THIS MORN

the pink-gowd o dawin

sklaikit athort the lift

starnies awa, meen gizzent;

aathing spleet-new.

The warld tremmles

riddy tae tak a breath

tae be fitiver we mak it.

Dinna be sweir, dinna be feart

…tae mak luve yer chyce the day.

There’s naething else for it.

Luve eenanither, luve eenanither.

By Sheila Templeton

 

THINKIN O THE SMA FOLK

(Mons Graupius, 83)

Eftir the fecht, whan the cohorts hid gane,

We aw cam doun fra the dreepin hill,

An he wha’d led us tae this bluidy day,

Whit wis his name, Cal-sumthin, said his bit,

“They mak a desert an they cry it peace,

But, pals, ahm thinkin, ken, they’ll no be back.”

(Athelstaneford, 832)

Aye, ah mind fine. Clair i the bricht blue lift,

Sanct Andro croce, pure white, a sign fra God

That this wad be oor day. An sae it pruived.

Oengus oor king said, “Losh, guys, see us Picts.

We are the people, wha kin bate us noo?

An yons oor flag, lets heeze it heich abune.”

(Bannockburn, 1314)

Up on Sanct Gillies Hill we spread oor camp.

“Stay oot the wey,” the Brus hissell hid said.

An sae we sat, watchin the knichtlie ding-dong,

Schiltroms an arras, syne the risin burn.

Till Jockie’s Jean said, “Ahm fur doun. Wha’s wi me?

Commounis o Scotlan, nae king gars us bide.”

(Edinburgh, 1843)

I sat there as an elder o my parish,

Braw new suit an hat. The big debate

Went on. Shuld meenisters be placed by lairds

Or chasen by their flock? It went a wheen

Abune my heid, but aw’s clear noo. We hae

Oor godly meenisters, a new Free Kirk.

(Govan, 1971)

Yon wis a meetn ana hauf, ah tellyi,

Musta bin hunners, oot fae the yard.

Wis this a lock-oot, whit aboot wir jobs?

Therrs Jimmy up front, talkin tae wis aa.

“A rat-race is fur rats, we’re human beings.”

Then he sez, “Thurll be nae bevvyin.” Aye, right.

By Alan MacGillivray