Scotstober: Words of the Day 21, 22, 23, 24 and 25

I hope you've no tired of my Scotstober catch-up. Too bad if you are, I'm loving discovering all these new words, poets and poems. Definitions of the Words of the Day and more examples can be found in the Dictionary of the Scots Leid.

Annoyingly I've gotten myself out of order on Twitter, so I will be keeping these posts in order. 

Word of the Day 21: 'weird' meaning fate or to do with destiny. It can also be used as verb, to be assigned a destiny or to be fated. 

I've chosen an extract from Sydney Goodsir Smith epic elegy Under the Eildon Tree. Published in 1948 the collection of 24 elegies about the myth of Orpheus and Eurydice is out of print now, but even this short extract shows how Smith strived to give Scots a chance to shine again like the earlier translations of classic works. 

I know Smith mostly through his artwork as I worked on a book based around his drawings in the late 1990s, but his own work and his editing of collections of Scots writing was influential during the Scots Renaissance. It's inspirational to non-native learners such as myself that he only came to Scotland and started learning Scots as a teen.

XII. Orpheus

i

Wi sang aa birds and beasts could I owrecome,
Aa men and wemen o’ the mapamound subdue;
The flouers o’ the fields,
Rocks and trees, boued doun to hear my leid;
Gurlie waters rase upon the land to mak
A throwgang for my feet.
I was the potent prince o’ ballatrie,
My lyre opened portes whareer I thocht to gang,
My fleean sangs mair ramsh nor wine
At Beltane, Yule or Hogmanay
Made wud the clans o’ men –
There wasna my maik upon the yerth
(Why should I no admit the fack?)
A hero, demi-god, my kingrik was the hert,
The passions and the saul –
Sic was my pouer.
– Anerlie my ain sel I couldna bend.
“He was his ain worst enemie,”
As the auld untentit bodachs say –
My hert, a leopard, ruthless, breme,
Gilravaged far and near
Seekan sensatiouns, passions that wad wauken
My Muse whan she was lollish.
No seenil the hert was kinnelt like a forest-bleeze …
I was nae maister o’ my ain but thirlit
Serf til his ramskeerie wants
– And yet I hained but ane in the hert’s deepest hert.

She, maist leefou, leesome leddy
– Ochone, ochone, Euridicie –
Was aye the queen of Orpheus’ hert, as I kent weill,
And wantan her my life was feckless drinkin,
Weirdless, thieveless dancin,
Singin, gangrellin.
– And nou she’s gane.

Day 22: 'aye'. Of course, it means yes, but aye or ay can also mean always or still. Here's a poem by Liz Lochhead with a poem called 'Fetch on the First of January'. Liz Lochhead was Scotland's second Makar. I love and am so proud that of Scotland's four Makars we've had three woman, one person of colour and two LGB. Starting off right.

Fetch on the First of January

Nae time eftir the Bells, an the
New Year new in wi the
usual crowd, wi whisky, cheers and kisses –
Ah’d aboot manage the windaes shut
some clown had thrown wide
hopin tae hear the hooters on the Clyde
when the door went
                               Well, well,
who’d’ve thought Ah’d be staunin there
tae first foot masel?
This some kinnuf Huntigowk for Hogmanay?
Hell-mend-ye, ye’re
a bad penny, Jimmy -
Mr. Ne’erdy Ne’re-do-Weel
sae chitterin ill-clad for the caul
sae drawn and pale
oh, wi the black bun burnin a hole
in yir pocket and the coal
a Live Coal.

‘Gawn git’ – Ah should shout it,
should shake a stick or ma fist,
oh, but Ah should fight ye by Christ,
the wey ye chased that big black tyke
that dogged ye once, mind?
aw the wey fae Hope Street hame.

Ah’ll no let ye near me
don’t make me laugh,
got a much better,
Better Half.
Och, aye tae glower at each other
was tae keek in a gey distortin mirror,
yet ye’ve the neck tae come back again
wi yir bare face, Jack Fetch,
the image o my ain.

Ice roon yir mouth when ye kiss me
the caul plumes o yir breath
Ah’m lukin daggers
Yer lukin like Death.
Ah’m damned if ye’ll get past ma door,
nae fear.

Come away in, stranger, Happy New Year.

Scotstober Word of the Day 23: 'skelp' meaning to hit or slap someone or the slap itself. I'm well familiar with the word, but my poet of the day Gregor Steele is a new-to-me.

Gregor Steele

Mrs Nae Offence

We cry her Mrs Nae Offence –

That’s whit she likes tae say,

Afore sayin somethin awfie,

Then heidin on her way.

“Nae offence, but see yon skirt ye bocht,

It maks ye look gey fat.”

“Nae offence, ye’re like a standard lamp

When ye wear yir new blue hat.”

“Nae offence, but see yir perfume,”

She whitters like a doo,

“It minds me o thae yellae cubes

Ye get in a laddies’ loo.”

“Nae offence, but see yir hairdo,

Ye must hae been a mug

Tae fork oot twenty quid for that –

Ye look like a Pekingese dug.”

It fell upon ma granny

Tae pit her in her place.

Gran skelped her wi a brolly, sayin, “

Nae offence, but shut yir face.”

Word of the Day 24: 'bogle' - a ghost or a scarecrow as in 'tattie-bogle'. W D Cocker uses it in his poem 'The Bogle' who was a contemporary of Hugh MacDiarmid and involved in the debate of plastic (Lallans) vs natural Scots.

The Bogle

There’s a bogle by the bour-tree at the lang loan heid,

I canna thole the thocht o’ him, he fills ma he’rt wi’ dreid;

He skirls like a hoolet, an’ he rattles a’ his banes,

An’ gi’es himsel’ an unco fash to fricht wee weans.

He’s never there by daylicht, but ance the gloamin’ fa’s,

He creeps alang the heid-rig, an’ through the tattie-shaws,

Syne splairges through the burn, an’ comes sprachlin’ ower the stanes,

Then coories doun ahint the dyke to fricht wee weans.

I canna say I’ve seen him, an’ it’s no’ that I am blin’,

But, whene’er I pass the bour-tree, I steek ma een an’ rin;

An’ though I get a tum’le whiles I’d raither thole sic pains,

Than look upon the likes o’ yon that frichts wee weans.

I daurna gang that gait ma lane by munelicht or by mirk,

Oor Tam’s no feart, but then he’s big, an’ strang as ony stirk;

He says the bogle’s juist the win’ that through the bour-tree maens.

The muckle gowk! It’s no the win’ that frichts wee weans.

Word of the Day 25: 'glisk' which means a glance, a peek or a glimmer or gleam.  Here's a beautiful poem 'Solway Tide' by Dorothy Margaret Paulin.

Solway Tide

An unco sough i’ the gloamin’

An’ a flaff o’ risin’ win’,

A glisk o’ stoundin’ waters

By the weirdly licht o’ the mune,

An’ the fell dark tide o’ Solway

Comes breengin’, whummlin’ in.

Whaur glistenin’ sands lay streikit

Ablow the sunset sky

Noo a wan wide sea is reestin’

An’ the yammerin’ sea-birds cry,

An’ a wheengin’ win’ rings eerily

I’ the salmon nets oot-by.