Bery yer ain deid,
For, oot o yer ghaist-fite mindin,
Ye trail up, yersel,
Lik some spookit gype.
There’s as muckle Latin till’t,
It’s lik a dour mass,
Or a wheen o Greek
Fa’s scartet letters dinna gree,
Or quotit German:
A thoosan leids noddin
Ayont the darkent foons o Inglis.
Ah, bit yer pal Ezra says:
Nae ees Tommy, ower lang,
An pits reed lines throw it aa.
Cut ‘at oot, aa o’t. Pit 'is last, 'is first
Shift anither line here,
Ficher wi’t Tommy, ficher wi’t.
Aye, but syne he threeded some good lines,
Tommy Stearns, at that,
Left a legacy for them as came efter.
Thon Banks, handsome and tall, deid noo,
Biggit mair warlds on fit wis said
Than Tom's ignominious endin for this ane.
Bit, as for you men and weemen,
Boss an stappet wi strae,
‘At canna see ae leid for anither,
‘At winna hear the soon o the cant,
The lilt o the puirt à beul or the common tongue,
Sic black affront is the wye your warl en’s tee:
Nae clatter, jist gurrless girnin.
© BH, 2016
There were recent postins on FB (Scots Language Forum) and Twitter aboot ’Scots’. Disparagin. Nae a language. Some went as far as t compare Scots poetry unfavourable wi the best in Inglis. T S Eliot got a mention. Noo, I admire a lot o his wark but it is whit it is. Files gey dense.
So a took in upon masel t respond. This poem, in ither words.
By the way, Banks is Iain (M) Banks, fa took quotes fae The Waste Land for his novels Consider Phlebas and Look to Windward. I made mair references o ma ain an, tae get the warld's end in, rummlet aboot in The Hollow Men.
The picter is a wee go at translation o The Waste Land's first puckle lines (see ablow). I ken yer nae supposed tae translate but I couldna resist. The attribution, weel, I bide nae far fae Streens.
Apryle’s the month maist cruel, cleckin
Laylocks oot o deid grun, kirnin
Myndin and wantin, steerin
Dour reets wi the smirrs o spring.
Winter warm’t wis, happin
Park an grun wi thochtless sna, feedin
Sic sma livin wi tattie howkins.
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