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!
