|
Post by LLady on Mar 3, 2006 9:33:40 GMT 10
I didn't know about this one. It has my Dad's name in it!
Standard English Translation
You're Welcome, Willie Stewart TUNE: Ye're welcome, Charlie Stewart
Chorus You're welcome, Willie Stewart! You're welcome, Willie Stewart! There's ne'er a flower that blooms in May, That's half sae welcome's thou art! 1. Come, bumpers high! express your joy! The bowl we maun renew it - The tappet-hen, gae bring her ben, To welcome Willie Stewart! 2. May foes be strong, and friends be slack! Ilk action, may he rue it! May woman on him turn her back, That wrangs thee, Willie Stewart!
You Are Welcome, Willie Stewart (You are welcome, Charlie Stewart)
by Robert Burns
Chorus You are welcome, Willie Stewart! You are welcome, Willie Stewart! There is never a flower that blooms in May, That is half so welcome as you are!
Come, bumpers (full glasses) high! express your joy! The bowl we must renew it - The large whiskey bottle, go bring her through, To welcome Willie Stewart!
May foes be strong, and friends be slack! Each action, may he rue it! May woman on him turn her back, That wrongs you, Willie Stewart!
|
|
Elly
Administrator
Posts: 29,887
|
Post by Elly on Mar 3, 2006 11:33:28 GMT 10
can`t say I've heard that one before Llady, but whoever wrote it liked Willie Stewart #ssmile#
|
|
|
Post by LLady on Mar 3, 2006 22:39:33 GMT 10
That they did for a fact elly! #ssmile#
|
|
|
Post by dreamy on Mar 4, 2006 0:11:28 GMT 10
THE TEARS OF SCOTLAND
Mourn, hapless Caledonia, mourn Thy banish'd peace, thy laurels torn! Thy sons, for valour long renown'd, Lie slaughter'd on their native ground; Thy hospitable roofs no more Invite the stranger to the door:- In smoky ruins sunk they lie, The monuments of cruelty. The wretched owner sees afar His all become the prey of war, - Bethinks him of his babes and wife, Then smites his breast and curses life. Thy swains are famish'd on the rocks Where once they fed their wanton flocks: Thy ravish'd virgins shriek in vain; Thy infants perish on the plain.
What boots it then, in every clime, Through the wide-spreading waste of time, Thy martial glory, crown'd with praise, Still shone with undiminish'd blaze? Thy towering spirit now is broke, Thy neck is bended to the yoke :- What foreign arms could never quell By civil rage and rancour fell.
The rural pipe and merry lay No more shall cheer the happy day; No social scenes of gay delight Beguile the dreary winter night; No strains but those of sorrow flow, And nought be heard but sounds of woe,- While the pale phantoms of the slain Glide nightly o'er the silent plain.
O baneful cause, O fatal morn, Accursed to ages yet unborn! The sons against their father stood, The parent shed his children's blood. Yet, when the rage of battle ceased, The victor's soul was not appeased;- The naked and forlorn must feel Devouring flames and murdering steel!
The pious mother, doom'd to death, Forsaken wanders o'er the heath: The bleak wind whistles round her head, Her helpless orphans cry for bread: Bereft of shelter, food, and friend, She views the shades of night descend; And, stretch'd beneath the inclement skies, Weeps o'er her tender babes, and dies.
While the warm blood bedews my veins, And unimpair'd remembrance reigns, Resentment of my country's fate Within my filial breast shall beat; And, spite of her insulting foe, My sympathising verse shall flow. Mourn, hapless Caledonia, mourn Thy banish'd peace, thy laurels torn!
(Tobias Smollet, 1721-1771)
|
|
|
Post by dreamy on Mar 4, 2006 0:13:33 GMT 10
THE PUDDOCK
A Puddock sat by the lochan's brim, An' he thocht there was never a puddock like him. He sat on his hurdies, he waggled his legs, An' cockit his heid as he glowered throu' the seggs The bigsy wee cratur' was feelin' that prood, He gapit his mou' an' he croakit oot lood "Gin ye'd a' like tae see a richt puddock," quo' he, " Ye'll never, I'll sweer, get a better nor me. I've fem'lies an' wives an' a weel-plenished hame, Wi' drink for my thrapple an' meat for my wame. The lasses aye thocht me a fine strappin' chiel, An' I ken I'm a rale bonny singer as weel. I'm nae gaun tae blaw, but the truth I maun tell- I believe I'm the verra MacPuddock himsel'." A heron was hungry an' needin' tae sup, Sae he nabbit th' puddock and gollup't him up; Syne 'runkled his feathers: "A peer thing," quo' he, "But-puddocks is nae as fat as they eesed tae be."
(J.M.Caie)
Meaning of unusual words:
puddock=frog hurdies=buttocks seggs=yellow iris gapit=gaped open gin=if thrapple= throat wame=stomach chiel=child blaw=boast nabbit=grabbed syne=afterwards peer=poor
|
|
|
Post by dreamy on Mar 10, 2006 23:11:51 GMT 10
The following poem was written by "Anonymous" in Gaelic and was translated by Kenneth Jackson.
ARRAN
Arran of the many stags, the sea reaches to its shoulder; island where companies are fed, ridges whereon blue spears are reddened. Wanton deer upon its peaks, Mellow blaeberries on its heaths, cold water in its streams, mast upon its brown oaks.
Hunting dogs there, and hounds, blackberries and sloes of the dark blackthorn, dense thorn-bushes in its woods, stags astray among its oak-groves.
Gathering of purple lichen on its rocks, grass without blemish on its slopes; over its fair shapely crags gambolling of dappled fawns leaping.
Smooth is its lowland, fat are its swine, pleasant its fields, a tale to be believed; its nuts on the boughs of its hazel-wood, sailing of long galleys past it.
It is delightful when fine weather comes, trout under the banks of its streams, seagulls answer each other round its white cliff; delightful at all times is Arran.
|
|
Elly
Administrator
Posts: 29,887
|
Post by Elly on Mar 12, 2006 5:07:56 GMT 10
Haven't heard that one before about my favourite wee place too, thanks Dreamy #ssmile#
|
|
|
Post by dreamy on Mar 12, 2006 22:40:01 GMT 10
I was thinking of you when I was running across this poem; glad you like it! #ssmile#
|
|
|
Post by dreamy on May 8, 2006 4:09:42 GMT 10
The Return (A Piper's Vaunting) (Pittendrigh Macgillivray (1856-1938)
Och hey! for the splendour of tartans! And hey for the dirk and the targe! The race that was hard as the Spartans Shall return again to the charge:
Shall come back again to the heather, Like eagles, with beak and with claws To take and to scatter for ever The Sasennach thieves and their laws.
Och, then, for the bonnet and feather! The pipe and its vaunting clear: Och, then, for the glens and the heather! And all that the Gael holds dear.
|
|
|
Post by andi on Nov 15, 2006 20:29:04 GMT 10
The Little White Rose
The rose of all the world is not for me I want for my part only the little white rose of Scotland That smells sharp and sweet and breaks the heart
Hugh MacDiarmid
|
|
|
Post by andi on Nov 15, 2006 20:31:16 GMT 10
The John Maclean March
Hey Mac did ye see him as he cam in by Gorgie, Awa ower the Lammerlaw and north o’ the Tay? Yon man is comin’ and the hale toon is turnin’ oot, We’re aa’ sair he’ll win back tae Glasga the day. The jiners and hauders-on are marchin’ fae Clydebank, Come noo an’ hear him, he’ll be ower thrang tae bide. Turn oot Jock and Jimmie, leave yer cranes an’ yer muckle gantries Great John Maclean’s comin’ back tae the Clyde. Argyle Street and London Road’s the route that we’re mairchin’ The lads frae the Broomielaw are oot tae a man. Hey, Neil, whaur’s yer hoderums, ye big Hielan teuchter?. Get yer pipes, mate, and march at the heid o’the clan! Hallo Pat Malone, I knew ye’d be here, son The red and green, my lads, we’ll wear side by side, The Gorbals is his the day and Glasgae belangs tae him, Noo great John Maclean’s comin’ hame tae the Clyde. It’s forward tae Glasga Green we’ll mairch in guid order, Will grips his banner weel, that boy isna blate, Aye there man, that’s Johnny noo, that’s him, aye, the bonnie fechter Lenin’s his fere, Mac, and Leibnecht’s his mate. Tak tent when he’s speakin’ for they’ll mind whit wis said here In Glasgae our city and the hale world besides. Tha’s richt, lads, the scarlet’s bonnie, here’s tae ye Hielan’ Shonie! Oor John Maclean has come hame to the Clyde. An weel when it’s ower, I’ll awa hame tae Springburn, Come hame tae yer tea noo, John, we’ll soon hae ye fed! It’s hard wark the speakin’, an I’m sair ye’ll be tired the nicht, I’ll sleep on the flair, Mac, and gie John the bed. The hale city’s quiet noo, It kens that he’s restin’ Hame wi’ his Glasga freens, the fame and their pride. The red will be worn, my lads, and Scotland will rise again, Noo great John Maclean has come hame tae the Clyde.
Hamish Henderson
|
|
|
Post by andi on Nov 15, 2006 20:45:06 GMT 10
Address to A Haggis
Fair fa' your honest, sonsie face, Great chieftain o the puddin'-race! Aboon them a' ye tak your place, Painch, tripe, or thairm: Weel are ye wordy of a grace As lang's my arm.
The groaning trencher there ye fill, Your hurdies like a distant hill, Your pin wad help to mend a mill In time o need, While thro your pores the dews distil Like amber bead.
His knife see rustic Labour dight, An cut you up wi ready slight, Trenching your gushing entrails bright, Like onie ditch; And then, O what a glorious sight, Warm-reekin, rich!
Then, horn for horn, they stretch an strive: Deil tak the hindmost, on they drive, Till a' their weel-swall'd kytes belyve Are bent like drums; The auld Guidman, maist like to rive, 'Bethankit' hums.
Is there that owre his French ragout, Or olio that wad staw a sow, Or fricassee wad mak her spew Wi perfect sconner, Looks down wi sneering, scornfu view On sic a dinner?
Poor devil! see him owre his trash, As feckless as a wither'd rash, His spindle shank a guid whip-lash, His nieve a nit: Thro bloody flood or field to dash, O how unfit!
But mark the Rustic, haggis-fed, The trembling earth resounds his tread, Clap in his walie nieve a blade, He'll make it whissle; An legs an arms, an heads will sned, Like taps o thrissle.
Ye Pow'rs, wha mak mankind your care, And dish them out their bill o fare, Auld Scotland wants nae skinking ware That jaups in luggies: But, if ye wish her gratefu prayer, Gie her a Haggis!
- Robert Burns -
|
|