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