Poetry

My favourite poem is the Hill o’ Bennygoak by Garry. I will list it for ye.

BENNYGOAK       The hill of the Cuckoo    by   Flora Garry

It wis jist a skelp o the muckle furth,
A sklyter o roch grun,
Fin granfadder’s fadder broke it in
Fae the hedder an the funn.
Granfadder sklatit barn an byre,
Brocht water tae the closs,
Pat fail-dykes ben the bare brae face
An a cairt road tae the moss.

Bit wir fadder sottert i the yard
An skeppit amo’ bees
An keepit fancy dyeuks and doos
‘At werna muckle eese.
He bocht aul’ wissent horse an kye
An skrimpit muck an seed;
Syne, clocherin wi a craichly hoast,
He dwine’t awa, an deed.

Midder’s growein aul’ an deen,
Dwle’t an sma-bookit tee.
But stull, she’s maister o her wark,
My wark, it maisters me.
Och, I’m tire’t o plyterin oot an in
Amo’ hens an swine an kye,
Kirnin amo’ brookie pots
An yirnin croods an fye.

I look far ower by Ythanside
To Fyvie’s laich, lythe lan’s,
To Auchterless an Bennachie
An the mist- blue Grampians.
Sair’t o the hull o Bennygoak
An scunnert o the ferm,
Gin I bit daar’t, gin I bit daar’t
I’d flit the comin’ term.

It’s ull to thole on the first Spring day
Fin the black earth lies in clods,
An the teuchat’s wallochin to the ploo
An the snaw-bree rins on the roads,
O, it’s ull tae thole i the stull hairst gloam
Fin the lift’s a bleeze o fire;
I stan an glower, the pail i ma han’,
On ma road oot tull the byre.

Bit it’s warst ava aboot Wutsunday
Fin the nichts are quaet an clear,
An the floo’erin curran’s by i the yard
An the green corn’s i the breer;
An the bird ‘at gid this hull its name,
Yon bird ye nivver see,
Sits doon i the wid by the water-side
An laachs, laich-in, at me.

“Flit, flit, ye feel,” says the unco bird,
“There’s finer, couthier folk
An kin’lier country hine awa
Fae the hull o Bennygoak.”
Bit ma midder’s growein aul’ an deen
An likes her ain fireside.
‘Twid brak her hert to leave the hull:
It’s brakkin mine to bide.

YER FREENS.              Gordon    C 1998

Maist folk wil' spik aboot ye,
Bit few wil' makk it plain;
Tae yer face, yer a real guede cheil
Tae yer back something ither again.

For gossips like a guede story
covered in gloss an' desire.
Niver min' the truth, 'at gets in the wye,
Gee us gossop, anger and mire.

For the gossips aye nurture ambition
tae embellish the best an' be tap o' the Toon.
Tae broadcast the latest rendition
of their news, imagined, conived or hafroon.

For if folk wid jist ponder a moment,
Be wished, an' lis'en tae yersel.
Dinna garble on like an' aul' mill lade
In a hurry bit naethin' tae tell.

Dinna carry that baggage o' caustic
Aboot folk that might hae deen wrang;
Tae yersel, yer dog or yer donkey,
Far better tae sing an aul' sang.

For the sang it will lighten yer tear
O' fit ye think might hiv been wrang;
'Cos fin yer nae here, yive naethin' tae fear,
Yer dog an' yer donkey will jist stotter alang.

Fae the Desk o' an Aull Loon

©1998 gordon

The Front Room in winter

We sit on a cheer wi Winter ootside.
We are half up the lum, bit frozen beside
lookin at the clubby book wi the aull tillie lump
we ponder the order Mither might dee,
A clickie rug, a dress for Mike,
a bird book for Dad an naithing for me.

Am still at the squeel, every lang day it seems,
Morrison the Dominee made an impression that lasts.
He smokes een after the ither, lichts next fae the last,
His hair is ah white, wi smokey side blasts.

Is year Kirsty Gordon will teach me real weel,
I'm considering gaan on wi the squeel.
As a danger, the problem, an maybe the end
O' my loon aboot toon; I hiv tae get real.

The morn I will think fit I will be,
bit the day Kirsty's ruler has chastened me.
My knuckles are sair, my ego is flat.
Bit roon the Bog road I will blossom wi that.

Miss Pallett decided tae teach us some French.
She bounces aroon wi nae bra tae be seen,
an the lads are agyte wi things that bounce by
The French is nae problem wi boosoms on high.

Land of Hope and Glory

For the Test at Lords July 2009 Australia v The poms

Land of cheats and umpires
Who cannot see the ball.
The English eleven are masters
Scamming inside the rules
We see them in their Glory
They are such a bunch of fools

Andrew Strauss he fingers the daisies
to get around the ball
but we can see on replay
it was no catch at all
Rudi Koertzen and Doctrove they scheme
lets give Phillip Hughes a bad call

Lets waste time by the trainer
send out some gloves or coke
send out the physio for a time
to give the batsmen a poke
don't worry that it's not cricket
we will treat it as a joke.

Now we'll get Mike Hussey
He didn't touch the ball
No matter, we'll roar loudly
to set another doubt.
Old Koertzen cannot see much
He is sure to give Mike out.

Do away with no balls
Step over the line with ease
Don't worry about the umpires
They are wafting in the breeze
The ECB have got them
right up to ......

Grahame Swann

2009 we will win for sure
we'll cheat and conive
and smile so demure.

My English Lass.      c/w 2010

To an English rose as fair as the morn
Though as a rose she has no thorn
She has humour, wit and gayitee
and readily produces a fine cup o tea.

In the mist of yonder ken,
the rose will bloom again and again
pervading the air with headdy parfum 
Of red door or the heather in bloom.

Trustworthy to a fault this english lass
would never disclose a secret or trust,
has the best afore her and the worst behind
and a stable kindly forgiving mind.

So life will spin its acts and scenes
like fun and games on english greens.
She will prosper in wealth and mind
and continue a life of the loving kind.

How gran' it wid be
if we spoke the same words.
Nae problems wi' kennen the ither,
Oor life wid be a bleather.

FROM A Secret admirer x x x