Epistle To Francis Boyle - By John Meharg

Here's another early example of Ulster-Scots poetry - Gilhahirk poet, John Meharg's Epistle To Francis Boyle, published in Boyle's Miscelleous Poems (1811).


EPISTLE TO FRANCIS BOYLE
By John Meharg

Dear Frank, it lang was in my view,
To write a verse or twa to you,
We Poets, poor discernin' few,
Love ane anither,
Wi' heart an' saul, an' far mair true
Than money a brither.
Let warly sons o' men combine,
An' gather gowd to mak them shine,
At this, dear Frank, we'll ne'er repine,
E'en let them gae;
We'll sing our joys in hamely rhyme,
On some burn brae.
How sweetly do the moments pass,
Aye whan our theme's a bonny lass,
Or wi' a frien', out owre a glass
O' gin or rum!
The sordid, grov'lin, miser ass,
May there sing dumb.

But as for riches what care I,
Sic low pursuits the Bards deny,
An' Fortune's frowns they will defy,
While e'er the Muse,
Will with their wishes kind comply,
An' no refuse.

An' yet my rhymes are unco rough,
As owre a country e'er did sugh,
They hardly please mysel' eneugh,
As aft's I read them;
But spun by ane frae loom or pleugh,
Nae man will heed them.

An' sae, my much respected friend,
I'll ne'er presume, nor yet pretend,
Wi' you in verses to contend,
For wit or theme,
Na, na, I ken that it wad end
In my great shame.

Your verses rin as true an' fine,
As if the Muses did combine,
Apollo an' tunefu' Nine,
To raise your name,
An' roun' your brow a wreath entwine,
O' endless fame.

In Grenshaw townland may you sing,
Till a' the hills an' vallies ring,
An' whan the Winter's owre, an' Spring
Begins to dawn,
Your Fancy yet shall spread her wing,
Out owre the lawn.

Aft hae I wish'd an' hope't to see,
Yet mony a year afore I die,
Your verses fill'd sae fu' o' glee,
In grandeur paintit,
Wi' ae request o' mine agree -
An' get them prentit.

An' let the warl' ken your name,
An' sons unborn exalt your fame,
An' narrow-minded men think shame
If ony reads,
Your torch o' satire, like a flame,
To show their deeds!

An' whan ye're mouldrin' i' the clay,
The stranger that shall pass the way,
Will to your dwallin' homage pay
An' spier the where,
Some frien' o' thine will point an' say -
"The Bard lived there."

But as for me, I needna think
E'er to appear in prent or ink,
For folk to read, then laugh an' wink,
An' cock their nose,
An' tauntin', say, "It disna clink
"Like verse or prose."

But what care I? e'en let them say;
Whan in the bonny month o' May,
On some burn side I'll lonely stray,
Whar nane shall hear,
An' chant to her my rustic lay,
I love sae dear.

O Love! O Life! O Friendship dear!
'Tis you I court, 'tis you I fear
All cares are drown'd when you are near,
In seas o' pleasure;
Ye Powers Divine, while I am here,
Be these my treasure!

"But Johnie, stap, ye're yet a boy,
Know, Beauty's but a fleetin' toy,
An' love's a momentary joy,
That soon will pass,
It will your inward peace destroy,
Ye simple Ass.

For all these joys will pass away,
When Age shall come, life's winter day,
An' firmest friendship will decay;
My son, good night."
Erato thus to me did say,
Then took her flight.

My bosom heav'd, I gave a sigh,
As after her I cast my eye,
Until her flight she winged on high,
Out o' my sight,
An' reach'd her distant kindred sky,
'Mang orbs o' light.

Sae now, dear Frank, my Muse is gane,
Which causes me a kin' o' pain;
But aiblins she'll return again,
An' wi' me dwell;
An' daut me like a sukin' wean;
Sae, frien', farewell.

The Weaver's Triumph - by Edward Sloan

The latest poem posted is The Weaver’s Triumph by Edward L Sloan, of Conlig. Conlig is a village between Newtownards and Bangor, in County Down, and I was a pupil at the village Primary School. This poem comes from Sloan's 1854 book, The Bard’s Offering in the preface of which, he refers to himself as one, ‘young in years, almost uneducated … whose hand has more been used to the daily avocations of the labouring tradesman than wielding the pen’. Like many of the Ulster-Scots folk poets, Sloan was a weaver and a Freemason and there are hints in some of his poems that he at least contemplated emigrating to America. Many of Sloan’s poems are either in English, or have only a touch of Ulster-Scots, with this one being the most Ulster-Scots.


The Weaver’s Triumph
By Edward Sloan

It was but yestreen I had oot my bit claith, man,
Tuk it under my arm, doun tae Balford I went,
Untae the Braid Square, tae wee cockit Rab’s warehoose –
For a trifle o’ cash, man, it was my intent.
My noddle bein’ reeming wi’ stoups o’ guid liquor,
I marched in fu’ stately and throwed the dud down,
Whan a cock-o’-the-north o’ a foreman, ca’d Hudson,
Whispered tae his employer – ‘We’ll gi’e him a croon.’

My wee bit o’ labour bein’ thrown on the counter,
Wi’ butterfly’s een tae examine’t he goes;
He hemmed and he ha’d, and he swore it was shameless,
Syne oot wi’ his snoot-cloth and dighted his nose.
He swore that the warp would been better by double –
For their penny collars ‘twas nae use ava;
Though the price o’ my labour was just half-a-guinea,
He would gi’e me a shilling and let me awa.

I glowered at the ape wi’ twa een like red cinders,
While wee cockit Rab at his knavery did wink;
Quo’ I, ‘Honest foreman, ye ha’e turned a barber,
Tae shave simple weavers sae neatly, I think;
But haud ye, a jiffey, my potstick-legged callan –
For my nine-and-sixpence I’ll gi’e ye some fun:
I’ll ca’ doun your betters tae think on your capers,
And see if you’ll rob me, you half-stocked gun.’

Noo, twa honest neebours together convened.
And examined it weel, frae beginning tae end;
And the verdict they gi’en was, ‘Return him his money,
Or before Parson Wilkins* you’ll ha’e tae attend.’
My money I pouched wi’ a rollickin’ smirk –
O oh! What was the look that his foremanship gi’en!
Quo’ I, ‘Honest foreman, act somewhat mair justly:
You see arbitration’s but seldom your frien’.’

Noo, some o’ my neebours mayna ken this same foreman,
But I’ll draw you his portrait, as well as I can,
Though it’s nae easy job for a puir, simple weaver,
As I would wrang him greatly, tae ca’ him a man:
His face – it’s the texture an’ shape o’ a monkey’s;
Each cheek would hold neatly a shilling o’ pence;
A’ the wit that he has in his weel-theekit noddle’s
What oor neebour Tam ca’s a “guid griping sense.”

He’s like – but why need I attempt to describe him –
The pen o’ a Buffon would soon be tae blame;
Some day, when auld Nature has been busy working,
She has tossed by the gruns – made him oot o’ the same.
Fareweel tae ye, Robin; adieu tae your foreman –
A sweet pair o’ rascals you are, I declare;
It’s a pity tae waste pen and ink on sic creatures –
Guid-bye tae ye neebours, I’ll noo say nae mair


* A magistrate

Address To A Cricket - by Sarah Leech

This latest posting is a poem entitled Address To A Cricket by East Donegal poetess, Sarah Leech, the Bard of Lettergull.

Sarah, who was the daughter of a linen weaver, had a short but interesting life. She was a fervent supporter of the Protestant Anti-Repeal cause (which opposed The Catholic Association’s campaign for the repeal of The Act of Union) addressed the Brunswick Club on this issue, and dedicated her one volume of 25 poems, published in 1828, to the President and officers of the club.

Address To A Cricket

At gloamin' when the twilight fa',
And songsters to their nests withdrawn,
A cricket, snugh behind the wa',
Supplies their place,
And in corner sings fu' braw,
Wi' unco grace.

When younkers scamper, ane by aye,
And dowie I am left alane,
You cheer my heart wi'hamely strain,
Or shrill toned chirple,
As cozie roun' the warm hearth-stane,
You nightly hirple.

May wae befa' them, that would gie
A fiddler penny or bawbee,
When they can have sic music free,
Withouten stent-
Much fitter they should keep the fee,
To help their rent.

What tho' your note be aye the same,
In grateful strain I sing your name,
Weel might my muse blush deep wi' shame,
Should she neglect,
To greet you in her humble hame,
Wi' due respect.

And when the nipping frosty win',
Blaws frae the North with whistling din,
Or wintry floods roar o'er the linn,
In foam and spray,
I shall wi' crumbs, when night sets in,
Requite your lay.

The Hawk And The Weazle - by Samuel Thomson

Here's a poem entitled The Hawk And The Weazle, by Samuel Thomson (1766-1816) The Bard of Carngranny. Carngranny is near Templepatrick in County Antrim. Thomson was poor but, unlike many of the other Ulster-Scots folk poets, he was a schoolmaster, albeit of a 'hedge' school. Thomson associated with the intellectual leaders of the Belfast United Irishmen and, between 1792 and 1797, he was one of the most regular contributors (often using a variety of pseudonyms) to the poetry column of the Belfast radical newspaper The Northern Star. After the 1798 Rising failed, Thomson seems to have become more circumspect as he then contributed to the less radical Belfast News-letter. He published three volumes of his poetry (1793, 1799 and 1806).

The Hawk And The Weazle

To town ae morn, as Lizie hie’d
To seel a pickle yarn,
A wanton Whiteret she espy’d,
A sportin at a cairn.
Alang the heath beskirted green,
It play’d wi’ monie a wheel:
She stood and dighted baith her een,
An’ thought it was the Diel
She saw at freaks!

But soon her doubts were a’ dismis’t
A gled cam whist’ling by,
And seiz’d the weazle:- ere it wist,
‘Twas halfway at the sky.
But soon the goss grew feeble like,
And syne began to fa’,
Till down he daded on a dyke,
His thrapple ate in twa;
Let him snuff that.

The weazle aff in triumph walks,
An’ left the bloodless glutton,
A warning sad to future hawks
That grien for weazle’s mutton.
So reprobates, that spitefu’ cross,
Decree their nibour’s ruin,
Are aften forc’d, like foolish goss,
To drink o’ their ain brewin’,
Wha says its wrang.

To Disappointment - by Hugh Porter

Here's a poem entitled To Disappointment by Hugh Porter (c1780-?) the Bard of Moneyslane, taken from his one published volume of poetry (1813). Moneyslane is a townland in County Down, near Ballyroney. Porter was a poor linen weaver but, unlike most of the other Ulster-Scots folk poets, he had a patron, the local Church of Ireland rector, Rev Thomas Tighe. Tighe had links to many well-known literary figures of the day and another of his protégés was Patrick Brontë, father of the famous Brontë sisters.

To Disppointment

O THOU! On mischief ever bent,
As far contemn’d, as weel ye’re kent;
Few fellows will the loss lament,
When Grumphie gets ye;
It seems ye hae been born in lent,
For a’ flesh hates ye.

And O! that ye had never yet
Been born, to keep my heart sae het,
Or had I been endow’d wi’ wit
To keep far frae ye;
For sure on earth, there’s nane less fit
To wingle wi’ ye.

O happy ye! Wha daily drudge
Thro’ dirt an’ dung, without a grudge,
Nor hope, nor fear, can e’er dislodge
Your sluggish pace;
As deaf to honour, on ye trudge,
As to disgrace.

Ye miserable, happy wretches,
Nae canker on your conscience catches –
Nae sic repose the thinker thatches
Frae fear or fright;
But he or weeps, perhaps, or watches
The live-lang night.

Ye’re hale an’ healthie now, an’ therefore
Nae matter what comes next, or wherefore,
What crams your kits, is a’ ye care for
To taste or touch;
An’ what we can be wantin’ mair for,
Ye marvel much.

Wel, happy be, ye peacefu’ pack ye,
Happy as blockishness can mak’ ye,
An’ may vexation ne’er owertak’ ye,
To gar ye grane,
Nor blasted hopes, like mine, distract ye,
Amen, amen.

On Salts - by Robert Huddleston

Here's a poem entitled On Salts by Robert Huddleston (1814-1887) the Bard of Moneyrea. Moneyrea is a village between Comber, Ballygowan and Carryduff which had (and still has) only one (Unitarian) church. The locals used to say:

Moneyrea, sweet and civil,

Yin God and nee divil.

Robert Huddleston was a farmer, gunsmith, lyricist, poet and prose writer. Of all the Ulster-Scots poets, he was probably the most prolific. As well as his two published volumes of poetry and songs (1844 and 1846) there is a large collection of unpublished work. Huddleston was so disillusioned by the poor response to these books that he did not publish any more poetry during the last 40 years of his life. Instead, he concentrated his literary efforts on a novel (The Adventures Of Hughy Funny) but was unable to find anyone willing to publish this. Huddleston is buried in Moneyrea Unitarian church graveyard. Unfortunately, his family headstone (pictured above) has broken and the main part is now lying on the grass. It would be great to see this repaired and some kind of memorial erected celebrating Huddleston's literary work.

About the poem, Huddleston wrote, "To be original is a rare feature in composition. The origin of Salts and that which brought it before the public, was the borrowing of a physic from a friend, to the benefit of a sick heart, to whom the postscript refers."

ON SALTS

O, Salts! thy glorious powers tae sing,
What Muse O, wadna spread her wing,
An' tightly lace her sweetest string
Tae gie thee lays;
A just reward to thee to bring,
To chant thy praise.

Ye Doctors 'mid yeir trampin' rife,
'Mang lad an' lass, an' man an' wife,
The king o' Doctors in a trice,
Is guid clean Salts.
Gie them the preference -- meed o' life,
An' health results.

Alas! whan we're wi' sickness groanin',
O, quat your pills an' po'ders schemin':
(But then it's Doctors' interest gloomin,
Wi' pain tae tease;
An' keep poor humans swallowin' human,
Wi' mair disease.)

Be honest, men, nor play the rogue,
Nae mair e'en bruise the snake or toad;
(An' for their hearts bluid to corrode,)
Or poisonous smalts:
Stan' teughly tae the healin' trade,
An' order Salts.

yeir this drug rid, the tither blue,
An' white an' green, an' yellow too;
An' then yeir drawers a motled vow!
Wi' cunnin' names;
But cannie notes the sleekit crew,
Wi' a' yeir schemes.

But this the plan ye tak' tae sell,
Tae feast the e'e an' please the smell;
A dose yei'd gie's tae mak us weel,
Just, just, for thruppence!
But haud ye there, Salts bans yeir skill,
We're weel for ha'pense.

Salts thou for me, and I for you,
Henceforth I hae a frien' that's true;
Ye'll dine but spare, an' never fu',
Ye paukie scroy,
Dae ye intend that chaps like me,
Yeir brew sud buy!

Ah! what disease wad Salts no cure?
They'd near pit by th' allotted hour;
Tho' feeble nerves, an' blood sae frore,
Wi' filth a rustin' --
Tho' dim we shine; sae clean they scour,
We 'gain do glisten.

Us poets, poor discernin' buddies,
Are aft annoy'd amid our studies;
By ane sae vile, the plague o' caddies,
Ca'd Indigestion: --
Salts are the boys that cleans the haggish,
An' tooms the brustin'.

Whan head or gut ache sair ye bothers,
Or pains in rumps, or stuffiin' mothers;
Pit Salts just on the trail my brithers --
Wi' stink an' win'; --
Just hissin' like a bag o' ethers,
Disease is gone.

Whan big my Lord he eats ower much,
Or's got a stappin' in his britch;
Ower roast beef, mutton, wine, or such,
O, thou art physic:
Sweet Salts, thou soon relieves the catch
An' reds the hash o't.

A wee bit ower, an' time tae trickle,
Oh! hear his tripes as rum'lin' keckle;
Away it goes wi' row't an' rattle,
An' rainbow thun'er;
An' tooms the brute - losh! losh! how muckle,
O' perfect scunner.

Whan toddlin' weanies tak' the dwam,
The cheapest Doctor's aye at han';
Just kilt their coaties up them roun,
Nor fear the ail:
But pour the potient liquid doon,
An' soon they're hale.

The love-sick maiden far apart,
'Mang wilds tae moan the waefu' smart;
Tae rouse the canker frae her heart,
Salts what's like thee?
Again she's lively as a lark,
An' brisk's a bee.

Wae worth the silly worthless dug,
Wha wadna raise his voice to laud --
A prey to sorrow, worm, or grub,
Salts thou'rt the devil
That tans the reptiles, fegs the lad
Free's us o' evil.

Wee baby-ba, the womb whan 'scapes,
What, what, preserves it frae th' pox?
Let mother matron 'mid her jokes
Now lagh an' say --
How aft she scour'd it 'mang the crocks,
Tae keep it free.

Out a' night wi' his w--s an' jades,
An' rantin wi' his jolly vagues;
Poor drunken Will a' torn in rags,
An' new gat hame;
O, Salts! how mony earthly plagues
Thou keep'st frae him.

Even the influence to procure,
That Salts are gi'en -- that same they'll cure;
The ---- in a needfu' hour,
Tae speak it plain;
As sure as C----y kept a boar,
That had it on.

For mental, weel as bod'ly ill,
Salts, Salts! the dose 'fore drap or pill --
Per this drug, that drug, Mr. Phill,
Yon glype sae buxsom;
The noblest med'cine in your hall,
Gie him the Epsom.

As suitin' best the silly scarum,
Wham lust an' laziness is at war in:
An' too, yon lass wham pride's devo'rin',
'Thout sense sae fumbled;
Her wi' the souple ---- e'en charm,
An' faith she's humbled.

The rigid bigot in his cause,
Despisin' every others laws;
I carna tho' o' priestcraft's braws,
I swear 'twere better
'Fore let him preach his cursed flaws,
He had the -----

Of Salt's power at reason spier,
I've mark an' but a sample here,
An' what need we for waste our lear,
Or bebble more o't!
We cudna sing their charms 'n a year,
An' set us for it.

Drink Salts, drink Salts, my freens, yeir fill,
An' crystal water frae the rill;
Ye'll lang respect yeir hale an' weel,
Nor tine yeir bliss;
An' fin' my doctorship an' skill
No far amiss.

Ilk man an' maid wha health reveres,
Nor care a fig wha at you sneers,
Come join the corps like flinty fiers,
An' stoutly back us.
Hurrae for Salts! let's gie three cheers,
An' guid black pretaes.


postscript

I'm much indebted tae ye madam,
An' for the physic ye sent Rabin,
May never sorrow bite yeir droddum;
But happ'ly blest,
Tae you may still turn fortune's totum,
A lucky cast.

Waes me! poor sorros lonely chiel!
Nae dou't but it will gar ye smile,
Whan i tell ye withoutan' guile,
Just plain r'ugh Rab;
Salts, salts for ance in first rate style
They doon their jab.

Ye'd thocht ae time my guts war churnin',
Anither time I was a' barmin';
A third, a rotin ill I's turnin',
Sae rude in manner:
While growl'd the win' like Mons Meg stormin,
Or distant thunder.

But ower my thrap a wee bit doon,
A wee drap drink my drouth tae droon;
Och, whishu! Care struck up her tune,
Ye may gie't credence;
Savin' yeir present, at the grun'
I got a redence.

Now hale and weel, and blythe and flinty,
Ance mair death bother't, thank ye, thank ye,
An' for yeir kin'ness dame sae denty
'Gain ye'd allow't,
Guid faith I hae a min' tae prent ye
In my new book.

The Auld Wife's Lament For Her Teapot

This latest posting is a poem entitled The Auld Wife's Lament for her Teapot by David Herbison (1800-1880) the Bard of Dunclug. Dunclug is near Ballymena, in County Antrim. Like many of the Ulster-Scots folk poets, Herbison was a weaver by trade. Five separate volumes of his verse were published during his lifetime. These were then reprinted after his death in a single volume, along with additional material.


Alas! Alas! what shall I do,
My auld black pot is broke in two,
In which I did sae often brew
The wee drap tea,
And thought it would hae cheered me through
Life’s weary way.

A better pot,sure, ne’er was made.
It wadna vent the sma’est blade;
Still when the tablecloth was laid
And it appeared
A smile out o’er my visage played
And a’ things cheered.

Before I brought it frae the town
It cost me nearly half-a-crown,
Nor did I grude’t, it was sae roun’,
And very snug –
At every party it was down,
Throughout Dunclug.

Lang after it cam’ to our house
I kept it for our Sunday use;
But when my daughters a’ got spruce,
And wanted men
Ah! then it got the sore abuse
Baith but and ben.

Whene’er their wooers cam’ to see them,
A wee drap tae they be to gie them,
For fear, as I thought, they would lea’ them,
Alone to rove,
They never failed wi’ sweets to free them
Frae ither’s love.

’Twas then my teapot had to thole
The power of mony a blazening coal,
Which gnawed me to the very soul
To hear it crackin’,
While they prepared the buttered roll
For lads to smack on.

They burned it till it was as thin
As my auld wrinkled, bluidless skin,
I still must say it was a sin
To use it sae
For lads that didnae care a pin
About their tae.

But noo my daughters a’ are wed,
And health and peace frae me are fled,
I find it hard to earn my bread
And creamless tea,
And wish I wi’ the pot was laid
Low in the clay.

For ah! I’m sure I’ll never see
Such joys as charmed my youthfu’ e’e –
The days are past when folks like me
Could earn their bread,
My auld wheel now sits silently
Aboon the bed.

And well may Erin weep and wail
The day the wheels began to fail;
Our tradesmen now can scarce get kail
Betimes to eat,
In shipfuls they are doomed to sail
In quest o’ meat!

For that machine that spins the yarn
We’re left unfit our bread to earn;
O Erin! will you ne’er turn stern
Against your foe,
When every auld wife can discern
Your overthrow.

Hornbook's Ghaist - by Francis Boyle

Here's a poem written by Francis Boyle (c1730- post 1811) of Gransha County Down from his 1811 volume Miscellaneous Poems. His was the Gransha near Dundonald rather than the one near Bangor. Although it is often said that Ulster-Scots writers merely imitated the works of Robert Burns, many of Boyle's poems were written before Burns work was published, although this one does appear to have been influenced by Burns.

Interestingly, Robert Burns wrote 'Death and Dr Hornbook' in 1785 as a satire about John Wilson, the son of Glasgow weaver who initially came to teach at Tarbolton and later kept a shop where he also sold drugs and gave out medical advice. A 'hornbook' was a sheet of paper with basic learning tools such as the alphabet, numerals and the Lord's Prayer and this would have been mounted on wood and covered by a protective plate of transparent horn. Burns wrote his poem after hearing Wilson going on about his medical knowledge at the Tarbolton Masonic Lodge. Here's Boyle's poem:

HORNBOOK'S GHAIST

It happen't ance in Donaghadee,
No' monie perches frae the kee,
A gentleman I chanc't to see,
'Mang ither foks,
Wha deign't to talk a while wi' me,
An' sklent his jokes.

He saw that I was auld an' gray,
An' had but little for to say,
My garb was neither mean nor gay,
Just kintra weed,
An' as it was a frosty day,
Had tie't my head.

He took me for some kintra clown,
Wha liv't far distant frae the town;
He'll rue his folly I'll be boun',
To slight my leuk;
I'll spread his fame the kintra roun',
In my new beuk.

I hear he has attain't some skill,
To wait on women when they're ill,
An can prescribe sic dose or pill,
As mak's them worse;
An' braid receipts for them he'll fill,
To swall his purse.

But yet mair famous for his cures
O' batter't bawds, an' pockie whores,
While here an' there he taks his tours,
'Mang brothel-houses;
He sudna scorn my mental pow'rs,
Nor slight the Muses.

These sportin' Does, like Mrs. Clarke,
That win their wages i' the dark,
An' warm their logies wi' their wark,
Which staps their water
They maun gie Hornbook monie a mark
To mak' them better.

Young Tarry-breeks is come ashore,
Thro' storms an' tempests that did roar -
Revisits now his paramour,
The sportin' maid,
An' swears she's sprightly, aft an' fore,
An' fit for trade.

Some folk will say he's but a quack,
But that maun be a great mistak';
He cur't young Jamie, Wull an' Jack,
An' teuk their fees,
An' mim-mouth't Meg, the ridden hack,
O' her disease.

Nae Hornbook bred in shire o' Ayr,
Wi' our new doctor can compare;
My lads, jog on, an' never spare
To warm their tail;
Twa or three days in Hornbook's care,
Will mak' thee hale.

As Jock does live at the sea-side,
He sud bathe aften in the tide;
To brace his nerves, an' clean his hide,
In the saut water;
Perhaps this might allay his pride,

An' stap his clatter.

Hoo Tae Mak Tablet

This here's hoo tae mak Tablet. Gin ye dinnae haed it afore, it's like fudge onie ye dinnae hae tae chew fur it jist melts in yer moo. It's no hard tae mak an it's awfu nice, but dinnae cum rinnin whun yer teeth faa oot!

Whut’s In it

Twa pun o Caster Shugger
Thie oonces o Watter
Twa oonces o Butter
Twa tablepoons o Lyle’s Golden Syrup
Yin wee tin o Condensed Milk
Hauf a tayspoon o Vanilla

Hoo Tae Mak It

1. Pit tha hale lot intae a pot an warm it up tae tha shugger haes aa melted.
2. Keep stirrin aa tha time tae it biles an let it bile awa fur a guid hauf oor.
3. Tak it aff, gie it a guid batin an teem it oot intae a weel-creeshed tin.
4. Gie it a while tae cool doon an merk it oot fur cuttin, but dinnae cut it tae it’s coul.

A guid feelin ...

A lukked oot ma bathroom windae this morn an seen a wunnerfu sicht - no yin, no twa, but thie burds o prey (A thocht the' wur rid kites, but A'm telt the' cudnae be on accoont o hoo the' wur onie bin pit beck intae NI in 2008, an the' wur maist likely buzzards) fleein roon aboon tha fiels at tha beck o ma hoose. Thon soart o thang daes yer hairt guid an A reckon it's pit me in guid foarm fur tha rest o tha day, an thon's a guid thang fur A'm aboot tae stairt a baa rollin theday that cud (fing'rs crossed) mak a quare difference tae ma wye o life.

A cudnae fin tha camera in time tae get tha burds, but A tuk a wheen o shots o tha view oniehoo. A hinnae this wabsteid warked oot yit fur it's onie lettin me pit tha yin up. Mebbe A'll get it soarted oot later on.

Aa fur noo ...

Bairnies Cuddle Doon - Part 2

If anyone's interested, I found out a bit more about Alexander Anderson, the author of Bairnies Cuddle Doon. It seems he was quite a guy.

http://gerald-massey.org.uk/anderson/c_misc_1.htm

What's In a Name, or Tune ... Part 1

A friend recently suggested I start a blog and I replied saying, "Sure I don't do anything interesting any more. Who'd be interested in what I had for dinner last night, or what the cat did?" It got me thinking anyway and I decided "Why not?" It mightn't be earth-shattering stuff, but it's what interests me and maybe some folk might enjoy it too.


Anyway, the other day I was re-reading the works of the Ulster-Scots folk poet James Orr (1770-1816) the Bard of Ballycarry and I happened to notice that a few works are listed as songs with the author's suggested airs listed. That got me thinking ... I already knew that Orr's poem Ballycarry Fair was set to the same tune as Burns' Green Grow The Rashes O as performed by Willie Drennan's Ulster-Scots Folk Orchestra http://www.naegoatstoe.com/ but I wanted to see what the others would sound like.


The tune listed for The Spae Wife (see below for text) was Come Under My Plaidie, which I'd heard of, but never heard out loud. However, a quick dig through my music books and I found the words to Come Under My Plaidie (by Hector MacNeill 1746-1818) and the music. It turns out I actually knew the tune already, only I knew it as the well-know Robert Burns song Tibbie Dunbar (link to the sheetmusic) http://www.8notes.com/digital_tradition/TBIEDNBR.asp and the original tune name is apparently Johnny McGill. O what a tangled web. Anyway, here it is:

The Spae-Wife

Ye frien’s o’ deep knowledge, if wise ye wad be,
Creep into my cave an’ a’ secrets ye’ll see;
If maiden, or mother, uncertainty bother,
Frae doubt an’ frae darkness, their min’s I can free:
Ilk lass, no told lees on, wha deems, an’ wi’ reason,
The youth she oblig’t frae her fond arms will flee,
An’ wife, in a fear ay, that jilts meet her dearie,
May learn the hale truth by applyin’ to me.

Gif Chanticlear’s ta’en frae tha roost whare he craw’t;
Or horse, kye or sheep, frae the pasture-fiel’ ca’t.
My head I’ll bestow ye, if I dinna shew ye
The leuks in a glass, o’ the loun that’s in faut:
Or else if ye cleek up, an’ toss my delft tea cup,
If danger, or death’s near, the gruns plain will shaw’t:
By cuttin’ o’ cartes folk, an’ no’ by black arts, folk,
O past, present, future, I’ll read ye a claut.

A spunkie reply’t, wha oureheard the dark dame –
“Guid wife! They wha trust ye defeat their ain aim;
“The henpecket taupie, wha’d wiss to be happy,
“Sud ax nane wha kens – what the wife does at hame:
“Ilk sport-lovin’ weary, might dread to come near ye,
“Wha ken’st the dark neuk where she try’t the blythe game-
“The grand plan of Nature’s conceal’d frae a’ creatures;
"Nor cud their skill chang’t gif they kent the hale scheme.

“Ye promise promotion, an’ sin’ frae the mead
“The shepherd to sea, whare some shark soon he’ll feed;
“The young thing, sae bonie, weds some canker’t clownie,
“Because ye’ve presage’d that nae ither’s decreed –
“While dupes trust the sybil far mair than the bible,
“An’ change the last sixpence that ye may be fee’d,
“I’ll scorn the to-morrow, an’ banishin’ sorrow,
“Learn mair light frae whiskey than e’er fill’t your head.