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tree_and_leafHmph. Morning has thus far failed at being productive; having discovered I needed to get a friend a birthday present, er, about three days ago, and equally needing hay fever tablets, I sallied into the centre of town, only to discover that Boots wasn't open until 11; which necessitated a protracted hang about in Borders, which, well, I think the phrase is technically 'resulted in', rather than necessitated, spending more money on more books than planned. Ran into Incumbant, and exchanged gulilty glances over stacks of books; he said "You see, this is what happens when you come to a place like this, you have to spend all your time putting down books you've picked up," and I said, "It's putting them down that's the trick," - though I did manage not to splurge on Jim Butcher, so it could have been worse.
On the other hand, I did buy one of UA Fanthorpe's collections, and a nice little book of 100 Favourite Scottish Poems (not kailyaird, honest!) which, though sadly lacking in Buchan, has a good selection of obscure but good stuff, including some which was new to me:
Mary’s Song
I wad ha’e gi’en him my lips tae kiss,
Had I been his, had I been his;
Barley breid and elder wine,
Had I been his as he is mine.
The wanderin’ bee it seeks the rose;
Tae the lochan’s bosom the burnie goes;
The grey bird cries at evenin’s fa’,
‘My luve, my fair one, come awa’.’
My beloved sall ha’e this he’rt tae break,
Reid, reid wine and the barley cake;
A he’rt tae break, an’ a mou’ tae kiss,
Tho’ he be nae mine, as I am his.
Marion, Angus (1866-1946)
RELIJUS SUBTEXT IZ BAIRLY SUBTEXTUAL
And, from the Exile's corner:
To S. R. Crockett (On receiving a Dedication)
Blows the wind to-day, and the sun and the rain are flying,
Blows the wind on the moors to-day and now,
Where about the graves of the martyrs the whaups are crying,
My heart remembers how!
Grey recumbent tombs of the dead in desert places,
Standing stones on the vacant wine-red moor,
Hills of sheep, and the howes of the silent vanished races,
And winds, austere and pure:
Be it granted me to behold you again in dying,
Hills of home! and to hear again the call;
Hear about the graves of the martyrs the peewees crying,
And hear no more at all.
Robert Louis Stevenson (1850-1894)
And, even more so:
The Wild Geese
Tell me what was on yer road, ye roarin' norlan' wind
As ye cam' blawin' frae the north that's niver frae my mind
My feet, they've travelled England, but I'm deein' for the north
"My man, I saw the siller tides rin up the Firth o'Forth"
Aye wind, I ken them weel enuich and the fine they fa' an' rise
Fain I'd feel the creepin' mist on yonder shore that lies
So tell me, 'ere ye passed them by what saw ye on yer way
"My man, I rocked the rovin' gulls that sailed abune the Tay"
But saw ye naething, leein' wind, afore ye cam' tae Fife?
There's muckle lyin' 'yont the Tay that's mair to me nor life
"My man, I swept the Angus braes ye ha'ena trod for years"
Oh wind, forgie a hameless loon that canna see for tears
"Far abune the Angus straths I heard the wild geese flee,
A lang, lang skein o' beatin' wings wi' their heids towards the sea
And aye their roarin' voices trailed ahint them on the air"
Oh wind, hae mercy, haud yer whist, for I daurna listen mair
Violet Jacob (1863-1946)
(At which point tree_and_leaf nearly started howling, even though she's not an Angus quinie; fortunately any sniffling could be passed off as allergic rhinitis, though I did catch myself briefly regretting having so thoroughly caught Anglo-Catholicism as to prevent me doing a B.D. at St Mary's St Andrews or New College Edinburgh, like a sensible person.....)
However, let us not be sentimental, even about Scotland: so here is an excellent poem of political advice to our lords and masters at Holyrood (or anywhere else):
A Manifesto for MSPs
Dinna be glaikit, dinna be ower smert,
dinna craw croose, dinna be unco blate,
dinna breenge in, dinna be ayewis late,
dinna steek yer lugs, dinna steek yer hert.
Dinna be sleekit, dinna be a sook,
dinna creesh nae loof for future favour,
dinna swick nor swither, hash nor haiver,
dinna be soor o face, and dinna jouk.
Open yer airms and minds tae folk in need,
hain frae fylin and skaith the land and sea,
tak tent o justice and the commonweal,
ding doon hypocrisy, wanthrift and greed,
heeze up the banner o humanity,
seek oot the truth and tae the truth be leal.
James Robertson, * 1958
And finally, as a warning to all academics inclined to take themselves too seriously (which is about 99%, and I count myself in the majority), a jolly exercise in quasi-Middle Scots.
Did ye see me?
I'll yell you of a great occasioun:
I tuke pairt in a graund receptioun.
Ye canna hae the least perceptioun
how pleased I was to get the invitatioun
tae assist at ane dedicatioun.
And richtlie sae; frae its inceptioun
the hale ploy was my ain conceptioun:
I was asked to gie a dissertatioun.
The function was held in the aipen air,
a peety, that; the keelies of the toun,
a touzie lot, gat word of the affair.
We couldnae stop it: they jist gaithert roun
to mak sarcastic cracks and grin and stare.
I wisht I hadnae worn my MA goun.
Robert Garioch (1909-1981)
On the other hand, I did buy one of UA Fanthorpe's collections, and a nice little book of 100 Favourite Scottish Poems (not kailyaird, honest!) which, though sadly lacking in Buchan, has a good selection of obscure but good stuff, including some which was new to me:
Mary’s Song
I wad ha’e gi’en him my lips tae kiss,
Had I been his, had I been his;
Barley breid and elder wine,
Had I been his as he is mine.
The wanderin’ bee it seeks the rose;
Tae the lochan’s bosom the burnie goes;
The grey bird cries at evenin’s fa’,
‘My luve, my fair one, come awa’.’
My beloved sall ha’e this he’rt tae break,
Reid, reid wine and the barley cake;
A he’rt tae break, an’ a mou’ tae kiss,
Tho’ he be nae mine, as I am his.
Marion, Angus (1866-1946)
RELIJUS SUBTEXT IZ BAIRLY SUBTEXTUAL
And, from the Exile's corner:
To S. R. Crockett (On receiving a Dedication)
Blows the wind to-day, and the sun and the rain are flying,
Blows the wind on the moors to-day and now,
Where about the graves of the martyrs the whaups are crying,
My heart remembers how!
Grey recumbent tombs of the dead in desert places,
Standing stones on the vacant wine-red moor,
Hills of sheep, and the howes of the silent vanished races,
And winds, austere and pure:
Be it granted me to behold you again in dying,
Hills of home! and to hear again the call;
Hear about the graves of the martyrs the peewees crying,
And hear no more at all.
Robert Louis Stevenson (1850-1894)
And, even more so:
The Wild Geese
Tell me what was on yer road, ye roarin' norlan' wind
As ye cam' blawin' frae the north that's niver frae my mind
My feet, they've travelled England, but I'm deein' for the north
"My man, I saw the siller tides rin up the Firth o'Forth"
Aye wind, I ken them weel enuich and the fine they fa' an' rise
Fain I'd feel the creepin' mist on yonder shore that lies
So tell me, 'ere ye passed them by what saw ye on yer way
"My man, I rocked the rovin' gulls that sailed abune the Tay"
But saw ye naething, leein' wind, afore ye cam' tae Fife?
There's muckle lyin' 'yont the Tay that's mair to me nor life
"My man, I swept the Angus braes ye ha'ena trod for years"
Oh wind, forgie a hameless loon that canna see for tears
"Far abune the Angus straths I heard the wild geese flee,
A lang, lang skein o' beatin' wings wi' their heids towards the sea
And aye their roarin' voices trailed ahint them on the air"
Oh wind, hae mercy, haud yer whist, for I daurna listen mair
Violet Jacob (1863-1946)
(At which point tree_and_leaf nearly started howling, even though she's not an Angus quinie; fortunately any sniffling could be passed off as allergic rhinitis, though I did catch myself briefly regretting having so thoroughly caught Anglo-Catholicism as to prevent me doing a B.D. at St Mary's St Andrews or New College Edinburgh, like a sensible person.....)
However, let us not be sentimental, even about Scotland: so here is an excellent poem of political advice to our lords and masters at Holyrood (or anywhere else):
A Manifesto for MSPs
Dinna be glaikit, dinna be ower smert,
dinna craw croose, dinna be unco blate,
dinna breenge in, dinna be ayewis late,
dinna steek yer lugs, dinna steek yer hert.
Dinna be sleekit, dinna be a sook,
dinna creesh nae loof for future favour,
dinna swick nor swither, hash nor haiver,
dinna be soor o face, and dinna jouk.
Open yer airms and minds tae folk in need,
hain frae fylin and skaith the land and sea,
tak tent o justice and the commonweal,
ding doon hypocrisy, wanthrift and greed,
heeze up the banner o humanity,
seek oot the truth and tae the truth be leal.
James Robertson, * 1958
And finally, as a warning to all academics inclined to take themselves too seriously (which is about 99%, and I count myself in the majority), a jolly exercise in quasi-Middle Scots.
Did ye see me?
I'll yell you of a great occasioun:
I tuke pairt in a graund receptioun.
Ye canna hae the least perceptioun
how pleased I was to get the invitatioun
tae assist at ane dedicatioun.
And richtlie sae; frae its inceptioun
the hale ploy was my ain conceptioun:
I was asked to gie a dissertatioun.
The function was held in the aipen air,
a peety, that; the keelies of the toun,
a touzie lot, gat word of the affair.
We couldnae stop it: they jist gaithert roun
to mak sarcastic cracks and grin and stare.
I wisht I hadnae worn my MA goun.
Robert Garioch (1909-1981)