoming a giant blotch,
As I dreamed of the big city
In all its delirious splendour.
Now I am here I know
That I am a Highlander,
And I lament my earlier lack
Of pride in this fact.
This city is beautiful,
Its vibrancy shudders through my bones,
To be in Glasgow is to feel
The constant breath of life and change
Laughing through your hair.
It is different.
The tongue, the sights,
The men, the women -
These ways are not my ways.
Hollywood never gets it right.
We are a tiny country, yes.
But myriad cultures lie
And stand and narrate
Within our border.
I love them all.
But home is always best loved
From a distance.
Glasgow was fashioned by
A people full of warmth
And a drive to make the most.
The Highlands were fashioned
By the hands of God.
Anna Russell
More of her work can be found here: http://www.poemhunter.com/anna-russell/poems/
Border Ballad by Sir Walter Scott
March, march, Ettrick and Teviotdale,
Why the deil dinna ye march forward in order!
March, march, Eskdale and Liddesdale,
All the Blue Bonnets are bound for the Border.
Ma...Border Ballad by Sir Walter Scott
March, march, Ettrick and Teviotdale,
Why the deil dinna ye march forward in order!
March, march, Eskdale and Liddesdale,
All the Blue Bonnets are bound for the Border.
Many a banner spread,
Flutters above your head,
Many a crest that is famous in story.
Mount and make ready then,
Sons of the mountain glen,
Fight for the Queen and our old Scottish glory.
Come from the hills where your hirsels are grazing,
Come from the glen of the buck and the roe;
Come to the crag where the beacon is blazing,
Come with the buckler, the lance, and the bow.
Trumpets are sounding,
War-steeds are bounding,
Stand to your arms, then, and march in good order;
England shall many a day
Tell of the bloody fray,
When the Blue Bonnets came over the Border.
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Lisa Bumgarner and Donald like this.
