Tuesday, 8 June 2010


Lang-wundit Tam wus on tha phone,
He kep me on fur oors.
Ma dinnther it wus staney-coul,
A tell ye – oors an oors.
Tha phone bill it cud no be pied
By yin as poor as me,
Fur aa mae freens gan on an on,
Sich taakers dae the’ be.
If A had paper lang eneuch,
A’d tell ye in a wurd,
A micht as weel hae strangers caa,
Or buy a taakin burd,
Fur aa tha crack A gets frae them,
It’s blethers, stracht an true.
An Tam, O Tam, weel he’d be waur
Nor Despirt Dan M’Grew.
A’ll gie ye mair, if you hae time,
An tell ye o Tam’s wie.
Jist gie’s a blaa whan ma line’s free -
Alloo at least a day!

Oul bitther Bab – there’s nane sae soor,
He leeves jist tae complain.
He girns aboot his guid wife’s fowks,
An mair aboot his ain.
O aa tha yins A cannae thole,
It’s them that niver smiles,
Or whun the’ dae, there’s aye a lach
That’s mockin, deil-like whiles.
Whun tae yer face, Bab’s nice eneuch,
Sae A gie bak his smirk.
But whan ma bak is turn’t he’ll taak,
- tha sleekit, twa-faced nyerp!
“Guid moarnin, Bab. It’s guid tae see,”
“Yer kinelie face yinst mair.”
A wunner whut he’s efther noo?
A doot A’ll feel it sair.
A’m gled A’m no that bitther-soor,
Lake lemons or soor-dook.
A’m gled A’m no lake Bab ava.
Tha thocht o’t gars me puke.

Bab haes a skelf in his left ee,
An Tam yin in his richt.
A thocht A’d dae tha dacent thing,
An gie them betther sicht.

Tae redd tha skelfs oot, A did hoak,
An pu wi micht an main.
But skelfs or ocht A cudnae see,
Fur boords in baith mae ain.


Tha Flet-Earth Societie is still gaun strang
The meet a-Wensdays, gin A’m no wrang.
“Whit ir the’ at?” ye micht weel say,
“A thocht thon boys had had their day”.

Professors, Civil Sarvints tae,
Whuniver they thegither play,
The’ lach an rage at oor belief,
Tae ocht we say the’ stie stane-deef.

Tha mair we houl tha warl is roon,
An big eneuch aa tongues tae soon,
An let iz leeve in oor ain wie,
They cannae thole sich DIY.

Whut ither shape micht their warl be?
It maun be flet, it’s plain tae see.
Fur iv’ry thing haes jist twa sides,
An oor bit’s jist whaur blethers bides.

Tha Flet-Earth yins is colour-blin,
Aa’s blak or white, thair case daes rin.
An sae the caa’d a big debate,
An booked a haw, shud it rin late.

Tha motion brocht afore tha hoose:
Whit bes a rebbit? – Cat or Moose?
But deil a haet o that wus lairnt,
An sae tae bigger beece they turn’t.

The’ thocht that if debatin kye,
Tha Ulstèr-Scotch wud rise an try
An argy if a coo wus broon,
Sae maun their ain wee warl be roon.

But no sae daft tae faa fur that,
Tha Ullans crew jist set thair hat,
An haein mine o their wee game,
Sez, “Fresian kye – whit colour’s them?”

An sae tha Flettie Men gaen bak,
An thocht, “ We’ll hae tae say the’r blak”,
“An whan tha ithers say, ‘The’r white’,
“We’ll up an at them on the night”.

Tha truth, o coorse, it’s plain tae see,
Baith blak an white aa Fresians be.
But tell that tae tha Flet-Earth boys?
Get set fur war, an fear nae noise!

Tha Bus Trip

Oor Doyt aye rins a Myst’rie Trip,
Tae Carrick, iverie yeir.
The only myst’rie o it is,
Hoo cum it’s aye sae dear!


If A cud sell a biggin plot,
Or wun tha fitba pools.
A’d pit it by wae guid intent,
No spen it lake Tam-fools.

Ye’r no supposed tae big up prugh,
It’s whut tha guid buik says.
A’d gie a wee bit tae tha kirk -
Tha mair, whut wunner daes?

A nice new hoose, a motthor-car,
There’s naethin wrang wi that,
It’s no maesel A’d dae it fur -
Tha femlie’s whaur it’s at.

Fur charity begins at hame,
An A hae wife an wean.
A’ll tak iz aa on holiday,
The cannae gan their lane.

A’d no be apt tae gemmle it,
Or dicht a boadie’s ee:
If A jist selt a biggin site,
Or wun tha lotterie.


Ye cudnae credit it ava!
Ma nummer haes cum up.
A’m feert tha nighbers micht fin oot –
A darnae loass mae grup.


A taen maesel aff tae tha sin,
Wi twa-three mates o mine.
Tha wife she’d rether stap at hame.
Tha wean? Ach, he’ll be fine.

A wud hae gien some tae tha kirk,
But whit d’ye think the’r at?
Anither fool new car-pairk scheme -
A’m damn’t A’ll pie fur that.

Whun A cum hame frae holiday,
Frae sin an simmer wine,
Tha wife had fun a bran new hoose,
But left me houlin mine.

Fur she had no jist fun a hoose,
Anither man forbye.
She sez tha catter’s changeit me.
A cannae think for-why.

An upset hoose’s a pooerfu coast,
A’ll niver hae eneuch.
A’ll hae tae dae a wheen mair dales,
An gaither some mair prugh.

Dandelions an tha Ulstèr-Scotch

Ye’r no a beauty – A maun alloo
But an honest face ye sure hae grew
An sae ye’ll hae a sang
A like thon braw, big yella heid
Tha mair ye’r but an ugly weed
Less fowks caa ye wrang.

In Scotch we caa ye ‘Pish-tha-bed’
A doot o ye e’en waur gets said
Nae matter flooer or weed
The same oor tongue is aye miscaa’d
Dialeck, slang an lenguage fraud
Makin burns on ilka leid.

But, weed or no, yin thing A ken
Thar’s muckle ye can lairn iz men
Less A be gye mista’en
Ye dinnae greet owre sair rebuffs
Ye tak’ a thoosan sneds an cuffs
An growe up fresh agane.

Ye like, nae doot, tha best o grun
Quhaur valued flooers is maistlie fun
But quhan it can’t be had
Ye mak tha best o quhit ye hae
An growe in roaks or saun or clay –
Thar’s naethin ye coont bad.

An quhiles tae thaim as wud ye kill
Ye thole it wi unseen ill-will
It’s milk ats in yer veins
Revenge ye niver tak fur wrang
Nae thristle-point nor pussion-stang
Thon form o yours contains.

Ye keep maist reg’ler oors, the’ say
An dinnae turn tha nicht til day
Wi warkin efter dairk
Ye shuts yer een as sin gans doon
An apens quhan ye hear tha soon
O early risin lark.

O dear, auld, ugly, yella bloom
A shudnae grudge ye elbaw room
Fur life fur you is ruch
An quhan ye’r auld yer heid is grey
Jist like oor ain maun be yin day
Gin we leeve lang eneuch.



Tha mannysther o Furst Drumneuk
Wus murdher at tha preachin.
He fun his sermons in a buik,
An read thaim oot at Meetin.

Tha man that writ them wus lang deid,
Wae wurds that lang he choakit.
The wudnae fit in oor man’s heid,
But richtlie in his poakit.


A wrocht that haird on Settherday,
A cud hae slep tae Monday.
Tha mair the caa it “Day o Rest”,
It’s Meetin Hoose on Sunday.

A joyed whun tae tha Hoose o God,
Gan up, they sayed tae me.
Fur oor man’s doon wae thrapple bad,
Nae sermon noo there’ll be.


Platypus wus fun wi wab-like fit
Doon-Unner, far Oot-Bak.
Tha blaa-ins tuk it fur a deuk.
Tha mair it cudnae quack.

Professors yin an aa cum roon,
Tae hae anither keek.
An papers lang an soor wus writ,
Aboot it's deukie beak.

"A fake, A doot", tha maist wud say,
Until it gien a grunt,
An skailed thaim aa tae fin thair guns,
An shot tha puir wee runt.

Sae keep in mine tha Platypus
Whan oor leid’s caa’d a fake.
Fur shud ye dar tae contradict,
The’ll dig ye up tha bake.