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.
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