Grebba Lasses

Grebba Lasses

Wha seen tha Greba lasses
Wha seen thaim gang awa
Wha seen tha Greba lasses
Mairchin doon tha Herd Breid Raa
Some o thaim hae hats an bonnets
Some o thaim hae naen ava
Some of thaim hae umberellas
For tae keep tha rain awa 

Wha seen tha Greba lasses
Wha seen thaim gang awa
Wha seen tha Greba lasses
Mairchin doon tha Herd Breid Raa.
Some o thaim hae buits an stockins
Some o thaim hae naen ava
Some o thaim hae big bare arses
Mairchin doon tha Herd Breid Raa

Carryin Clashes

 Gossiping

"Sum fowk’s niver content but whun they’re carryin’ clashes.”

Lyttle, W. G.. Life in Ballycuddy, County Down (Robin's Readings Book 3) (p. 14)

Is a dove a doo Da?

https://youtu.be/QzV4Ui3iG8E

by Jim Douglas 

Is a dove a doo Da?
Is a doo a dove?
Is a cow a coo Da?
A sparrow jist a spyug?
And is a wall a waw Da?
Is a dog a dug?
She's gonnae warm ma ear Da
Instead o' skelp ma lug.

Ma teacher's awfy posh Da
She changes aw oor names
Wee Shuggie now is Hugh Da
And Jimmy's ayeways James
Ah'm scunnered wi' it aw Da
The way she shoogles words
Ah must be glaickit no 'tae ken
That feathered friends are burds.

Ye learnt me aw wrong Da
Ye cawd a ball a baw
Your wife is now my Mother
You said it wis ma Maw
Ah'm no share hoo tae spell Da
Ah'll niver pass ma test
Whit is this ah'm wearin' Da,
A simmet or a vest?

Ah gied ma neb a dicht Da
When it began tae dreep
She gave me sich a fricht Da,
Ah near fell aff ma seat.
Haven't you a handkerchief?
She roared as if in pain
No, ah jist yase ma sleeve, Miss
And wiped ma beak again.

Ah cawd a mouse a moose Da
Ah shid hiv held ma tongue
That's manure oan yir bits Da
Nae longer is it dung
It's turnips and potatoes
No tatties noo and neeps
She said I've ripped my trousers
When ah'd only torn ma breeks.

There's twa words fir awthin' Da,
They're jumbled in ma heed
Hoo kin I be well bred Da?
When ah keep sayin' breed
Now is a crow a craw Da?
Is a bull a bull?
A'll try tae get it richt Da
I will, I will, ah wull 

The Boy in the Train by Mary Campbell Smith

Whit wey does the engine say 'Toot-toot'?

 Is it feart to gang in the tunnel?

Whit wey is the furnace no pit oot 

When the rain gangs doon the funnel? 

What'll I hae for my tea the nicht?

A herrin', or maybe a haddie?

Has Gran'ma gotten electric licht? 

Is the next stop Kirkcaddy? 

There's a hoodie-craw on yon turnip-raw! 

An' seagulls! - sax or seeven. 

I'll no fa' oot o' the windae, Maw,

Its sneckit, as sure as I'm leevin'. 

We're into the tunnel! we're a' in the dark!

But dinna be frichtit, Daddy, 

We'll sune be comin' to Beveridge Park, 

And the next stop's Kirkcaddy! 

Is yon the mune I see in the sky?

 It's awfu' wee an' curly, 

See! there's a coo and a cauf ootbye, 

An' a lassie pu'in' a hurly! 

He's chackit the tickets and gien them back, 

Sae gie me my ain yin, 

Daddy. Lift doon the bag frae the luggage rack, 

For the next stop's Kirkcaddy! 

There's a gey wheen boats at the harbour mou', 

And eh! dae ya see the cruisers? 

The cinnamon drop I was sookin' the noo 

Has tummelt an' stuck tae ma troosers. . . 

I'll sune be ringin' ma Gran'ma's bell, 

She'll cry, 'Come ben, my laddie', 

For I ken mysel' by the queer-like smell 

That the next stop's Kirkcaddy! 

The Irish Cottier's Death and Burial

(One of my favourite poems by Orr. I am especially fond of the fifth verse)

 A Highland Funeral, Sir James Guthrie, 1882

By James Orr

The blameless Cottier, wha his youth had pass'd
Erin! my country! preciously adorn'd
With every beauty, and with every worth,
Thy grievances through time shall not be scorn'd,
For powerful friends to plead thy cause step forth:
But more unblest, oppression, want, and dearth,
Did during life, distressfully attend
The poor neglected native of thy North,
Whose fall I sing. He found no powerful friend,
'Till Death was sent to Heaven to bid his soul ascend.

In temperance, an' felt few pains when auld,
The prey o' pleurisy, lies low at last,
And aft his thoughts are by delirium thrall'd:
Yet while he raves, he prays in words weel wal'd,
An' mutters through his sleep o' truth an' right;
An' after pondering deep, the weans are tald
The readiest way he thinks they justly might
Support themsels thro' life, when he shall sink in night.

Wi' patient watchfu'ness, lasses an' lads,
Careful' an' kin', surroun' his clean caff bed,
Ane to his lips the coolin' cordial ha'ds,
An' ane behin' supports his achin' head;
Some bin' the arm that lately has been bled,
An' some burn bricks his feet mair warm to mak;
If e'er he doze, how noiselessly they tread!
An' stap the lights to mak the bield be black,
An' aft the bedside lea, an' aft slip saftly back.

Rang'd roun' the hearth, where he presides nae mair,
Th' inquirin' nybers mourn their sufferin' frien';
An' now an' then divert awa their care,
By tellin' tales to please some glaiket wean,
Wha's e'e soon fills whan told about the pain
Its sire endures, an' what his loss wad be;
An' much they say, but a', alas! in vain,
To soothe the mither, wha ha'f pleas'd could see
Her partner eas'd by death, though for his life she'd die.

And while they're provin' that his end is sure
By strange ill omens - to assuage his smart
The minister comes in, wha' to the poor,
Without a fee performs the doctor's part:
An' while wi' hope he soothes the suff'rer's heart,
An' gies a cheap, safe recipe, they try
To quat braid Scotch, a task that foils their art;
For while they join his converse, vain though shy,
They monie a lang learn'd word misca' an' misapply.

An' lo! the sick man's dyin' words to 'tend,
Th' alarm'd auld circle gather roun', an' weep;
Deceiv'd by hope, they thought till now he'd mend,
But he thought lang in death's embrace to sleep.
"Let ithers will," he says, "a golden heap,
I can but lea my blessin' an' advice ----
Shield your poor mither, an' her counsel keep;
An' you, my senior sons, that ay were wise,
Do for my late born babes, an' train them for the skies.

"Be honest an' obligin'; if ye thrive
Be meek; an' firm whan crosses come your road;
Should rude men wrang ye, to forgie them strive;
An' gratefu' be for benefits bestow'd:
Scorn nae poor man wha bears oppression's load,
Nor meanly cringe for favours frae the proud;
In ae short sentence - serve baith man an' God.
Sae, whan your clay lies mould'rin' in a shroud,
Your saul shall soar to Heaven, an' care nae mair becloud."

His strength here fail'd, but still affection's e'e
Spak on; a moment motionless he lay;
Bade "Peace be wi' them!" turn'd his head awee,
And pass'd through death's dark vale without dismay.
The speechless widow watch'd the stiff'ning clay,
And shed some "nat'ral tears" - rack'd, yet resign'd;
To loud laments the orphan groupe gied way,
An' mourn'd, unfelt, the wants an' wrangs they'd find,
Flung friendless on the warl, that's seldom unco kind.

Come hither, sons of Plenty! an' relieve
The bonny bairns, for labour yet owre wee,
An' that mild matron, left in life's late eve,
Without a stay the ills o' age to dree:
Had I your walth, I hame wad tak' wi' me
The lamb that's lookin' in my tear-wat face;
An' that dejected dame should sit rent free
In some snug cot, that I wad hae the grace
To visit frequently, and bid her hardships cease.

Cou'd he whose limbs they decently hae stretch'd,
The followers o' freets awake an' mark,
What wad he think o' them, he oft beseeched
To be mair wise than mind sic notions dark?
To bare the shelves o' plates they fa' to wark;
Before the looking-glass a claith they cast;
An' if a clock were here, nae ear might hark
Her still'd han's tell how hours an' moments pass'd;
Ignorance bred sic pranks, an' custom gars them last.

But see what crowds to wauk the Cottier come!
Maist frae respect, but some to gape-seed saw:
Douce men an' wives step forward to the room,
The youths on forms sit rang'd roun' ilka wa';
Some at a plate light pipes as white as snaw;
Some hark in neuks wi' lasses whom they prize;
Some banter simple nymphs, their parts to shaw;
But though a laugh be sometimes like to rise,
They dinna either death or the deceas'd despise.

Belyve an auld man lifts the Word o' God,
Gies out a line, an' sings o' grief an' pain;
Reads o'er a chapter, chosen as it should,
That maks them sure the dead shall rise again;
An' prays, that he, wha's hand has gie'n and ta'en,
May be the orphan's guide, the widow's stay;
An' that, rememb'rin' death ere health be gane,
They a' may walk in wisdom's Heaven-ward way,
Like him, the man o' worth, that's now a clod o' clay.

An' now a striplin', wi' becomin' grace,
Han's the wauk-supper, in a riddle, roun';
Hard bread, an' cheese, might nicest palates please,
Bought frae a huxter in the nyb'rin' town;
An' gi'es them gills a piece o' rum sae brown,
By polished sots wi' feign'd reluctance pried;
Though here an' there may sit a menseless loun,
The thoughtfu' class consider poor folks need,
An' only "kiss the cup," an' hardly ance break bread.

While thus they sit, the widow lifts the sheet,
To kiss the corps that worms will shortly gnaw;
Some argue Scripture - some play tricks - some greet;
Here they're asleep - an' there they slip awa'.
Folk wha lay list'ning 'till the cock wad craw,
Now rise frae rest, an' come to sit a while;
Salute their frien's, and speer for their folk a',
An' to the fire step ben, frae which a file
O' warmer rustics rise, polite in simplest stile.

Syne wi' anither glass they hail day-light,
An' crack mair cruse o' bargains, farms, an' beasts;
Or han' tradition down, an' ither fright,
Wi' dreadfu' tales o' witches, elves, an' ghaists.
The soger lad, wha on his pension rests,
Tells how he fought, an' proudly bares his scaur;
While unfledg'd gulls, just looking owre their nests,
Brag how they lately did their rivals daur,
Before their first sweethearts, an' dashed them i' the glaur.

An' while some lass, though on their cracks intent,
Turns to the light and sleely seems to read,
The village sires, wha kent him lang, lament
The dear deceas'd, an' praise his life an' creed;
For if they crav'd his help in time o' need,
Or gied him trust, they prov'd him true an' kin';
"But he," they cry, "wha blames his word or deed,
Might say the sun, that now begins to shine,
Is rising i' the wast, whare he'll at e'en decline."

Warn'd to the Cottier's burial, rich an' poor
Cam' at the hour, tho' win' an' rain beat sair;
An' monie met it at the distant moor,
An' duly, time-about, bore up the bier,
That four men shouther'd through the church-yard drear.
Twa youths knelt down, and humbly in the grave
Laid their blest father. Numbers shed a tear,
Hop'd for an end like his, and saftly strave
To calm his female frien's, wha dolefully did rave.

An' while the sexton earth'd his poor remains,
The circling crowd contemplatively stood,
An' mark'd the empty sculls, an' jointless banes,
That, cast at random, lay like cloven wood:
Some stept outbye, an' read the gravestanes rude,
That only tald the inmates' years an' names;
An' ithers, kneeling, stream'd a saut, saut flood,
On the dear dust that held their kinsfolks' frames ----
Then, through the gate they a' pass'd to their diff'rent hames.

Erin! my country! while thy green sward gilds
The good man's grave, whose fall I strove to sing,
Ten thousand Cottiers, toiling on thy wilds,
Prize truth and right 'bove ev'ry earthly thing:
Full many a just man makes thy work-shops ring;
Full many a bright man strips thy meads to mow;
Closer in thy distress to thee they cling;
And though their fields scarce daily bread bestow,
Feel thrice more peace of mind, than those who crush them low.

THE MAN FROM GOD KNOWS WHERE

Racently A wus mindit o' tha weel kent poem by Florence M. Wilson, 'The man from God knows where'. Noo a brave monie o’ ye’s wull hae herd its saxteen verses bit thur’s ithers that wullnae oor haenae. Maebae the’ hae bin pit aff by tha company it noo keeps oor tha matter o’ tha verses; fur thur’s thon wha cannae git thur heid roon tha presbyterian led risin o’ ’98 ava. Bit ma freens, gin ye’ll heed this aul han, ye’ll tak oan yer ain culture afore ithers tak it fae ye. Gin ye didnae credit me jist tak a wee gleek oan tha internet fur tha '98 risin, tae ye see hoo it’s scrieved. Onie road whether ye hae cum acroass tha poem befur oor no, it’s a pert o’ oor Ulster-Scots heritage and a canty rhyme furbye. Judge fur yersel.

The Man From God Knows Where

by

Florence M Wilson

Into our townlan' on a night of snow
rode a man from God knows where; 
None of us bade him stay or go, 
nor deemed him friend, nor damned him foe, 
but we stabled his big roan mare; 
for in our townlan' we're decent folk, 
and if he didn't speak, why none of us spoke, 
and we sat till the fire burned low.

We're a civil sort in our wee place 
so we made the circle wide 
round Andy Lemon's cheerful blaze, 
and wished the man his length of days 
and a good end to his ride.
He smiled in under his slouchy hat, 
says he: 'There's a bit of a joke in that, 
for we ride different ways.'

The whiles we smoked we watched him stare 
from his seat fornenst the glow. 
I nudged Joe Moore: 'You wouldn't dare 
to ask him who he's for meeting there, 
and how far he has got to go?'
And Joe wouldn't dare, nor Wully Scott, 
And he took no drink - neither cold nor hot, 
this man from God knows where.

It was closing time, and late forbye, 
when us ones braved the air.
I never saw worse (may I live or die)
than the sleet that night, an' I says, says I:
'You'll find he's for stopping there.' 
But at screek o'day, through the gable pane
I watched him spur in the peltin' rain, 
an' I juked from his rovin' eye.

Two winters more, then the Trouble year, 
when the best that a man could feel 
was the pike that he kept in hidin's near, 
till the blood o' hate an' the blood o' fear 
would be redder nor rust on the steel.
Us ones quet from mindin' the farms
Let them take what we gave wi' the weight o' our arms
from Saintfield to Kilkeel.

In the time o' the Hurry, we had no lead 
we all of us fought with the rest 
an' if e'er a one shook like a tremblin' reed, 
none of us gave neither hint nor heed, 
nor ever even'd we'd guessed.
We men of the North had a word to say,
an'we said it then, in our own dour way, 
an' we spoke as we thought was best.

All Ulster over, the weemin cried
for the stan'in' crops on the lan'.
Many's the sweetheart and many's the bride 
would liefer ha' gone to where he died, 
and ha' mourned her lone by her man. 
But us ones weathered the thick of it 
and we used to dander along and sit 
in Andy's, side by side.

What with discourse goin' to and fro, 
the night would be wearin' thin,
yet never so late when we rose to go 
but someone would say: 'do ye min' thon' snow, 
an 'the man who came wanderin'in?' 
and we be to fall to the talk again, 
if by any chance he was one o' them 
The man who went like the win'.

Well 'twas gettin' on past the heat o' the year 
when I rode to Newtown fair; 
I sold as I could (the dealers were near 
only three pounds eight for the Innish steer, 
an' nothin' at all for the mare!) 
I met M'Kee in the throng o' the street, 
says he: 'The grass has grown under our feet 
since they hanged young Warwick here.',

And he told me that Boney had promised help 
to a man in Dublin town.
Says he: 'If you've laid the pike on the shelf, 
you'd better go home hot-fut by yourself, 
an' once more take it down.'
So by Comber road I trotted the grey 
and never cut corn until Killyleagh 
stood plain on the risin' groun'.

For a wheen o' days we sat waitin' the word 
to rise and go at it like men, 
but no French ships sailed into Cloughey Bay 
and we heard the black news on a harvest day 
that the cause was lost again; 
and Joey and me, and Wully Boy Scott, 
we agreed to ourselves we'd as lief as not 
ha' been found in the thick o' the slain.

By Downpatrick goal I was bound to fare 
on a day I'll remember, feth; 
for when I came to the prison square 
the people were waitin' in hundreds there 
an' you wouldn't hear stir nor breath! 
For the sodgers were standing, grim an' tall, 
round a scaffold built there foment the wall,
an' a man stepped out for death! 

I was brave an' near to the edge of the throng, 
yet I knowed the face again,
an' I knowed the set, an' I knowed the walk 
an' the sound of his strange up-country talk, 
for he spoke out right an' plain.
Then he bowed his head to the swinging rope, 
whiles I said 'Please God' to his dying hope 
and 'Amen' to his dying prayer 
that the wrong would cease and the right prevail, 
for the man that they hanged at Downpatrick gaol 
was the Man from God knows where!

Tha Big Stane

Fur thon o’ ye’s no sae familiar wae tha Ards, tha big stane lees oan tha shore o’ Strangford Lough twathry mile fae tha Flood Gates. Ay, A hae mine o’ passin it ivery Saturday oan  ma wye intae Newton tae pick up oor weekly ration o’ soda bried an proota-oaten farls fae tha Brides Parlour. A aye thocht it fittin that this reminder o’ nature’s pooer haed a wee bible verse scrieved oan the side o’ it. A tradition whuch A’m gled tae say is still carriet oan tae this day. Hooaniver no ivery yin that went fur a danner tae tha big stane wus thur fur religious instruction, it wud seem that it wus a popular coortin spot forbye, specially fur thon ‘born in aul Newton not far from the Bowton’ es ye can fin oot fur yersels alow.

Images obtained from - Newtownards a pictorial history

The Big Stane

I was born in aul Newtown not far from the Bowtown

The first sound I heard was Walkers aul horn

Me Ma rocked the cradle, me Da played the fiddle

And I sucked a bottle of John Barley Corn.

I can still hear the laughter of the kaliman after

I still feel delight at the sound of her name

At the first kiss she gave me nothing could save me

She kissed me at the bottom of the aul dummies lane.

While walking for pleasure one fine summers evening

I met with my true love down by the big stane

We fell into courtin while gathering cockles

Now cockles and courtin can be a rough game

As the shadow of sunlight began to get dimmer

I felt a bit rough round by the big stane

Now sands good for building but no good for courtin

So stay on the grass when you are at the big stane

The days they got shorter and my love got bigger

Her Da got crosser and I got the blame

A shotgun was loaded and nearly exploded

You’ll pay for your courtin down by the big stane

One merry spring mornin our wedding was dawning

We met at the Church in the aul dummies lane

Her Ma she was cryin her Da he was cursin

And my son was born before we got hame.

He was born in aul Newtown not far from the Bowtown

The first sound I heard was Walkers aul horn

Now she rocks the cradle and I play the fiddle

And he sucks a bottle of John Barley Corn.

And he sucks a bottle of John Barley Corn.

My thanks to Mark Anderson for his contribution to this posting

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!

Oor Ain Saint

17.03.14 Templepatrick

(taken from this weeks 'Fae tha pen o' an Aul Han)

Greetins aul freens A hape yer aa weel. This week folk fae aa airts an pairts wull bae dressin up laik leprehauns, paintin shamroakes oan thur bakes an drinkin green concoctions that wud mak ye seek jist tae luk at thum. The’ hae sim daft notion that thur antics ir simhoo connected tae Saint Petherick. Hooaniver tha truth is nane o’ thon things haes ocht ava tae dae wae tha missionary wha cum tae bring Christianity tae Airlan.

Aye, ye can bae sur tha streets o’ monies a toon an city wull bae crooded wae folk wavin flags an singin sangs. Bit a wunner wull thur bae onie yin stannin oan tha wee shore atween Millisle and Donaghadee in tha toonlan o’ Templepatrick (Church of Patrick). A wud bae mair nor surprised gin onie yin kens that this wee streetch o’ lan is whur Petherick lanit, havin sail’t acroass tha echteen mile o’ watter fae Portpatrick in Scotland.

‘A jalouse yer wrang Aul Han,’ A hear ye’s say. ‘Sur it’s no even mentioned by tha Tourist folk.’ Weel ye dinnae hae tae tak ma wurd fur it, in years gan by ye cud o’ fun mention o’ tha fact in monies an epistle. Tak fur example oor aul freen W.G. Lyttle’s “The Bangor Season” published in 1888. Aye an gin thon’s no guid enech fur ye, ye can fin it mentioned in “Tha Montgomery Manuscripts” (fae tha earlie saxteen hunners) whur it tells o’ hoo tha O’Neils wur fit tae show tha Montgomeries tha very spot whur Patrick cum ashore. A fact that nae doot haed great bearin oan Patrick Montgomery’s decision tae settle in Templepatrick an big a grand hoose, whas coat o’ arms can still be seen tae this day.

Bit A jalouse it disnae sit weel wae sim folk that Petherick aamaist certainly cum fae Scotland oor that he lanit in whut was tae becum tha first hame o’ tha Scots in Ulster. A wunner, daes thon mak him Ulster-Scots?

Onie road, gin ye happen by thon wee negleckit spot ootside Donaghadee. Ye cud dae wurse thon tae perk yer motor an tak a wee jaunt doon tae tha shore whur Petherick first brocht tha gospel tae Airlan.

Introduction to the New Testament in Braid Scots - 1901

"The New Testament in Braid Scots"

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Preface: "Thar are mony folks, wha hae spoken English a' their grown-up days, wha like to gang back to the tongue o' their bairnhood, i' the mirk and shadows o' auld age. Thar are ithers wha seem tae tak better to the Word when it comes to them wi' a wee o' the Scottish birr. And thar are a hantle o' folk and I meet them a'gate--wha dinna speak Scots theirsels, but are keen to hear it, and like to read it. "And thar is anither consideration--the Scots tongue is no gettin extendit, and some folk think it may be tint a'thegither or 'or lang. And God's Word is for a'men; and ony lawfu' means ane can use to get folk to read it, and tak tent til't, is richt and proper. For a' thae reasons and ithers I coud bring forrit, I hae putten the New Testatment intil Braid Scots. Lat nae man think it is a vulgar tongue--a mere gibberish to be dune wi' as sune as ane is bye the schule-time. It is an ancient and honourable tongue; wi' rutes deep i' the yird; aulder than muckle o' the English. It cam doon till us throwe oor Gothic and Pictish forebears; it was heard on the battle-field wi' Bruce; it waftit the triumphant prayers and sangs o' the Martyrs intil Heeven; it dirl't on the tongue o' John Knox, dencouncin wrang; it sweeten't a' the heevenlie letters o' Samuel Rutherford; and aneath the theek o'mony a muirland cottage it e'en noo carries thanks to Heeven, and brings the blessins doon!........." "And I haena putten pen to paper unbidden. A wheen screeds o' the Word dune intil Scots I had at times putten afore the public een; and folk wad write me, "Hae ye ony mair o't? Is the hail Testament in Scots to be gotten?" till I begude to think that aiblins Providence had gien me the Scots blude and the Scots tongue, wi' the American edication, for the vera reason that--haein baith lang'ages--I soud recommend the Word in Scots; and juist Scots eneuch not to be unfathomable to the ordinar English reader." "Whiles thar has been a chance o'making the meanin planer; whiles a Scots phrase o' unco tenderness or wondrous pith coud come in. And at a' times, ahint the pen that was movin, was a puir but leal Scots heart, fu' o' prayer that this sma' effort micht be acceptit o' the dear Maister--and, survivin a' the misca'in o' the pernickity and the fashionable--micht bring the memoryh o' a worthy tongue, and the better knowledge o' a Blessed Saviour, to this ane and that ane, as they micht chance to read it."

William Wye Smith (The Rev.) St. Catherines Canada

23rd Psalm in Scots

23rd. Psalm in Scots

The Lord is my Shepherd in nocht am I wantin'
In the haugh's green girse does He mak me lie doon
While mony puir straiglers are bleatin' and pantin'
By saft-flowin' burnies He leads me at noon.
When aince I had strayed far awa in the bracken,
And daidled till gloamin' cam ower a' the hills,
Nae dribble o' water my sair drooth to slacken,
And dark grow'd the nicht wi' its haars and its chills.
Awa frae the fauld, strayin' fit-sair and weary,
I thocht I had naethin' tae dae but tae dee.
He socht me and fand me in mountain hechts dreary,
He gangs by fell paths which He kens best for me.
And noo, for His name's sake, I'm dune wi' a' fearin'
Though cloods may aft gaither and soughin' win's blaw.
"Hoo this?" or "Hoo that?" -- oh, prevent me frae spearin'
His will is aye best, and I daurna say "Na".
The valley o' death winna fleg me to thread it,
Through awfu' the darkness, I weel can foresee.
Wi' His rod and His staff He wull help me to tread it,
Then wull its shadows, sae gruesome, a' flee.
Forfochen in presence o' foes that surround me,
My Shepherd a table wi' denties has spread.
The Thyme and the Myrtle blaw fragrant aroond me,
He brims a fu' cup and poors oil on my head.
Surely guidness an' mercy, despite a' my roamin'
Wull gang wi' me doon tae the brink o' the river.
Ayont it nae mair o' the eerie an' gloamin'
I wull bide in the Hame o' my Faither for ever.

Aul sayins fae tha hamested

My mother, to me: on the occasion of me reclining for a few moments on her chair,

"Luk at ye lyin bak thur like a churn a dryin."

Dandlin Sangs

Ally Bally (Coulter's Candy)

Ally bally, ally bally bee,
Sittin' on yer mammy's knee,
Greetin' for a wee bawbee, (crying) (a halfpenny)
Tae buy mair Coulter's candy. (to) (more)

My, yir legs are affa thin, (awfully)
A couple o' banes covered ower wi' skin, (bones) (over)
Noo yir gettin' a wee double chin, (now)
Wi' sookin' Coulter's Candy. (sucking)

Ally bally, ally bally bee,
When you grow up you'll go to sea,
Makin' pennies for your daddy and me,
Tae buy mair Coulter's Candy.

Mammy gie's ma thrifty doon, (give) (money box) (down)
Here's auld Coulter comin' roon', (old) (around)
Wi' a basket on his croon, (with) (crown/head)
Selling Coulter's Candy.

Coulter he's a affa funny man, (very)
He mak's his candy in a pan, (makes)
Awa an greet to yer ma, (away) (cry) (your)
Tae buy some Coulters candy. (to)

Little Annie's greetin' tae,
Sae whit can puir wee Mammy dae, (so) (what) (poor) (do)
But gie them a penny atween them twae, (between) (two)
Tae buy mair Coulter's Candy.

My Aunt Jane

My Aunt Jane she tuk me in

An gien me tay oot o her wee tin

Half a bap wae sugar on tha tap

An three black balls fae her wee shap

My Aunt Jane sez drink yer tay

An sing oot til yer dyin' day

An ye wunner why I an sae prood

An ye wunner why I sing sae lood

For my Aunt Jane she tuk me in

An gien me tay oot o her wee tin

Half a bap wae sugar on tha tap

An three black balls fae her wee shap.

(Video click here)

Dance Tae Yer Daddie

Dance tae yer daddie, My bonnie laddie, 

Dance tae yer daddie, My bonnie lamb

You will hear a fiddle, A story an a riddle

You wull hear a fiddle, When the boat cums hame

Dance tae yer daddie, My bonnie laddie, 

Dance tae yer daddie, my bonnie lamb 

Ye’ll soon hear a sang, Aa can sing alang 

Ye’ll soon hear a sang When the boat cums hame

Dance tae yer daddie, My bonnie laddie, 

Dance tae yer daddie, my bonnie lamb 

An ye’ll get a fishie, In a wee dishie 

An ye’ll get a fishie, When the boat cums hame

(Video click here)

Cuddle Doon Link

In line with this Saturdays Column I'm posting a link to the oul Scots favourite Cuddle Doon by Alexander Anderson

http://lowcountrylad.blogspot.co.uk/2011/04/cuddle-doon.html

Betsy Grey and the Hearts of Down

Tae pass a dreighy day

If'n yer oanythin lik masel ye'll no bae tae far travel't this wather. Aye, it's oan oul, coul, wet, days lik tha yins wae hae noo that A hae mine o ma mither lukkin’ oot tha winda an tellin' me, " thon's a day fer tha fire". Maun bit it's a lucky man that haes his kindlin' split an his scuttles fu tae tha brim.

Bit yince yer settled whut dae ye dae. Fer thur’s niver oanythin worth watchin' oan tha box an tha wireless disnae git guid tae tha nicht. Weel, if ye'll heed me, January is a quare month tae git caught up wi tha readin'. Iver tha past wheen o' years thur haes bin near a dizin o' tha oul Ulster-Scots classics reprinted.

If lik masel yer fae tha Ardes, an even if yer no, ye cud dae a hale locht worse thon tae git houl o' yin o' W.G. Lyttles buks tae pass a dreighy day.

Tha buks ir scrieved in tha 'kail-yard' style that wus popular, acroass tha scheugh, in Scotland at tha time. Yin o' tha main features o' this style is it’s use o’ twa languages fer whiles tha story is scrieved in English, aa tha taakin perts ir in Ulster-Scots. Noo es ye ken Am near aye oan fer tha braid Scots tha hale road. Bit A hae tae admit its no tha worst wye o’ wurkin. Especially fer aa thon wha ir a wee bit mere hesitant in readin tha hamely tongue.

If ye havnae read W. G. Lyttle A wud recommend ye tae stairt wi 'Betsy Grey and the Hearts of Down'. A story woven aroon oor ain folk an history. Tha buk taks es bak tae 1798 whun Betsy an hir  brither George alang wi hir fiance Willie Boal tak pert in tha 'Turn oot', tha name gien tae tha United Irish rebellion bye tha folk in tha Ardes. Tha buk follas brave Betsy fae tha Smidy at tha sax road ends tae tha battle o' Ballynahinch whur shae faced tha muskets an canons o tha King's sodjers. Aye tha dinnae mak them lik thon oany mere.

Tae nixt time lang may yer lum reek an yer spicket dribble

Lisneal College Burns Night

Hello Oul freens you are all invited to Lisneal's Burns Night Supper, Concert and Ceilidh on Friday 25th January at 7pm. The entertainment includes Tullitrain Pipe Band, Sollus, Shelly Anne Campbell and Tiny Feet schools of dance as well as a variety of talented local singers and musicians. Followed by the Alistair Scott Ceilidh Band. Tickets are priced at £14.50 and can be bought from the School Office (028 71348888)

Auld Lang Syne

Now you have no excuse on Mon Night (Tues morning) and of course on the 25th as well.

Auld Lang Syne

1788
Robert Burns

Should auld acquaintance be forgot, And never brought to mind? Should auld acquaintance be forgot, And auld lang syne! Chorus.-For auld lang syne, my dear, For auld lang syne. We'll tak a cup o' kindness yet, For auld lang syne. And surely ye'll be your pint stowp! And surely I'll be mine! And we'll tak a cup o'kindness yet, For auld lang syne. For auld, &c. We twa hae run about the braes, And pou'd the gowans fine; But we've wander'd mony a weary fit, Sin' auld lang syne. For auld, &c. We twa hae paidl'd in the burn, Frae morning sun till dine; But seas between us braid hae roar'd Sin' auld lang syne. For auld, &c. And there's a hand, my trusty fere! And gie's a hand o' thine! And we'll tak a right gude-willie waught, For auld lang syne. For auld, &c

'Guid Wittins Frae Docter Luik'

Taken from: 'Guid Wittins Frae Docter Luik'
"Dinnae be feart, for A'm bringin yis tha best news iver; an it's for tha hale warl! Tha Saviour, ay, tha Christ, tha Lord, haes this nicht bin boarn in Bethlehem, tha toon o Davit. An this is hoo ye'll ken him. Ye'll fin a babbie, rowlt in bits o claith, lyin amang tha fother in a manger.'

Yin Mere Clean Shirt

Yin Mere Clean Shirt

Greetin’s oul freens A hope this week fins ye aa weel fer thur’s alocht o' seekness gan roon. Ivery ither cretter ye meet is deein' wi tha cowl. Ay, an Am nae exception. A hae an oul craitle in my breesht a cannae git ridd o'. Fower weeks A hae bin hirslin. Last week A tuk maesel tae tha doctor bit thon antibiotics he gien me micht es weel o' bin smerties fer aa tha guid the’ daen.

Durin' tha day it’s no tae bad bit at nicht Am splooterin an blooterin simthin wile. Ay, wi aa tha weeslin an clocerin gan oan it's a wunner oanyin in tha hoose's gits oany sleep.

Tha ither day tha plooterin' an bloicherin' wus sae fierce that A managed tae pu simthin in ma showlder an noo A hae tae houl maesel lik Ballyhalbert, aa tae tha yin side. An es if aa thon wusnae bad eneuch a hae cum doon wi a quare dose o’ tha cowl forbye. Ma heid's blocked, ma neb's rinnin' an ma thrapple is es reuch es a badgers erse.

Ay, a doot yin mere clean shirt 'ell dae mae. Bit the' say if ye dinnae laugh ye'll cry sae A’ll lee ye wi this oul yin.

Thur wus an oul cretter wha wunt tae tha doctor wi a wile pain in haes richt han.

"Ach doctor," sez he, "A hae a pooerfu sore han. A can herdly clase it."

The doctor asts him tae strip tae haes simmit an gaes him a quare gan iver. Efter haes bin pued an hoaked fae heid tae fit.

The doctor sez, "A hae a cream fer ye that shud sort yer han oot in nae time."

Relieved tha oul boy sez, "A’m gled tae hear it doctor, bit Am wunnerin’ wun tha pain gans, wu’ll a bae fit tae play tha piano?"

"Aff coorse," sez tha doctor. “It’ll bae nae boather tae ye”.

"Am quare an gled tae hear thon," sez tha oul cretter, "fer A cudnae play it befur."