Wurd o tha Week

Tha Wurd fer tha Week

Whammle

Meaning: upturn, fling over, over throw

Thon poor creeter haes whammled her

Wurd o tha Week

Tha wurd fer tha week:
Chullers  (occasionally - chulders)


Meaning - jowls
This poor creeter haes quare chullers

Ullans Number 12 - Solace

The good people at the Ulster-Scots Language Society were kind enough to publish two of the poems I wrote last year in the latest edition of Ullans Magazine. They were also generous enough to provide some much needed editorial advice, for which I am greatly indebted. Below I have included my poem Solace which appears on page 23 of Issue 12

                                           

Solace

Tae danner doon loast loanins

Whaur time hings thick as stoor;

An skellied een can aftimes glean

Aa that cam afore.

Tae lay agin a waarm stane waa

That croons a drumlins heid,

Betwixt tha plan o God an man

An free fae unco need.

Tae sklent tha breakers’ fickle pad,

As spate owertaks tha lan,

And ower thair bak tae learn tae tak

Solace frae tireless plan.

Tae turn yinst mair an mak fur hame

Whane’er tha day iz gan –

Oor peace new-made wi him ’at sayed

Be still, an know I am.

                                             

D. Gibson,  2011

Dinnae waak Danner

Hae ye mind whun ye cud o gaen fir a danner wi'oot a bricth yella jerkin or a wee flashin licht? Whun ye cud o lee’d tha hoose wi’oot twa oors preparation. Aye, ye hae tae wunner if thon creeters wae watter bottles, heid phones and step coonters wud no be better aff on yin o thon waakin machines.

I think folk hae forgot hoo tae danner. Ye dinnae need a locth o parafinelia. Tha maist ye shud tak iz a guid stick an maybe a coat or a ganzy, jist hae mind tae follae tha oul sayin an cast ne'er a cloot tae Mays oot, an ye’ll be aa richt.

Aye, a danners no a danner wi'oot a dascent waakin stick. Wather it's a blackthorn fir leanin on or a sally rod fir snickin tha heids o dandelions ye kenn’d yer gaen simwhar wae a stick in yer han.

Bit tha hairtsim thing aboot a guid danner is tha kintrieside: tha white snawdrops, tha yella whin blossoms, tha lopsided sycamore seeds burlin roon as they faa fae branches abain yer heid. It disnae seem licht oany yin taks tha time tae luk aroon thum nooadays. I doot Mr Davies hae'd it richt whun he said "A poor life this if, full of care, we have no time to stand and stare."

Whut use iz it tae ken hoo mony calories ye hae burnt. If ye saw naethin o worth.

If ye learnt naethin. If ye thoct aboot naethin bit yersel.

So tha nixt time yer oot on tha road, gaen oot o yer road, an appen yer een. Tak yer time, an dinnae waak, danner.

Tha Aul Crocks

Ivery year aroon Christmas I hae mine o ma faither hokin oot his oul tartan fitba bag. Its near foartie year sine a seen thon oul bag but I hae mind o it like it wus yisterday. It wus small compared tae thadays yins but it wus big enugh tae howl a tha kit ye needed. Thur wus an oul pair o shin guards, tha kind ye tucked intae yer socks, thur wus nae velcro in thon days. They wur aboot twa times as heavy as tha yins that weans wear thaday an ribbed wae whut lukked like wudden strips.

Thur wus also a pair o weel worn blak leather fitba boots, wae leather studs that ye hae’d tae hemmer in oer a lathe. Inside yin o tha boots thur wus a wee jar o dubbin wae a greasy rag wrapped roon it. Boots wurnae sae easy cumby an ye cudnae afford tae neglect them.

Last but no least lay a small thin clear glass bottle wae ribbed sides. It contained a dark brown liquid and had a picture o a gentleman wae a handlebar moustache on it. Noo I hae furgotten monies a thing but I can still remember the smell o Sloan’s Liniment. Yin whiff wud a clear’d yer heid fir a foartnicht

Yinst iverthin hae’d bin checked tha bag was pit in tae tha boot o tha car ready fir tha oul crocks fitba match. I’m sure it hae’d a mere formal title bit that’s whut we a caa’d it. Tha oul crocks match wus played ivery year aroon Christmas at tha Sand Field in Ballywalter an was appen tae players fae tha lower Ards iver thurtie-five. As weans wae wurnae much interested in wha won tha game, but wae fairly enjoyed pokin fun at a thon oul crocks, reekin o Sloan’s Liniment  an Winter Green, hirpplin up an doon tha pitch. Bit time maks fools o iz aa an noo its maesel whas hirpplen aroon. Maebae I shud hae a luk fir thon oul liniment bottle.

Until tha next time, lang mae yer lum reek an yer spicket dribble.
 (written for the press March 2012)

Stumpy's Brae

Tha burn tha tocht Stumpy cudnae cross

Whilst carrying out some research on ghost stories from the North West I came across the gruesome legend of Stumpy's Brae, occasionally called the Legend of Tom the Toiler.  

Stumpy's Brae is the steep brae between Craighadoes and Lifford near a bridge that is featured in the poem. It is interesting to note the use of the Ulster-Scots tongue throughout, as we tend to forget that this area was home to a sizable number of Scottish Planters

There is a wealth of information on the poem and it author Cecil Frances Alexander (who also wrote Once in Royal David's City. All Things Bright and Beautiful and There is a Green Hill Far Away) at :www.stjohnstonandcarrigans.com/stumpysbrae.html

Twarthy miles fae Lifford

By Cecil Frances Alexander (Londonderry, December 1844)

Heard ye no tell o' Stumpy's Brae?

Sit doon, sit doon, young freen',

I'll mak your flesh to creep this night 

and your hair to stan' on end.

Young man, it's hard to strive wi' sin
And the hardest strife o' a'
Is when the greed o' gain comes in
And drives God's grace awa'.

O, it's quick to do, but it's lang to rue
When the punishment comes at last
And we'd gi' the whole world to undo the deed
That deed that's gone and past.

Over yon strip of meadow land
And over the bintie bright
Dinna ye mark a fir-tree stand
Beside yon gable white.

I mind it well in my young days

The story it was rife,

There lived in a lonely cottage

A farmer and his wife.

They sat all alone in the bright fire light

Wan blessed Autumn night,

The hedge without, the stones within,

Were streaked wi' the bright moonlight.

The boys and girls had a' gone doon a wee

To the old blacksmith's wake,

There passed one by the winda' sma',

And he gied the door a shake.

The auld man got up and opened the door,

And after he'd spoken a bit,

A pedlar man stept into the floor and tumbled doon the pack he bore,

A right heavy pack was it.

"Guid bless us a" cried the auld man wi' a smile,

"But ye're in the thrivin' trade",

"Aye, I have travelled mony a mile

An' plenty I have made."

The two sat on in the bright fire light,

The pedler had gone to his rest.

The devil he came to the auld man’s ear,

And slip’t intil his breast.

He looked at his wife across the fire

She was as bad as he,

"Could we no murder this man the nacht?"

"Aye could we rightly," quo’ she.

He lifted his pick without a word,

It stood behind the door,

And as he pressed in the sleeper stirred,

But he never wakened more.

"He’s deid!" cried the auld man coming back,

"What’s to do wi’ the corpse, me dear?"

"Oh, bury him snug in his ane wee pack.

Never mind the loss o' the sack. I’ve taken out the gear."

"The corpse's too long by two guid span,

Oh!  What’ll we do?" quo’ he.

Says she - "Ye're a doting, unthinkin' oul man,

Just snick him off at the knee."

They shortened the corpse, and they packed him tight

Wi’ his legs in a pickle o’ hay,

Over the burn in the bright moonlight

They carried him up to the Brae.

They shovelled a hole right speedily

And they laid him on his back,

"A right guid pair are ye" quo’ the Pedlar,

Sitting boldly up in his pack.

"Ye thought ye’d lay me snugly here

Where none should know my station

But I’ll haunt ye far, and I’ll haunt ye near

Father and son, wi' terror and fear, till the nineteenth generation.

They sat all alone the very next night,

When the wee bit dog began to cower

And they knew by the pale blue fire-light,

That the Evil One had power.

It had just struck nine o’ the clock,

That hour when the man lay dead,

When there came to the outer door a knock,

And a heavy, heavy tread.

The auld wife’s heid swam roun' and roun',

The auld man's blood did  freeze,

‘Twas not like a natural sound, but like someone

stumping over the ground

On the banes o’ his raw bare knees.

And in through the door like a sough of air,

And he stumped and he stumped around the twa’

Wi’ his bloody heid, and his knee bones bare

As he died that night awa.

The wife’s black locks ere morn grew white,

They say, as mountain snows.

The man was as straight as a rush that night

But he crooked when the next morn he rose.

And every night as the clock struck nine,

The hour they did the sin,

The wee dog began to whine

An' the ghost came clatterin’ in.

And stump, stump, stump to his ploys again

Over the taps o' the stools and chairs,

Ye’d surely hae thought it was ten weemen and men

Dancin' all in pairs.

A’ night, there was a fearful flood,

Three days the skies had poured

And the tap wi' foam and the bottom wi' mud,

The burn in fury roared.  

Quo’ she, "Guid man ye needne turn sae pale

In the dim fire light

The stumpy cannae cross the burn

He’ll naw be here the nacht."  

"For it’s ower the bank, it's ower

It's ower the meadow rig."

"Aye", said the ghost comin' clattering in a gied the auld wife a bat on the chin,

"But I cam' roun by the brig".

They sold their gear and across the sea,

To a foreign land they went

But sure what can flee 

from his appointed punishment?

The ship swam over the ocean clear,

Wi’ the help o’ the Western breeze

But the very first sound they heard on the wide, smooth deck

Was the thumpin’ o’ them twa bare knees.

Out in the wild woods of Americay

Where their weary feet they set,

But Stumpy was there first they say, and haunted them to

Their dying day, And he haunts their children yet.

Now that's the story o’ Stumpy’s Brae

And the murderer’s fearful fate.

Young friend, your face is turned that way,

This night you'll gang that gate.

Ye’ll ken it well, through the few fir trees

The house where they were wont to dwell

If ye meet any there as daylight flees,

Stumping about on the banes o’ his knees,

It’ll just be Stumpy himsel’.

THE HAUNTED GLEN

An extract from (THE GHOST-STORY-TELLERS:

THE ELDER'S EXPERIENCE: THE HAUNTED GLEN.)

contained in the BALLADS OF DOWN by GEORGE

FRANCIS SAVAGE-ARMSTRONG.

THE ELDER'S EXPERIENCE: THE HAUNTED GLEN.

The Goodwife of the house had risen up

And cleared the liberal board of plate and cup,

And Maxwell to his press had turned about, .

To bring his best of gin and whiskey out.

When someone came a-knocking at the door,

And in, amid the night-wind's ocean-roar.

The Elder, Gordon, staggered, scared and cold,

And all at once his late experience told : —

I.

“ Thon Ha'nted Glen sae murk wi' trees,

Wi' win's an' waters plainin',

It male's the bluid wi' terror freeze

Its paths tae walk alane in ;

Whun evenin's glooms aroon it fa'

An' dismal night grows thicker,

Ugh, then the wailin' voices ca'.

An' then the derk shapes flicker.

2.

" It 's no that A believe the Deed

Can ha'nt an' scaur the leevin';

Tae Mon the Blessed Buik haes said

Tae dee but yince is given.

An', haevin' deed, anither Ian'

Becomes the sperrit's centre ;

It 's bad' this Airth far'weel, an' can

Nae mair this Airth reenter.

3.

" It 's nae the Deed A fear, fur they

Can wark nae herm tae mortal ;

But dear ! sich shapes an' soon's uv wae

The staniest heart wud startle !

They 're moanin' there, they 're jibberin' here,

Ahint, afore, they 're flittin'.

They 're getherin' far, they 're crowdin' near,

Or cloak'd an' dumb they 're sittin';

4.

" An' a' sae sudden ower my sight

The spectral forms come gl'amin',

A shiver ower wi' tinglin' fright.

My een wi' draps ir str'amin'.

It 's no that A believe the Deed,

Ye ken, can ha'nt the leevin';

But thon Glen's paths alane A '11 tread

Nae mair by night or even.

5.

" A jist wuz walkin' frae the Kirk,

An' tuk the beechwud loanin' . .

An' my ! the night is wild an' murk.

An' hoo the wuds ir groanin'! . .

A miss'd the turn, an', ugh, A stray'd

Adoon the way A dreadit,

An' as it wound through deeper shade

A scarce had stren'th tae tread it.

6.

"Ootstertit jist afore my fit

A rat, or weasel, slidin';

An' roon' aboot me seem'd tae flit

A grey owl frae his hidin';

An' then the Shapes begood tae talc'

Their sates on bank an' hollow ; —

An', ugh, A heerd ahint my back

A dismal futstep follow !

7.

" A turn'd aroon', an' there A seed —

Great Gude ! — a ghaistly figure

Wi' bluid-stain'd neck and mangled heed !

A summon'd a' my vigour,

A strud alang, an' nae luik'd roon',

But onward strain'd a-trem'lin',

And aye A heerd the futstep's soon'

Through a' the tempest's rem'lin'.

8.

" A gasp'd fur braith, my heart stud still,

My stren'th tae water meltit,

My fit, thrust doon tae climb the hill,

Scarce reach'd the road or felt it.

At last I spied the cheerfu' glame

Here shinin' frae yer wundee,

An', Gude be praised, ye 're a' at hame.

An' gie an' kin' A 've faund ye !

"It's no that A believe the Deed—

Ye min' — can ha'nt the Leevin';

But thon Glen's paths alane A '11 tread

Nae mair by night or even."

" Dear ! " said the Goodwife, " Mister Gurdon, Sir,

Thon wuz a fearfu' veesion ! . . Wully, stir

The greesugh. . . Sit ye. Mister Gurdon, doon,

An' Wully '11 mak' ye up a jorum soon,

An' thon 'ull scaur the spectres frae yer ee,

An' werm yer buzzom. Tak' thon erm-chair, see ! "

And Maxwell in his hand a tumbler set

And bade the Elder, cold and dazed and wet,

Sit in beside the hearth, and dry his feet
Before the glowing pile of logs and peat...