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[obscureoldscotspoems]

Epistle tae Davie

Dear Davie Lad                    It gies me pleesure Noo in this evenin' oor o' leesure, Tae write tae ye this Lallans jingle, As I sit bi a cheery ingle. Nae doot ye'll think this puny verse, That winna roose the universe, Nor gar great pundits an' their minions, Tae overhaul erstwhile opinions. O' wha in Lallans poetry, 'S maist fit wi' Burns tae bear the gree, Let's leave it 'til "Sir John de Graeme", Tae win me literary fame. As poetry its somewhit better, Than the lame verse intil this letter, But let that pass, it winna maitter.

I see that Scotia's heath ye've quitted, An' tae the Soothlan' ye hae flitted, Some gate aboot the Howe o' Lincoln, - Faur cry frae Glesca' Toon, I'm thinkin'. Ma rhymes may better serve nor prose, Tae mind ye on "The Land o' Brose", O' whilk a wheen droll tales are tauld, Whaurin Truth's aft gey sairly mauled. Haud on, Dave, till I limn a scene, Will aiblins shaw ye whit I mean, Come, jine me on a Caledonian tour, I hope your pleesure in it turns na sour.

O Scotia, land o lochs an' bens, Crags, peat hags an' stags in glens, An' Heilan' stots at the lochan's edges, Slorpin' the mists amang the sedges, O Scotia, land o' the bonnie glens, Whaur shilpit loons frae "single ends", Thrang in droves wi' their keelie molls, Tae seek refreshment for their sauls. Bravin' the vagaries o' the weather, Traikin' your hills o' purple heather. See them "foot it out together Be it fair or stormy weather." - O leeze me on yon hiker billies, Wi' their tartan socks an' ukeleles, On whilk they twang hill-billy tunes, O leeze me on yon hiker loons! -

O Scotia, hame o' Burns an' Barrie, "Bonny Mary" an' "Annie Laurie", "Scots wha hae" an' Scots wha hinnae, Donald Dhu an' Donald Dinnie; The hame o' aa' that's great an' true, As ony Scotsman will alloo. O Scotia, land o' sma' kailyairds, Prood clan chiefs an' bunnet lairds, Land o' the pipes, an' hame o' the tartan, An' weather keen's the claw o' partan, Tae freeze the knees o' sturdiest Spartan. No that the weather irks true Scots, Wha eidently sup their parritch oats.

O Scotia, caa the clansmen frae their hames, The tourists maun hae Hielan' Games, Caa frae the clachans, crofts an' castles, The chiefs, their senechies an' dunniewassals The pipers, drummers, bards an' ghillies Yon's the braw sichts for tourist billies - The kilted hurdies an' kirtled shuthers The bunnets bristlin' wi' blackcocks' feathers - It's no the tourist ilka day Can boast they've seen sic fine array Sae let them hae their Hielan' Games For they hae traipsied frae their hames In carefu' search o' local colour; Then dinna vex. They've rowth o' siller Their gowd'll steek the dollar gap Oor games pit us upon the cultural map Bayreuth an' Stratford could scarce be on a par Wi' the annual glories o' Royal Braemar.

(There's a "Road to the Isles" an' "A Window in Thrums" But we'll ne'er let a wheest o' the acres o' slums For there are some things are better unsaid Since we maunna imperil the great tourist trade).

Tourists hae come faur frae their hames Sae let them see the Hielan' Games.

Let lassies jinglin' wi' medallions Dance an' prance wi' rare agility While stalwart men as strang as stallions         Perform according tae abeelity Let athletes wechts an' hammers hurl Let kiltie dancers boo an' birl Let pipers gie the bags a dirl O let the martial music skirl

(Oh, the brave music of a distant drum An' distant pipes soun' sweeter still, think some).

Let pipers gie the bags a dirl An' let the brave, braw music skirl                For guidness kens Tourists will threep wi' satisfaction They've seen an' heard the clans in action                Amang their native glens.

Here endeth noo this Caledonian pageant, A droller clanjamphrie was ne'er imajin't Tho' I've set oot ma views in pure pastiche T'was gude tae let ma feelin's aff the leash.

Ma letter stertit wi' an even chimean O ane line wi' the neist ane rhyman But noo, ye'll see, in the hindmaist stanza Ma rhyme scheme coorts extravaganza As on the Sabbath ilk kirk bell            Rings its ain chime An' wi' its neebour disna mell            Sae wi' ma rhyme The gate ma Muse gangs, maun dae me Albeit it leads ma prosody ajee But no for peevish murnins did I invoke the Muse Sae Davie lad, pu' in your chair an' hear ma views

The doors are snecked, the windaes steekit The fire alowe, the hoose weel beekit An there, his languid length oot-streekit                    Upon the mat Wi' een whiles shut, an whiles hauf-keekit                    Behold oor cat! Blinkin' an' govean at the gleeds Wi' een as green as emerald beads The name is Angus, masculine gender His favourite neuk beside the fender Ilk nicht he diligently hugs He purrs whane'er ye scart his lugs Mair nor the cat within the hoose This nicht is feelin' unco croose.

Aa day I've tholed the elemental fury Sae noo it's gran' fornent the fire tae coorie The lang darg on the hill's complete An' I hae ate my evenin' meat - Nae Benmore cheat-the-belly stuff But halesome food an aye enough Weel-cuiked an' served in a mair gracious way Nor macaroni in a creeshy tray E'en Daisy Watson wad alloo It maun be "chacun à son goût" Sae I hae tauld ma guidwife Joanie That "mon goût n'est pas macaroni" An noo I dine as weel's I may Wha toil tae win a pund a day.

Davie ye'll see frae oor address We bidena faur frae Inverness - I'll tell ye o' that toun again Quhilk to considder is ane pane -

Kiltarlity's oor pairish Foxhole's the nearest schule Battan's the place we live at Heich upon a hill.

The locals arena boorish Tho' some in mainner cool As if no to be a Lovat Was tae mark ye for a fool

In Beaufort Castle's pomp The Lovat Frasers bide Their lives a shinean lamp Tae aa the kintrae-side.

(Davie, ye'll think me sair At the Hielanders' expense But why the unco steer Their inordinate reverence

For whit's gane by lang syne? Why their deid forbears mimic? Here's Caledonia's sin - The cult of the patronymic!).

An' here for ye's anither fact Ma Muse owre easily's side-tracked I promised ye I'd gie ye news, Instead ye've heard me gab ma views On the Hielan scene as I construe it Tho' maybe no as the tourists view it This point I've dinged as wi' a hammer - There's mair tae Scotland nor glib glamour Sae noo "retrones à nos moutons" An tak' up the burden o' my story I was aboot tae introduce Ye tae the environs o' ma hoose Sax hunnert feet abune sea level An' bluffert lik' the verra devil In winter bi the angry gale That brings in turn, snaw, rain an hail The Battan wudes hae aa been felled Leavan the hillsides cauld an' beld O timmer bare but wi' stumps a-bristle Thro' whilk the wind wi' eerie whistle Comes pouncean, bouncean frae the wast Tae skelp an skite us wi' his blast Till simmer comes we hae nae help But thole snell Boreas's skelp Bidean in hope o' better times An' dreamin' oor dreams o' warmer climes

A curse upon the bard did sing A garden is a lovesome thing Him wad I shaw ma so-caad garden An' speir gin he'd no beg ma pardon Oor forrit prospect, I'll confess Is nocht but sterile wilderness A "waste land", "a blasted heath" O' ling abune an' rock beneath An' yet anither weed's nae lackan - It's Scotia's curse, the creepin' bracken This birn o' stanes an' scanty soil Hauds oot the promise o' sair toil I've no as yet e'er had the hert Tae tak' a spade an' mak a stert "A garden is a lovesome thing, God wot" When I see mine a lump comes in ma throat And a tear I canna hide What guid's a gairden in this bleak kintrae-side?

Did I say bleak? That's hardly true; Ae thing we hae's a glorious view I wad neglect the poet's duty Gin I peyed nae tribute tae its beauty Northward an' faur intil the wast Great rugged hills lie ranged an' massed Raw on raw o' serried peaks That hae been wreathed in snaw for weeks While tae the east, closer at hand There lies a strath o gude fairm-land Noo Dave, afore I end ma sang A word o' the chiels we bide amang They till the yird, an' tint their flocks The same as ither kintrae folks - We're aa the self-same britherhood Aa bairnies o' Jock Tamson's brood Whither we hail frae oot the Lallands Or claim oorsels as Hielan' callants Tho' here there are, as aawhere else The few wha preen an' pride themsels An ettle tae heeze up a steer Because they've hained a puckle gear - There's mair wi' siller can be coft Than graith tae plenish fairm or croft - Their parks are snodly ploo'd an' harrow'd But the lanskip o' their minds is arid Belyve I hae come tae expect Nae kindred speerit o' intellect Whan we hae said "It's cold to-day" There's little else for us tae say Whan we've agreed 'tis stormy weather We'se be tongue-tacket baith thegither Whan we've remarked his neeps are frostit Oor common store o' talk's exhausted I kenna the respective merits O' takin' game wi' snares or ferrits Nor wha's held in the maist esteem Intil the local shinty team - As yet I've had nae time tae gove at Newtonmore, Strathglass or Lovat -

I see that, Davie, at your place Ye're in a similar sad case Talk o' cabbages an' trees Hae no the interest aye tae please; Wi kail an' conifers replete The mind sune greins for ither meat Sae Dave, ma fier, I hope that this'll Draw frae ye a lang epistle In while ye'll treat me tae your views news Forbye your much-respectit views I wad gie much tae hae ye back That we micht hae an auld-time crack

At New Year, Joan an' I gaed doon Tae veesit Perth an' Fankertoun Renew the ties o' flesh an' bane An' see the weel-kent spots again T'wad fill a page or twaa wi' rhyme Tae tell ye hoo we spent the time Suffice it then for me tae say On Hogmanay we were right gay I maun allow I felt gey cheerie Tho' dinna think I was camsteerie Juist ae nicht i' the lee-lang year I frae the straucht an' nerra veer An' wi' ma freens I mak' carousal An' tae a dram gie nae refusal Baith Rabbie Burns an' auld Khayyam Advise us tae tak aff oor dram An autram dram is nae abhorrent That has sic worthy poets' warrant Sae ilk New Year I rise up on ma hams An' gie ma freens a stave o' "Nicky Tams" An auld sang yon, but fresh as salad Ye canna beat a gude-gaun bothy ballad Wi' the tang o' the yird in't an' a braw tune forbye I like tae sing it when I'm feelin' spry

The evenin's still are lang an' mirk An whan I staucher hame frae wark An' whan I've had ma evenin' meal There's naethin' that I loe sae weel As tae draw intil the ingle-neuk Tae pree the pleasure o' some beuk Whiles it be prose, but maistly verse Yeats or Burns or auld Dunbars Tho' Burns is richtly weel-respeckit The auld grey horse is sair neglickit "Gret reuth it wer that so suld be" Whan he in technique bears the gree Owre Burns an' Henryson an' the lave At turnin' oot a polished stave Burns may command the human heart Dunbar commands the greater art.

Ma ain idea o' Paradise Rigged oot anew in earthly guise Is tae lie back in an easy chair Whan "Poetry Scotland" taks the air Let ne'er a soun' i' the hoose be heard That I micht savour ilka word That smools sae sauve frae the siller tongue O yon beardid bardie, Douglas Joung (sic) In readin' verse there's ane wey o' it An yon lad kens it. He's a poet O I abhor lik' vilest pooshion Practitioners o' elocution They set me rantin' in a rage They mind me o' some village stage Whaur maids an' matrons simper thru' Their pairty piece, syne tak a boo This is caad, "Giving recitations" Sic antics pit me oot o' patience Tae talk gin their mous were stapped wi' bools An' think they're speakin' verse, the fools "But they're only doing their best, poor dears" Then lat them dae it for ithers ears!

Dootless ma freen, ye're boond tae think The maist o' this mere crambo clink An gin ye dae ye're no tae blame For I wad be the last tae claim That this, ma poem, had muckle worth Yet we'll no froon upon its birth For I maun threep juist aince again T'was written you tae entertain I its makar downa be blate Tae thank the lass wha helped me oot The lass I'm meanin, ye'll jalouse Tae be ma puir, lang-sufferin' Muse She stertit oot fu' braw an' jimp But noo puir lass, she's got a limp We'll mak' an end ere it gets worse An' is refleckit in oor verse Sae frae the Muse, ma wife an' me Tae Margaret, wee Jane an' ye We send ye greetin's an' gude weel An' hope that ye're aye bidean weel That Fortune ne'er does ye a shavie S' ma wish for ye, ma gude freen Davie.

                          Robert Thomson,                                     Kiltarlity,                                         Beauly,                                             Inverness-shire.

Written in the early 1950s. Bob Thomson was my grandfather, and I knew him as Papa Bob. He served in the Royal Navy during World War II, and after the war he joined the Forestry Commission, and had a long career living in various places in the Highlands. He had a keen interest in poetry and prose, and in photography. He died in 1991.

#scottish poetry #scots language #poems of bob thomson #scotland #old poetry #scottish culture #1950s #scottish tourism #culture clash