Cannae Thole Ye!

Cannae Thole Ye!

Hello aul freens. Hoo ir ye daein? This week A'd laik tae taak tae ye aboot yin o’ ma favourite Ulster-Scots wurds, ‘thole’. Tae aa thon wha hadnae tha benefit o’ bein brocht up wae tha hamely tongue, thole means tae endure oor suffer bit laik aa guid Ulster-Scots wurds it can bae employ’t in wheen o’ different wyes.

Gin thur’s a creeter ye cannae stan, weel ye cud tell him that ye cannae thole him, tha mair it micht earn ye a clash roon tha heid. Whuch leads me oan tae tha nixt use o’ thole, haein tae suffer a bit o’ a hurt. Ay, gin ye hae an injury o’ sim sort ye micht bae toul tae thole it tae it’s better.

Oor ye micht cum acroass a carnaptious aul bessom that’s sae crabbit, shae cud hardly thole hersel. An then thur’s tha cretter wha’s that jealous he cudnae thole tha thocht o’ anither bodie haein mair nor him. Ay, thole’s a richt handy wurd tae ken. Bit afore ye mak up yer mine ye cannae thole oany mair o’ ma bletherin A’ll stap an lee ye’s wae a poem scrived by tha Coonty Doon writer an poet George Francis Savage Armstrong caad, ‘A Cannae Thole Ye’!

Ye may be clivver, may hae won

A wheen o' honour 'nayth the sun

But, whatsaee'er ye've earn'd or done,

A cannae thole ye!

Ye may be genial noo and then

Wi' helpless waens an' humble men;

But, though ye'd gilt auld Poortith's den,

A cannae thole ye!

Ye may be guid; ye may be great;

Ye may be born tae rule the State;

But, though ye rowl'd the wheels o' Fate,

A cannae thole ye!

Ye may hae drawn yer watery bluid

Frae Noe's sel' that sail'd the Flood;

But, though in Noe's breeks ye stud,

A cannae thole ye!

Ye may be lord o' mony a rood;

Yer smile may mak' a monarch prood;

But, though the De'il afore ye boo'd,

A cannae thole ye!

It's nae that ye hae din me wrang;

It's nae A feel a jealous pang;

It's jist that, be ye short or lang,

A cannae thole ye!