Sunday, November 6, 2016

A Scottish Poetry

Come Sailin' - J.K. Annand

Come intil my boat
I'll tak ye for a sail,
We'll mabbe catch a cod
A mackerel or a whale,
We'll mebbe catch a mermaid
And we will be enthralled
But I think it far mair likely
We'll only catch the cauld.

The Bonny Butcher - Sir Walter Scott

It is the bonny butcher lad
That wears the sleeves of blue,
He sells the flesh on Saturday,
On Friday that he slew.

The Witches - Iain Crichton Smith

In crooked cottages the witches dwell.
They get their water from the crooked well
and crooked smoke from crooked chimneys rise
and if you look you'll see they have crooked eyes.

In crooked woods by crooked paths they go
With crooked feet among the crooked snow
leaving their crooked shoadows on the ground
with crooked cat and crooked crooked hound.

On crooked paper they write crooked names.
At crooked birds they take their crooked aims.
And when it's midnight they lay crooked heads
on the crooked pillows of their crooked beds.

The Fairy Man - Sydney Goodsir Smith

The nicht is mirk
The hous is toom
O gowls the wund
Atour ma room

The hous is deid
Daith's sib tae sleep
The rain dings doun
The nicht is deep.

'Come ben, ma dear
Wi' the glentan ee,
Why shud I fear
Whit thou wald dae?'

He's up the stair
But maks nae soun
He's in ma room-
An' the wund dees doun!

He taks ma haun
An' fell's his grin
The souch o his breith's
Lik a rairan lynn.

O cauld's ma hert
O mauch's ma brou
His oorie
Upo' me nou.

'G' awa', g'awa'
Ma fairy man,
Ma hert is cauld
I wald ye'd gang!'

But neer he'll gang
He's aye yir ain
Whan nichts are lang
An thochts are lane.

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