Tay

I was just reading Darren G's thoughts on a subject close to the heart of most of us Ulster-Scots - Tay - and I thought I'd post a wee rhyme of my own.

TAY

A cudnae dae wioot ma tay,
Tae stairt me aff maist ivery day,
“A wee drap in yer haun”, the’ say,
Wairm, wat an strang,
Tha thang tae keep tha drouth at bay
Tha hale day lang.

Ma mammie larned me fae a wean
Tae wairm tha pot an no pit tay in,
Tae tha watter’s fairly plumpin, an
Then ye dae it.
“Ye teem tha watter owre tha tay, an
There ye hae it.”

“Them tay-bags irnae guid fur ocht”, ir
“It’s aye tha loose tay we hae bocht”, ir
“Yin spoon fur ivery boadie, dochter,
‘An yin fur tha pot.
An pit it doon fornent tha fire
Tae keep it hot”.

Noo maist fowk cannae be annoyed.
The’r no parteeclar hoo it’s made
The’ hinnae larned tak a pride
In ocht daen richt.
Och, it’s mair nor tay’s haes me dismayed -
(A waesome sicht.)

But nooadays, iz A wus sayin,
A cannae thole tha wye it’s daen.
Y’ir gien an empie bicker an,
Ye mak yer brew,
Wi pumpie flesk, taybag an spoon,
T’wud gar ye grue.

Tha hale thing is jist quare an reuch,
Thon watter’s niver hot eneuch,
Luks lik it cum strecht fae a sheugh,
Tha brew’s aa gray.
Gin thon’s “gan forrits”! A say “Yugh!”
Fur thon’s no tay.

A Stitch In Time

I was glancing through a recent edition of The Scots magazine when I came across an interesting article about the Prestonpans Tapestry.

More than 200 volunteer embroiderers worked over 25,000 hours from January to June 2010 to create the 104 X 1 meter panels, which is now the longest tapestry in the world and contains over 10 million stitches. The tapestry commemorates Bonnie Prince Charlie's journey from France to his victory at Prestonpans in 1745 and is said to "celebrate the enduring triumph of youthful Hope and Ambition".

Now I know that readers will have differing opinions on Bonnie Prince Charlie, or The Young Prestender, or whatever you want to call him, but you've got to admit that it was a quare interesting period in history, whatever your viewpoint.

The tapestry even has its own website - http://www.prestonpanstapestry.org/tapestry/default.aspx where you can view each of the panels. This is a great website and includes background on the historical events depicted, the research and design which went into the making of the tapestry, and education resources.

Wouldn't it be great if the Ulster-Scots could take a leaf out of the Scots' book and produce something similar depicting significant events in our history. Apart from the artistic, historical and cultural significance, this would be a great educational resource relevant to various subjects within the school curriculum.

That said, before I get the needle and thread out, I have to admit that the last thing I embroidered (when I was about 18) was the back of my Wrangler jacket, with the name of the wee rock band I knocked around with - No Hot Ashes (as in the stickers they used to put on the wheelybins) in red silk.

Another New Challenge

Yesterday afternoon, Keep 'Er Lit were playing at an event in Donaghadee where there were displays of military weapons and regalia, a re-enactment group in period costumes with horses, cannons and muskets, plus a lovely lady making soda farls on a griddle, who normally does this at the Cockle Row cottages in Groomsport (see http://www.northdowntourism.com/Events/Walk1-(2).aspx). Davy Angus, who plays with The Ulster-Scots Folk Orchestra, also had a stand selling his hand-made wooden fifes (website http://www.angusfifes.com/).

Needless to say, I came away stuffed to the gills with soda farls, with half a jar of delicious home-made raspberry jam in one pocket and a fife in the other, and have had to add "learn to play the fife" to a very long list of things to do. At least I can now get a note out of her, so that's some progress - and I can't blame the instrument as I heard it played beautifully by the maker!

Suggestions?

Our wee group, Keep 'Er Lit, is only starting to develop the singing side of our act and I'm currently experimenting with all kinds of songs, including:

• Bonniewood Green
• Carrickfergus
• The Flower Of The County Down
• The Ballad Of William Bloat
• Maids When You're Young Never Wed An Old Man
• The Lea Rig (Burns)
• Ye Banks And Braes (Burns)
• The Diel's Awa Wi The Exciseman (Burns)
• Willie Brewed A Peck O Maut (Burns)
• The Wee Cooper Of Fife
• Wild Mountain Thyme (Will Ye Go Lassie, Go)

I'm also looking at Jackie Boyce's Songs Of The County Down and the Ulster-Scots poets such as James Orr and Robert Huddleston for inspiration, as I'd like to include some local material, particuarly songs that haven't already been done to death and your ideas on this would be most welcome.

Another County Down reference

Following on from my recent "Changing Times" post, I found another County Down reference last night, this time in Bernard Cornwell's Peninsula War novel "Sharpe's Honour" (yes, I probably do have unusual tastes in books for a female!).

Anyway, to set the scene, Richard Sharpe is flat broke and discussing with Patrick Harper the possibility of selling the battalion tents and mule to the storekeeper:

Sharpe swore again. He could doubtless get five pounds out of the battalion accounts to bribe the storekeeper, but the job would be a nuisance. 'He's no friend of your's this storekeeper?'
'He's from County Down.' Harper said it meaningfully. 'Sell his own bloody mother for a shilling.'
'You've got nothing on the bastard?'
'No.' Harper shook his head. 'He's tighter than an orangeman's drum.'

As an aside, I was wandering through the streets of Queenstown New Zealand in 1999 when my (now) husband shouted, "there's that wee man you like". I had no idea who he was talking about and scanned the area for the nearest person of small stature, to no avail. Turned out it was Sharpe himself, actor Sean Bean, bearded and looking distinctly scruffy, on a break from filming his role as Boramir in Lord Of The Rings. Now, I wouldn't call Sean Bean small, but it seems my other half thinks anyone under six foot is a midget. Anyway I caught sight of him as he went into a pizza restaurant and, somewhat sheepishly, followed him in and asked for his autograph. I'm sure actors get totally fed up with this, but he very kindly fulfilled the request on the back of the restaurant's business card and I exited stage left, totally embarassed as I hadn't had a clue what to say to him.

Keep 'Er Lit

2011 Gigs

Saturday 13th August, Vintage Tractor Rally, Rosemount, Greyabbey
Thursday 8th June, TV show with Paul Rankin/Nick Nairn, D'dee
Saturday 4th June, Portavogie International Fish Fest
TBC for March/April, Conlig LOL, Ulster-Scots Night
Friday 29th April, Ballyhalbert Orange Hall
Friday 15th April, Kirkcubbin LOL at the Yacht Club
Thursday 17th March, Donaghadee Orange Hall, St Patrick's Night
Friday 4th March, Glastry High School, Ulster-Scots Showcase
Wednesday 9th February, Castlereagh Borough Council Burns Supper

2010 Gigs

Saturday 11th September, Private Party, Millisle
Saturday 21st August, 1.00-2.00pm, Donaghadee Orange Hall
Friday 20th August, 7.30pm, BBQ, Aughlisnafin Orange Hall, Clough.
Saturday 14th August, 7.30pm, Men On A Mission Hog Roast, Scrabo GC
Saturday 14th August, 2.30pm, Vintage Tractor Rally, Greyabbey
Saturday 31st July, 2.00pm, Party In The Park, Comber
Saturday 3rd July, 8.30pm, Ballyhalbert Orange Hall
Friday 23rd April, 8.00pm, Marie Curie Concert, Greyabbey Village Hall
Saturday 20th March, 8.00pm, Dinner, Causnagh Orange Hall, Loughgall
Wednesday 17th March, 8.00pm, Fundraiser, Gatsby Hairdressers, Comber
Friday 5th March, 7.30pm, Ulster-Scots Night, Kirkcubbin Sailing Club
Thursday 18th February, 7.30pm, Private Birthday Party, Comber

2009 Gigs

22nd August, 2.00pm, Glebeside Ulster-Scots Street Party, Ballymoney
5th August, 7.30pm, Private Birthday Party, Millisle

Skippin

Tha bonnie wee lass abune is yin o ma grannies an, as ye can see, she's houlin a skippin raip in her hauns. Noo, A haed a skippin raip whun A wus a wean, an guid use A made o't fur A wus aye leppin aboot. A freen telt me no sae lang beck that she'd bocht a skippin raip fur her wee lass (sieven yeir oul) an tha chile didnae hae a notion whut tae dae wi it - noo gie her a DS ir a Wii an it's a differnt metter aathegither, but a weechile no knowin hoo tae skip - whut's tha warl cumin tae, A esk ye?

A Load O Balls

Noo, A'll no pretend onie great luv o, ir unnerstaunin o rugby fitba, ir cricket but, as A hae bin warkin at ma femmlie tree A wus surprised tae fin oot A'm (far oot) related tae a quare lot o (Ulster-Scotch) Irish internationals. Sae far, A hae tha follaein:

• fae Limavady - Sir Samuel Thompson Irwin C.B.E.,M.Ch.,F.R.C.S.,M.P.(1877-1961)
  9 keps fae 1900-1903
  President of Irish Rugby Union 1935-6
  surgeon at the Royal Victoria Hospital
  
  
• (Samuel's sin) John Walker Sinclair Irwin M.B.,F.R.C.S. (1913-2004)
  5 keps as a beck row forrit 1937-39
  scored tha winnin try at Twickenham in Feb 19 an 39
  President o Irish Rugby Union 1969-70
  surgeon at the Royal Victoria Hospital
  
  
• Justin Bishop (1974- ) great-nephew o Sinclair Irwin -
  25 keps at wing - 1997-2003, echt tries
  
  
• Dr John (Jackie) Wilson Kyle O.B.E. (1926-)
  46 keps at fly-hauf, 1946-1958, 7 tries
  In 2002 he wus caa'd tha "Greatest Ever Irish Rugby Player" by tha Irish Rugby Fitba Union.
  Efter a solo try agin France at Ravenhill in 1953, yin o tha newspaper men daen a parody o Tha Scarlet Pimpernel, wi tha lines:
  
  They seek him here, they seek him there
  Those Frenchies seek him everywhere.
  That paragon of pace and guile,
  That demned elusive Jackie Kyle.
  
  
• fae Newton - Dr James Alexander MacDonald M.D, M.Ch., L.L.D. (1853-1928)
  13 keps as a front row forrit fae 1874-1884
  grandsin o John McDonald that knit tha quilt fur the Marquis o Londonderry (last poast)
  Forbye tha rugby, he played yin international association fitba match agin Englan an, alang wi thie o his brithers played a wheen o matches fur tha Irish international lacrosse team.
  He wus a wean-walloper at Methody afore gaun tae Queen's medical schuil. A heared he wus a doctor oan yin o tha big liners an, efter he'd saved tha life o a weel-aff boadie oan his boat, tha craiter gien him eneuch siller tae buy a wee practice in Somerset, whaur he leeved oot tha rest o his days. Ye'd thenk that wud dae but, forbye aa tha abune, he wus President o tha Cooncil o tha British Medical Association fae 1910-1920.
  
  
  A'm near sure tha neist twa boadies is related tae me onie A hinnae jist tied doon tha exact connection.
  
  
• fae Commer - James MacDonald M.B.E. (1906-1969)
  Cricket - left haun batsman, slow left airm, 29 keps fae 1926-1939
  President o tha Irish Cricket Union in 1954, an national selector fae 1946 tae 1960.
  Hockey - 25 keps
  Headmaster o Regent Hoose schuil
  
  
• (his brither) Thomas John MacDonald (1908-1998)
  Cricket - openin batsman, 17 keps

Tha yin thang A kin say fur definite is A hinnae inherited onie skeel at onie kine o sport - tha onie thang A can ketch is tha coul!

Sucking Up To The Landlord?

A wheen o yeir syne, A cum on tha wee airticle abune, fae The Northern Whig o 25th March 18 an 26 an rin agane bi The Newtownards Chronicle in 19 an 26. Tha John McDonald in tha airticle wus ma great-great-great-granda's brither an (as a tenant o tha Marquis o Londonderry fae Mount Stewart) he haed a wee fairm o lan by tha name o Pinecroft oot at Loughriescouse tooonlan, jist oot o Newton (John's grandsin Alec soul tha fairm in 1915 afore settin aff fur New Zealan an Ian an Irene Moore hae it noo).

Noo, sim fowk wud mebbe thenk it strange tae hear o a man daein sic fine knittin in them days, fur ye'd mebbe thenk o it as wummen's wark. Nooadays ye hae tha like o Kaffe Fassett (see http://www.kaffefassett.com/) an A'd heared aboot tha fishermen in tha oul days knittin but whun A lukked intae it A fun oot tha menfowk hae bin at tha knittin this lang while (see http://hubpages.com/hub/Men_Who_Knit). Nooadays, knittin's aa tha go wi tha menfowk in Hollywood (USA no Coontie Doon!) an A hear there's clesses fur men tae larn hoo tae dae it, but tha likes o Brad Pitt an Russell Crowe (http://www.wow.ie/images/www_wow_ie/Russel%20Crowe%20Knitting.jpg) ir no daein ocht new fur Newton men wus at it near twa hunnert yeir syne.

Tha ither thang A wunnert aboot wus hoocum oul John wus giein this fency bed quilt tae his lannlord's wife, but mebbe tha design o it (tha Royal Messon's airms) gies tha answer fur, like tha marquis, tha McDonalds wur aa in tha Messons, an mebbe he wus coontin on sim kine o favour ir commission. Mine ye, A wus a bit tuk beck fur it luks like a bit o sookin up an A didnae thenk oor lot wud hae bin tha soart tae dae thon!

Natural Ulster-Scots v the book-learned variety

My mum tells me that when she first came to live in Newtownards some sixty years ago, as a student nurse from south Down, she had great difficulty understanding the locals, as virtually all the indiginous residents (with the possible exception of a few snooty social climbers) talked what I would now call Ulster-Scots, or what my Newtownards born-and-bred dad referred to as "broad Newtown".

I happened to hear a BBC Radio Ulster news feature this week on Ulster-Scots summer schemes at various local primary schools. I think it's great that these summer schools exist and that they include tuition in music, dance and the Ulster-Scots language. Indeed, if such schemes are still operating when my baby daughter is old enough I will be at the head of the queue to sign her up to attend. However, Maggie Taggart's interview with the children at Castle Gardens Primary School about their Ulster-Scots language lessons saddened me. Don't get me wrong, the children were obviously enjoying the lessons and I'm not criticising what they were being taught. What upset me was that it came across that basic words and phrases (eg "Houl yer Wheesht") were strange and new to the children speaking them - children who I presume live in my home town in the heart of an Ulster-Scots area.

I suppose it's a combination of factors, including years of stigmatisation of the language. Maybe the parents or grandparents had the Ulster-Scots beaten out of them (literally or otherwise) and either have none left in them or assume that they also have to exorcise the remants from each successive generation. Then of course there's the pervasive influence of the media. While I can't claim to have escaped this myself, it annoys me that local youngsters seem to think it's cooler to sound more like extras from Home And Away or High School Musical than kids from county Down. Oh, and why is everything "random"? I probably have all of this heartbreak in front of me!

As a first time parent, I'm sure I will make many mistakes but I really will feel as though I have failed Isla if she isn't naturally bilingual in English and Ulster-Scots before starting formal education. I don't want her growing up thinking that Ulster-Scots is something you have to go to a class in order to learn from someone who probably didn't speak themselves when they were a child. I am so glad that my dad, who taught at a local primary school, was proud of the local way of talking and used it wherever he could, while ensuring that we also learned "proper English". Anyone who knows me will not be surprised to learn that I was always being to told to "wheesht", but never knew how to "houl" it and I was no stranger to a "guid skelp on tha arse" (I doubt the summer school classes teach that one)!

Robin's Readings

I'm a bit late with this post, as the series has already started but, for those of you who aren't already aware, BBC Radio Ulster is currently broadcasting an excellent series of stories from W G Lyttle's Robin's Readings. You can currently hear episode two on the iplayer at http://www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/b00t3nsk For my sins I even have a bit part in one or two of the later episodes! Indeed, those familiar with the Ulster-Scots scene will recognise most of the voices.

Hearty congratulations are due to to BBC Ulster-Scots producer Laura Spence for all her hard work in producing this series. Hopefully, Laura will do more shows along these lines, and perhaps even consider commissioning some contemporary Ulster-Scots radio plays.

Changing Times?

Last night, without even knowing I had been looking for it, my other half spotted the following quotation in chapter 13 of Compton Mackenzie's The Monarch Of The Glen (1941) - I'd convinced myself it was in a John Buchan novel which explains why I couldn't find it again. Anyway, here goes ...

"He had a forefinger which when pointed at his audience had the admonitory force of a loaded pistol. He was as warm and fluent as the hot water tap of a hotel bath, as self-confident as an Orangeman contesting a seat in County Down, and as full of catchpenny emotion as an illustrated daily."

RATHFRILAN FAIR

This is a wee poem I wrote a few years ago, loosely based on a story I heard about my great-great-granny's brother.

RATHFRILAN FAIR

Aroon a hunnèrt yeir syne, in tha Sooth o Coontie Doon,
Leeved a boy by tha name o Truesdale, near oul Rathfrilan toon.
His mither caa’d him Francis, but maist fowks gied him Frank.
He wus a boul big hallion, but he’d siller in tha bank.

Weel, Frank he wusnae merriet, an he haed a fairm o lan.
He wusnae mair nor fiftie, and life wus quare an gran.
Fur he cud dae whutivver he plaised, wi deil tha wife tae barge,
An monie a yin wushed he wus Frank, no lannit wi sim oul targe

Ae Fair Day morn, Frank hitchit tha trep an set aff fur tha toon,
Fae tha fairm at Ballynagappog, strecht up tha hill an roon,
Tae tha Kirk Square whaur he pued up, ayont an oul stane barn,
Whaur he spied twathie cronies, staunin smowkin, haein a yarn .

“Ach Billie Rab!” quo Frank wi glee, “whaur hae ye bin, oul freen?
An whut aboot ye, Joey? An hoo’s tha wife an wean?”
Oul Frank he wus in quare guid form, as he pit tha meer awa,
But he seen she haed a feed o coarn an a guid wee bed o strae.

Noo tha boys wus feelin drouthie, wi aa tha crack o tha Fair,
Sae Frank bocht them baith a whiskey, an the’ bocht a clattèr mair.
Afore lang the’ wus richtlie, an liltin sangs o yore,
Tha mair the’ cudnae houl a tune - ye cud tell the’ wus heff tore.

Tha lanlaird o tha yillhoose, telt them “Na. Nay mair!
Fur youse is pittin dacent fowk aff cummin in tha dair.”
Wee Joe wis oxter-coggelt oot, an telt no tae luk doon,
On accoont o whun he daen it, tha flair wis birlin roon.

Puir Rab near boked his ring up whun the’ gote oot in tha air,
Sae tha boys aa thocht the’d gang aff hame, afore thar day gote waur.
Frank gaed tae get tha oul grey meer, By Sowl, bit no too quäck,
Fer tha mair yin fit gaed forrits, tha ither stauchèrt beck.

Wi Meggie gote atween tha trams (A dinnae mine jist hoo)
An collar, hames an harnish oan, Frank creed oot, “A’m aff, noo”.
He sprachlit up intae tha sate, an it wus a sicht tae see,
Fer whaur yin meer stud fower oor syne, afore him noo wus thie!

Noo, Rathfrilan bes a ticht wee toon, biggit oan a hill, at tha croon,
An nae matter whut wye in ye lann, ye’ll hae a steich raa doon.
Sae whan he set aff hameairt boon, Frank tuk it gye an cannie,
Til John Barleycorn cheepit in his lug, “Yir drivin like ma grannie.”

Sae, wi sperks fleein fae tha wheels, an tha pechin o tha pownie,
It wisnae lang til Frank creed, “Hup”, as he spied his ain fairm loanie.
Bit tha reins wis like twa washin lines, an he nivver hit tha brak,
Sae Frankie an tha pownie, tha’ tuk tha turn owre quäck.

Tha trep it cowpt clean owre, an Frank wus kilt stane deid.
A ledge he nivver felt a thang, fur he lanit oan his heid.
T’wus brither Tam wha fun him, leein fornenst tha sheugh,
Wi fanklit airms an broo stove in, boys, he wus lukkin reuch.

Tha seestèrs baa’ed an greetit, fur the’ wus affleectit sair,
The’ wus powerfu fonn o brither Frank, an vext he wus nae mair.
Tha freens an neebours cam tae murn, an gie thair seempathy
An aa ye hearit wus, “Boys a Dear”, ir “Och Anee, Anee”.

Frank’s leein in a kirkyaird noo, weel plantit sax fut unnèr
An gin ye tak strang drink an drive ye’ll mebbe join him thonnèr
Sae whan y'ir gaun oot oan tha toon, lee tha motòr weel alane
An gin ye cannae get a taxi, jist ye dannèr hame yir lane

A Rustic Love Making

As a wee change from the poems, here's a song entitled A Rustic Love Making by George Francis Savage Armstrong (1845-1906) from his Ballads Of Down (1901). Mark Thompson recently commented on his blog http://clydesburn.blogspot.com/ that I'd reminded him about Savage Armstrong's writings. Well, I'm glad he said that because I realised then that I hadn't actually posted any of his writings.

Unlike the majority of Ulster-Scots writers, Savage Armstrong was no homespun peasant. He was Professor of English and History, Queen’s College, Cork and a contender for Poet Laureate after Tennyson. He also wrote extensively on his mother’s family, the Savages of the Ards Peninsula (formerly of Portaferry Castle).

A Rustic Love Making

[He]
Noo, gie's a kiss, ye sonsie lass ...
Och, gie's a kiss fur kin'ness!
Yer beauty melts my heart like wex,
An' doits me nigh tae blin'ness.

[She]
Na! - Weel a ken the ways o' men;
The De'il fur mischief sent ye;
If yin a gied ye'd ax fur ten,
An ten wud ne'er content ye.

[He]
It's nae the merket-square ye're in,
But jist a lanesome by-way,
Saea tak' yer wee han' frae yer mooth,
An' ben' nae doon sae shyly.

[She]
Behave! The sun's ahint the brae;
A can nae langer stay, noo;
There, hau'd ye'er fingers frae my frills,
It's nae the time fur play, noo.

[He]
Yer lips ir, och, sae smooth an' swate!
An' whaur's the herm in this, noo?
Och, heth, ye're jist the rose o' June,
An' gie's a anither kiss, noo!

[She]
A tau'd ye this wud be yer game;
Ye'd keep fur aye embracin';
It's jist the ways uv a' yer kin',
Their tricks is nivver ceasin'!

[He]
Och, Natur' 't is that gi'es the law;
Mon's made tae luve the wumman,
The wumman's made fur mon tae luve
Noo, stay! There's naeyin comin'.

[She]
Luik, see! There's fow'k that gang this way
Whun gloamin'-time is nearin'
Come doon an' walk by Comber burn
That's oot o' sight an' hearin'!

A Pastoral In Praise of Allan Ramsay

Here's another one for all those who like to say Ulster-Scots is a recent invention. The earliest known writer of poetry in Ulster-Scots was William Starrat, a mathematics teacher of Strabane, County Tyrone. In 1722 he wrote a poetic letter to Scottish poet Allan Ramsay (1686-1758) and this, together with Ramsay's reply, was duly published, from an annotated version, in The Collected Works Of Allan Ramsay as Epistle From Mr William Starrat, Teacher of Mathematicks at Straban in Ireland.

A Pastoral In Praise Of Allan Ramsay

O'er ilka hedge it wildly bounds,
And grazes on forbidden grounds,
Where constantly like furious range
Poortith, diseases, death, revenge :
To toom anes poutch to daunty clever,
Or have wrang'd husband probe ane's liver,
Or void ane's saul out thro' a shanker,
In faith 't wad any mortal canker.

Then wale a virgin worthy you,
Worthy your love and nuptial vow ;
Syne frankly range o'er a' her charms,
Drink deep of joy within her arms;
Be still delighted with her breast,
And on her love with rapture feast.

May she be blooming, saft, and young,
With graces melting from her tongue ;
Prudent and yielding to maintain
Your love, as well as you her ain.

Thus with your leave, Sir, I've made free
To give advice to ane can gi'e
As good again : but as mass John
Said, when the sand tald time was done,
" Ha'e patience, my dear friends, a wee,
And take ae ither glass frae me ;
And if ye think there's doublets due,
I shanna bauk the like frae you."

AE windy day last owk, I'll ne'er forget,
I think I hear the hail-stanes rattling yet ;
On Crochan-buss my hirdsell took the lee,
As ane wad wish, just a' beneath my ee :
I in the bield of yon auld birk-tree side,
Poor cauldrife Coly whing'd aneath my plaid.
Right cozylie was set to ease my stumps,
Well hap'd with bountith hose and twa-sol'd pumps :
Syne on my four-hours luncheon chew'd my cood,
Sic kilter pat me in a merry mood ;
My whistle frae my blanket nook I drew,
And lilted owre thir twa three lines to you.
Blaw up my heart-strings, ye Pierian quines,
That gae the Grecian bards their bonny rhymes,
And learn'd the Latin lowns sic springs to play,
As gars the world gang dancing to this day.

In vain I seek your help ; 'tis bootless toil
With sic dead ase to muck a moorland soil ;
Give me the muse that calls past ages back,
And shaws proud southern sangsters their mistak,
That frae their Thames can fetch the laurel north,
And big Parnassus on the firth of Forth.

Thy breast alane this gladsome guest does fill
With strains that warm our hearts like cannel gill,
And learns thee, in thy umquhile gutcher's tongue,
The blythest lilts that e'er my lugs heard sung.
Ramsay ! for ever live; for wha like you,
In deathless sang, sic life-like pictures drew ?
Not he wha whilome with his harp cou'd ca'
The dancing stanes to big the Theban wa' ;
Nor he (shame fa's fool head !) as stories tell,
Cou'd whistle back an auld dead wife frae hell ;
Nor e'en the loyal brooker of bell trees,
Wha sang with hungry wame his want of fees ;
Nor Habby's drone, cou'd with thy wind-pipe please :
When, in his well-ken'd clink, thou manes the death
Of Lucky Wood and Spence, (a matchless skaith
To Canigate) sae gash thy gab-trees gang,
The carlines live for ever in thy sang.

Or when thy country bridal thou pursues,
To red the regal tulzie sets thy muse,
Thy soothing sangs bring canker'd carles to ease,
Some loups to Lutter's pipe, some birls babies.

But gin to graver notes thou tunes thy breath,
And sings poor Sandy's grief for Adie's death,
Or Matthew's loss, the lambs in concert mae,
And lanesome Ringwood yowls upon the brae.

Good God ! what tuneless heart-strings wadna twang,
When love and beauty animate the sang ?
Skies echo back, when thou blaws up thy reed
In Burchet's praise for clapping of thy head :
And when thou bids the paughty Czar stand yon,
The wandought seems beneath thee on his throne.
Now, be my saul, and I have nought behin,
And well I wat fause swearing is a sin,
I'd rather have thy pipe and twa three sheep,
Than a' the gowd the monarch's coffers keep.

Coly, look out, the few we have's gane wrang,
This se'enteen "owks I have not play'd sae lang ;
Ha ! Crummy, ha ! trowth I man quat my sang ;
But, lad, neist mirk we'll to the haining drive,
When in fresh lizar they get spleet and rive :
The royts will rest, and gin ye like my play,
I'll whistle to thee all the live-lang day.

THA SHOW

Here's a wee poem I wrote a few years ago about the Balmoral Show.

THA SHOW

Ilka May, thar’s twathie days whan kintra cums tae toon
An tha fairmin fowk o Ulstèr, lea hairth an hame ahint
It’s tha big Show at Balmoral, Bilfawst is whaur it’ at.
Sae gin ye hinnae bin afore, gae alang an see whut’s whut.

Thar’s traictors by tha dizzen, Massey Ferguson an John Deere
Pues an combine hairvisters – By Sowl, it’s aa here!
Thar’s aye sim weelads thonner (an ithers no sae wee)
Hingin roon tha stauns lik cleggs the’ ir, the’ dinnae want tae lea.

Whan ye hae yir fill o motòrs, hae a luk at aa tha bastes
Wi tups and yowes, an pïgs an soos, thar’s simthan fer aa tastes
Thar’s stirks an kye (sim moilies) nannie goats an coalie dugs
Turkeys, geese an banties, an a lock o doos an deuks.

An dinnae lee oot tha pownies, an brood meers wi foals in haun
Thar’s yearlins in tha showin ring, ach shure tha nivver staun
Thar’s trade turn-oots, cobs an Airish Draughts, side-seddle clesses an aa
An owre in tha Warkin-Hunnèr ring - thar’s aye a wheen tha’ faa.

Whaure’er ye luk thar’s ridin breeks, ir tweeds an Barbour jaickit
Wattèr buits, dunchers, tairtan shirts – fer fairmin thon’s tha ticket.
Fer aa them bastes ir gien a wash, thar’s aye sim dung aroon
Sae as y'ir gaun atweesht tha rings, tak guid tent whaur ye pit yer shune.

Mine, whan y'ir gaun roon as weel, tae use yer een an lugs
Fer fowk ir aye gaun aff tae see sim men aboot sim dugs!
Ye’ll affen hear sim quare guid crack, an mebbe mak a dale
Ir larn hoo tae bring tha barley in, an whit tae dae wi kail.

An aa ye sing’l menfowk, tak a luk at tha kintra quaens
Ye cud dae waur nor a fairmin lass, an ye’ll no leeve oan baked beans!
An whit aboot youse weeminfowk, gin yir oot tae cleek the yeir
Hae ye seen them boul big fairmers, wi thar shoodèrs oot tae here?

Sae whutivver taks yer fancy, jist tak yersel aff thonner
An gie a thocht tae tha fairmer, whan neist ye mak tha dïnner
Fer he growes tha craps an rares tha mate tae feed oor sins an dochters
An it’s fowk like him tha’ mine tha lan fer ithers tae cum eftèr us.

A Country Lad's Observations At The Hiring Fair In Ballymena

Here's another Ulster-Scots poem - A Country Lad's Observations At The Hiring Fair In Ballymena, written in November 1899 by County Antrim poet Adam Lynn from Random Rhymes From Cullybackey (Belfast, 1911).

A Country Lad's Observations At The Hiring Fair In Ballymena

Weel, freens, A gat me tae the toon,
Although big clouds were hoverin' roon,
An whiles an odd yin did come doon
Tae we got drack'd;
Yet mony a sinburnt-luckin' croon
Seem'd tae be cracked.

The hale toon seemd tae be aware
That Sethurday wus Hiring Fair,
And that ferm-servants wud be there
For a big day,
Who meant tae hae a treat sae rare
Wae six months' pay.

Here and there wus a wee ban'
The centre-piece a big ould man,
What maks' his leevin' off the lan'
Without a doot;
Bit see him view the horny han'
'Ere he spak' oot.

"Tell me, my man, noo can you sow,
And can you milk, and plough, and mow,
And build a load of hay or stro'
For market day?
If you can do these things, say so
I'll fix your pay."

The toon assumed its usual gait,
Folk mashing roon at nae wee rate,
Each luckin' for there ain dear mate
In blank despair;
And so may I if I keep blate
To the next Fair.

The Weaver Question

I've always had an interest in the history of hand-loom weaving in Ulster, as at least four successive generations of my Newtownards male ancestors (and some of the females) were hand-loom weavers, right up to the 1950s. Indeed, I still have a wee pram rug which my great-grandfather Hugh McDonald wove for my father in 1929. Hugh's obituary states, "He was one of the old hand loom weavers, working in his own home weaving fine linens, but latterly weaving tweeds and tartans for both local firms [including James Mairs of Newtownards and Hugh Mack of Belfast] and the Scottish house of Peter MacArthur & Co" [still trading in Biggar, Lanarkshire] Talk about taking coals to Newcastle! The family death notice also included the following excerpt from a poem entitled The Weaver by Benjamin Malachi Franklin (1882-1965)

Not till the loom is silent
And the shuttles cease to fly
Shall God unroll the canvas
And explain the reason why.

Continuing the weaving theme, here's a wee Ulster-Scots poem called The Weaver Question by Thomas Given (c1850-1917) taken from G R Buick's Poetical Works Of The Brothers Given (Belfast, 1900). Thomas was a farmer from Cullybackey in County Antrim and one of three poetry-writing brothers. There is no indication that he ever worked as a weaver himself, but it's clear that he was familiar with the terminology and the issues of the trade. As Edward Sloan's poem The Weaver's Triumph also shows, life was not always easy for the weavers.

The Weaver Question by Thomas Given

We read o' meetings to support
The risin' nerra-guage,
Which is to be the strength and fort
O' every comin' age.
We read o' controversies lang.
O' puirhoose jaw and vapour,
But seldom does the weavers' wrang
Bedeck the public paper
On ony day.

Oor wabs are lang an' ill to weave -
Sometimes the yarn is bad -
Till scanty claes, wi' ragget sleeve,
Is seen on lass an' lad.
But noo guid fortune we'll attain,
For orators sae thrifty
Will gar the dreeper clip his chain
Wa' doon tae twa-an'-fifty
On ilka day.

Queels maun be wun when claith is wroucht,
An' pickers, shears an' treadles,
Tallow an' temples maun be boucht,
An' floor tae dress the heddles.
Then meat tae gar the wee yins leeve,
Maun come as weel's the tackle,
But shure the wages we receive
Wud hardly buy them treacle
Tae meal this day.

How aisy 'tis for men tae preach
Whun riches they hae got,
An' wae self-interest's purse-hurt screech,
Ca' us a sinfu' lot.
But, haud a wee! Ye men o' wealth!
Though noo for breath yer pantin',
We ax nae favours gained by stealth -
It's justice that we're wantin' -
Nae mair this day.

I ne'er was blessed wae gift o' gab,
Like some great learned men,
Instead o' school, I wove my wab,
Before that I was ten.
Though noo I'm auld an' gray's my hair,
I've studied weel the sense o't
For work let us get wages fair,
Nae matter 'boot the length o't
On ony day.

The Ards TT

Here's another photo from my family collection, showing a driver in the Ards TT getting out of his car in Church Street, Newtownards. I think this wee row of houses may have stood at the front of Ards Hospital.

The TT ran from 1928-1936, over 6 hours on a 13.7 mile course which started in Dundonald and proceeded, via Quarry Corner and Bradshaw's Brae to Newtownards, down Church Street and Regent Street, through the Square and on to Comber Square, up Castle Street, on to the Belfast Road to the Elk Inn corner at Dundonald and back up to the starting point.

Unfortunately, I don't know which year our photo was taken, who the driver is, or what kind of car he's driving, although some of the manufacturers represented in the TT were Lea-Francis, Frazer Nash, Lagonda, Bugatti, Alfa-Romeo, Bentley, Mercedes Benz, Talbot, MG Midget, Maserati, Singer, and Delahaye. If anyone can throw any light on the identity of the car or driver pictured, I'd love to hear from you.

It's obvious that Health & Safety hadn't been invented then, as the crowd barrier consists of wooden barrels with string in between. In 1936, one of the cars crashed at the railway bridge (long since demolished) at the bottom of the Belfast Road in Newtownards, killing eight spectators and injuring 40 others. That was the end of The Ards TT.

In June 2003, several of the original TT cars took part in a demonstration drive of three laps of the old course, to mark the 75th anniversary of the TT and a memorial to the TT was unveiled in Conway Square Newtownards in August 2008.

Truth

Here's a wee poem I wrote a few years ago. I must have been feeling all jaded and cynical!

TRUTH

Ye’ll aye fin yins 'at sweer bline Elvis isnae deid ava,

An tha feck o fowk wud mebbe yit houl wi a freat ir twa.

But wushin ir haipin fur simthan, disnae mak it true,

Ye cannae lippen oan aa ye’r telt - maist o ye wud alloo.

Yince A haed a notion A cud quarely lilt a sang,

Til A heared masel, as ithers heared, an foon oot A wus wrang.

Fur a sough o truth blowed in ma lugs - By Sowl, it gunked me sair -

An noo, ootwith tha motor car, ye’ll hear me lilt nae mair.

Sure A shud hae knowed fae Rabbie Burns, tae no growe sic a thocht,

Fur aa his puir Jenny’s fency airs, the’ didnae get her ocht.

Thon hizzie she wus fu o pride, til tha loose craa’d owre her bonnet,

Bot w’ir aa tha yin soo’s pïgs, ye ken, an aye we shud hae mine o’it.

Fur there’s bums an blows ’at get oan like tha Kïngs o Dear knows whaur,

Ir let oan tae be oul hauns, an cannae dae ocht ava.

Whiles ye’ll mebbe hear a whud o sim gulpin cum tae po’er

An muckle heich aboon us growed, wi better yins past owre.

Tha warl’s fu o chates an lee’rs, an there’s boys wud dae thar grannie,

Owre tha heid o a wheen o pun – tak tent, freens, aye be cannie.

But whut gangs aroon wull cum aroon, accordin tae tha saw:

The’ll aa be ketched oot in tha en, by thair ain fowks, ir tha laa.