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This web page has been set up by "Tha Poocher"

to promote poetry, songs and stories in the

Ulster Scots Language  that is still spoken in many

parts of Counties, Antrim, Down, Londonderry/

Derry and Donegal. It is simple to read, just scroll

down the page and enjoy this forgotten part of the

Heritage of Northern Ireland .

Thes wab page hes bain pit thagither bae "Tha

Poocher" tae pit forrit tha Ulster Scots leid thaut

es spake in monypairts o'  tha coonties o' Entrim,

Doon,Derry an' Donegal.

Jest scroll doon tha page tae luk aut tha oul tung

thaut es pairt o' tha very hairt o' Ulster's Heritage.

POEM O'THA MONTH.

October 2006

Thes a gran' wee poem frae A graet lass frae the Airds Fiona McDonald wha es sae proud o' hir ain tongue an haes screived sum gran rhymes in the last twarthy years. Keep yer airm an' pen gaun lass.

A hae bain feelin' oot o' soarts ower tha last wheen o' weeks, a bit shoart o' puff ye micht sae. Sae in tha midst o' mae time o' afflictshun a scraped doon these twarthy lines tae try and brichten maesel up. They gaen mae a kine o' a lift at the time,no aye bare in min' am nae Rabbie Burns.

Wheezlin.

A hae wheezled an crattled fae a tuk mae furst breth,

Mae wheelin’ near scarid tha aul mid wife tae death,

Mae mither wunnered whaut  tha wheezlin wus aboot,

Whun she sa’ it wus me, they say, she passed oot.

Whun a wuz baptised, tha clargy he shuk lake a jug,

Fir A wheezled awa’, in his big holy lug,

Noo, feyther an mither, dinnae think ocht wus funny

At tha camoshun caased, bae their wheezlin sonny.

A wheezled at schuil tae it wus time tae gae hame,

On Sunday at Kirk A jest wheezled the same,

  The weans thocht A wus some soart o’ joke,

But a wheezled awa’ tae A made maesel choke.

Maun aa thocht thaut coortin’ wus a quare bit o’ fun

But mae wheezlin’ scared tha lasses, far waur nir a gun

An noo that am merrried, A  terment mae guid wife

For mae wheezlin at nicht, is the bane o’ hir life.

Tha docters hae tried mae wheezlin tae cure,

An toul me stye oot o’ tha damp an tha stour,

A hae tuk thoosans o’ bottles, o’ pills A micht add

An inhalers as weel, but mae wheezlin still bad

Sae as far as A see A mae jest wheezle wae care,

Tae they kerrie me oot an A wheezle nae mair,

Noo yin thing a’ll tel’ ye this wheezlin’ naw funny

An it canae bae cured, aye, naw even wae money.

Tha Poocher Sept 2006

This is an aul rhyme frae bak' in 1885. A think it's weel worth a wee read,hooiver maebe am ower morbid for mae ain guid. See 'at ye think o't.

Dreams o’ ither days.

Ah, me ! what  dreams o’ ither days

Come rowing doon the streams o’ time :

Some filled wi’ thochts o’ youth’s dear ways,

An’ some wi’ far mair sober rhyme.

Wha minds na’ o’ the tremblin’ poor,

When first his heart socht love’s return ?

When hinnied words, in accents pure,

Were whispered by the sweet kenned burn ?

Love was na’, then, what love is noo,

Sair chastened wi’ the warl’s saut tears —

Auld wine, compared wi’ wine that’s new,

Keeps a’ the difference o’ years.

An’ yet, the flavour o’ the taste

We kenna what — beyond our praise —

Comes back across life’s dreary waste,

In scented dreams o’ ither days.

It’s no a heart that love ne’er blest,

It’s no a love that’s e’er forgot

The moment  when it first found rest,

An’ hallowed the sacred spot,

‘Twas then ambition often tried

Tae mak believe we micht be great,

An’ we remember hoo we sighed

An’ woo’d wi’ care a wayward fate.

Memory keeps a careful book,

She ne’er forgets ilk thing tae mark,

An’ sometimes when we daurna look,

She points her finger tae the dark,

Frae oot the mist lan’ o’ the past

Come thochts we dinna care tae own

O’ frien’ships broken, skies owercast,

An’ harsh words said we’ve ne’er outgrown.

Nae doot there’s sunshine on the braes

Whaur we in childhood roamed at will,

An’ bushes shake their purple slaes ;

But there’s a kirkyaird on the hill.

Dear kirkyaird, quaint, an’ auld an’ grey,

Some may pass you withoot tear,

But stanes are there that tell o wae

Tae hearts that aye maun haud them dear.

Thus darlin’ dreams o’ ither days,

Ye’re juist like some we’re dreamin’ noo,

Checkered sometimes wi’ gowden rays,

But mony mair o’ darker hue,

We’re gien tae paint the past ower braw,

An’ spite o’ fancy’s highest skill,

Rain clouds will come an’ darken a’ —

There’s aye a kirkyaird on the hill.

Here's a wee sang frae awa' bak in 1860. I hope yese lakes it weel, but dinnae axt mae tha ca' roon an' gie ye a wee recital.

The Song of the Spinning Wheel.

I sing the song of the spinning wheel –

The song of our by-gone days ;

The lint on the rock, the hack and the reel,

And the fireside’s cheerful blaze :-

The dance of the hand, and the fine drawn thread,

So quick and so gracefully spun ;

The click of the reel, as it slowly sped,

That told when the cut was run.

The mother within her old arm-chair

(And a loving old one was she) –

Her daughters around, all blooming and fair,

And singing right merrily.

Oh ! ‘twas heartsome to see, on a winter’s day,

The neighbour lasses come in,

With the wheel on the shoulder playfully,

To sing, to chat, and to spin.

And when at gloamin, the lads would come,

And shyly open the door,

The wheels would birl with a louder hum

Than ever they did before.

The song and the joke would cease awhile,

To list to some tale of woe –

Some legend tale of our own Green Isle,

Of the years long, long ago.

As the pliant hank from the reel was taken,

And twisted and twined with care,

The thrifty old dame would reckon her gain

When sold in the market or fair.

And proud was she when her own gude man

Brought the cart frae ‘yont the barn,

And seated her snug, with his own kind han’,

By her bunch of well-spun yarn.

Oh ! the Spinning Wheel was a blithesome boon

To our mothers and sisters dear ;

There was work at hand from noon to noon,

And plenty of gold and gear.

But alas ! what a change to the cottage hearth !

The song of the wheel’s no more –

The song that gladdened with guileless mirth

The hearts and the homes of the poor.

Dec 1860.                                           W. M’C.

Here is a gran wee rhyme aa wus gein, it luks lake its frae roon Larne wye, but its naethin tha waar o' thaut. If ony o' yese ken onythin aboot tha lass in questin, wud ye let is ken whaur she is frae an tha lake. For maun she's a guid yin.

I FORGOT ABOOT THE COUL’.

By Oonagh McClean.

A went tae a Folklore meetin’

Oh, boys but it was coul’,

Thon big Laharna ballroom

Was nae place for young or oul’.

A tuk a sate near the front

Geen a skelly roon the place,

Amang the folk I hardly saw

The sicht o’ weel-kent face.

What broucht me here, says I,

An’ I got up wi’ a bounce

When the Chairman ris too

The speaker to announce.

A sat doon on my sate again,

Says I, I’ll wait a wee,

I’ll maybe learn a thing or two,

If I lissen tae Mr Frey.

Weel, weans dear, he got started

Aboot oor freens o’ sixteen hunner,

An’ hoo they settled doon ower here

When at Scotland they did scunner

Oh, dear knows, but their life was hard

But they moistly rasselled through,

An’ aye they kep’ their een upon

The banner o’ the Blue.

As I sut there, an’ tuk it in,

An’ thocht o’ each poor sowl,

Ye’ll maybe no’ believe it,

I forgot aboot the coul’ !

This is an aul rhyme aa fun whun aa wus gane through aul newspapers an tha mair nae o' jocial theme it is weel takin' time tae read.

THE DEE'IN' CHRISTIAN FAITHER.

Mae day is dippin' in the West, its gloomin' wae me noo,

A hear the sough o' Jordan's waves, that a maun trevel through ;

Yet tis' na Jordan's wave a fear, nor trimmle at the strife,

But oh ! this sunderin' o' hairts, this leein' weans an' wife.

Wha' tho' we ken o' better things -- a fairer world abune,

Whaur loast freens are a waitin' us, an' a maun trevel sune,

This rendin' o' the siller strings that tether hairt tae hairt,

Oh ! it tries puir human natur sair , an' maks us laith tae pairt.

Gae rax me by the Bible, wife, while yit am fit tae see,

Ire death creep ower mae cauldrife bak, an flap mae failin' e'e,

An' let us sing a'e pairtin' sang, afore we sunder'd be,

For ye canna ha'e me lang noo, A hanne lang tae dree.

There pit the pillow to mae bak an' ease me up awee,

An' bring them a tae mae bedside tae see their faither dee;

Noo rise the Bible up a thocht, its ower laigh on mae knee,

An' shift the licht a hemmin' bak, it's ower strong for mae e'e.

He waled, he sang his pairtin' sang, his voice wus firm an clear,

An read the fourteenth o' St John, nor did he shed a tear ;

Sae is it wi' the man o' God whun life's day's darg is dune,

Nae future fears disturb his mind, nae ruefu' luks behin'.

O ! but it gies mae grate relief, the singin' o' that sang,

Mae cliy is crummlin' fast awa', mae spirit noo groos strang ;

Mae wife mae weans, we a' maun pairt, sae dinna sab sae sair ;

But dicht the tears frae aff yere face, an let us join in prayer.

An let us join in prayer tae Him that's wantin' me awa',

That he may be a faithfu' freen an faither tae ye a'.

He turned his glazin' ee' tae Heaven, an rais'd his withered han'.

Noo safely through Jordan's wave he's reached a better lan'.

                                 Anon 1862.

Here's a gran wee spiel frae oor guid freen Fiona frae tha Coonty Doon an maun she kens whaut she's takin aboot, fur it seems there is nae sich thing as tha Thruth ony mair. Ir as thae wud sae noo"Its your perception of truth and may be different to someone elses." Ach sure mann thae ken naethin aboot naethin.

THRUTH

FIONA McDONALD 9th April 2006

Ye’ll aye fin yins at sweer bline Elvis isnae deid ava,

An tha feck o fowk wud mebbe yit houl wi a freat ir twa. 

Bot wushin ir haipin fur simthan, disnae mak it thrue,

Ye cannae lippen oan aa ye’r telt - maist o ye wud alloo.

Yince Ah haed a notion Ah cud quarely lilt a sang,

Til Ah heared masel, iz ithers heared, an foon oot Ah wus wrang. 

Fur a sough o thruth blowed in ma lugs - By Sowl, it gunked me sair -

An noo, ootwith tha motor car, ye’ll hear me lilt nae mair. 

Shure Ah shud hae knowed fae Rabbie Burns, tae no growe sic a thocht,

Fur aa his puir Jenny’s fency airs, the’ didnae get horr ocht. 

Thon hizzie she wus fu o pride, til tha loose craa’d owre horr bonnet,

Bot we’r aa tha yin soo’s pags, ye ken, an aye we shud hae mine o’it. 

Fur thaur’s bums an blows ’at get oan like tha Kangs o Dear knows whaur,

Ir let oan tae be oul hauns, an cannae dae ocht ava. 

Whiles ye’ll mebbe hear a whud o sim gulpin cum tae po’er

An muckle heich aboon us growed, wi betther yins past owre.

Tha warl’s fu o chates an leears, an there’s boys wud dae thar grannie,

Owre tha heid o a wheen o pun – tak tent, freens, aye be cannie.

Bot whut gaes aroon wull cum aroon, accordin tae tha saw:

The’ll aa be ketched oot in tha enn, by thair ain fowks, ir tha law.

A COUNTRY LAD'S OBSERVATIONS

AT THE HIRING FAIR IN BALLYMENA.

Weel, freens, A gat me tae the toon,

Although big clouds were hoverin' roon,

An whiles an odd yin did come doon

Tae we got drack'd;

Yet mony a sinburnt-luckin' croon

Seem'd tae be cracked.

The hale toon seemed tae be aware

That Sethurday was Hiring Fair ,

And that ferm-servants wud be there

For a big day,

Wha meant tae hae a treat sae rare

Wae six months' pay.

Here and there wus a wee ban'

The centre-piece a big ould man,

What mak's his leevin' off the Ian'

Without a doot;

Bit see him view the horny han ,

'Ere he spak' oot.

"Tell me, my man, noo can you sow,

And can you milk, and plough, and mow

And build a load of hay or stro'

For market day?

If you can do these things, say so

I'll fix your pay."

The toon assumed its usual gait,

Folk mashing roon at nae wee rate,

Each lucking' for their ain dear mate

In blank despair;

And so may I if I keep blate

To the next Fair.

Here's anither gran wee rhyme frae mae guid freen Tha Wizard. Anither yin in his ain guid Dervock tunge, dane as only he kan dae them.

VISITORS ?

COUL WUN WHUSSLIN ROON THE JAMBS,

NAE NICHT OOT FOR BASTE NOR MAN,

AL’ ALANE WAE TIME TAE DREAM,

SHEDDA’S DANCIN ROON THE BEAMS.

GUID HET FIRE, SMELL THE PEAT,

STOCKIN SOLE’T TAE HEAT YER FEET,

WATCHIN IN THE EFTER GLOW,

WATCH THE POOR MANS PICTER SHOW.

DRAGONS, BASTES I DINNAE KEN,

TURNIN INTAE WEE OUL MEN,

COME AN GO IN THE FIRELICHT,

PHANTOM VISITORS IN THE NICHT.

WUNNER IF THOOR WATCHIN ME,

DAFT OUL MAN, THEY CANNAE SEE,

BUT STILL BUT STILL I DINNAE KEN,

WARRIOR KINGS AN TINKER MEN.

LEEVE FOR SECONTS IN THE FLAMES ,

SWALLY’T IN THE FIRES WAME,

NOO ONLY ASH AN SPARKS REMAIN,

NATHIN IVER STIYS THE SAME.

THE WIZARD O’ THE FLOUGH.

A wus mair nir gled tae hae baen sent these twarthy lines frae a James Stewart in Vancouver wha mines o' hearin' them at Bellyclare High School ower saxty yeir syne. Thae micht bae sorta coorse for tha mair refined lugs but here thae ir onywye.

Ballynure the town sae poor

The church wi'oot a steeple

Whaur hungry hoors luk o'wr half-dures

An mak fun a decent people.

This is a wee rhyme mae guid freen Tha Wizard scraped doon aroon Christmas time twarthy yeir syne. Mann it's a stoater.

CHRISTMAS SPIRITS

THINKS I I’LL GANG A DANNER ,

TAE SHAKE DOON ALL THON MEAT,

WEE CHRISTMAS LICHTS WUR TWINKLIN ,

ALL AROON ME ON THE STREET.

MAE HEID WUS FU’ O CHRISTMAS,

AN ANITHER YEAR GANE BY,

AN FOLK NAE LANGER WAE IS,

AN THE WYE THAT TIME WULL FLY.

I FEEL’T I WUSNAE HERE MAE LANE,

AN I STAPP’T AN LUKKIT ROON,

A FIGURE SOARTA JOOST APPEAR’T ,

ABOOT A FIT ABANE THE GROON.

OWER MUCKLE CHRISTMAS SPIRIT,

AYE MEBBE THAT WUS IT,

MAE LEGS THEY MICHTA WEIGH’T A TON,

I COODNAE MOVE A FIT.

SO COURAGE GANE I STUD THERE,

THINKS I I’LL MEET THE WORST,

MAE TONGUE HAD LANG QUAT WURKIN,

SO THE OUL BOY SPOKE THE FURST.

STORY TELLIN IS YOUR AIRT,

I KNOW’T YOUR FOLK LANG SYNE,

I’LL LISSEN TAE YOUR STORIES ,

BUT FURST YE MAUN HEAR MINE.

COME ON NOO QUAT YOUR TRIMMLIN,

SEYS HE, DISMISS YOUR FEAR,

AN WALK WAE ME FOR FIFTY STEPS ,

AN IVERY STEP A YEAR.

I’M NAW SAE SURE I WANT TAE,

GANG BAK OWER FIFTY YEARS,

COME , COME WAE ME AN SHANE YOU’LL SEE,

GUID TIMES AN TIMES O’ TEARS .

LANG BAK, LANG BAK HE TANE ME,

TAE AFORE THAT I CUD TALK,

IT WUS STRENGE NOO LUKKIN FORRIT,

TAE WHUR I MONY TIMES LUKK’T BAK.

BAD TIMES COME AN GUID TIMES GANE,

TIMES O LOVE, AN TIMES O’ HATE ,

YE CANNAE CHANGE A THING SEYS HE ,

YE HAE LEFT IT FAR OWER LATE.

SEYS HE WE’LL SHANE BE BAK AGAIN,

AN SHANE I’LL SET YE DOON,

THE LESSON HERE IS MAIR THAN CLEAR,

DAE IT RICHT THE FURST TIME ROON

AN SHANE I SA THE LICHTS AGAIN,

WHUR ME AN MINE A’ DWELL,

WHA IR YE SUR, I AX’T HIM,

I’M YOU SEYS HE    YERSEL.

LAKE THE GHAIST O CHRISTMAS LANG GANE BY,

I CAN SHOW YE WHUT YE DONE,

BUT YOU, AN ONLY YOU SEYS HE ,

CAN SHAPE WHUTS YIT TAE COME.

              THE WIZARD O’ THE FLOUGH.

This a wee rhyme aa wus gein yin time bae an oul freen frae Kilrea,wha haes gang tae hes lang rest twarthy years sine.

A BRASH 0' FLAILIN'.

By James McIlfatrick.

Now Wee Willie John that lived o'er the way,

Wuz up ivery mornin' at the "screigh" 0' day,

Then tae the barn when he got his tay,

Fur a daily brash 0' flailin'.

Boys wee Willie John fairly birled it roun'

The han' staff spun, as the soople cum down,

The thumpety thump fur miles did soun',

In that daily brash 0' flailin'.

Willie John's wife wuz from ovir the moss,

A rough big lump, that they sayed wuz cross,

There wazn't a doubt she wuz boss,

No wunthir he tuk tae flailin'.

Come the fall 0' the year, at the big Hallow fair ,

Wee Willie John an' his cronies wur there;

He'd finish the day, goin' on the "tare",

Landin' home tae get a good flailin'.

This a gran wee rhyme mae furst rhyme frae a Coonty Doon  lass Fiona wha haes sent mae twarthy gran rhymes. Its mair nir a delicht fur a oul bodie lake maesel tae see tha yunger yins pittin doon ther thochts on paper in tha 'oul tung'. Keep them comin' mae lass an lang mae nib stick it.

RHYMIN

A set yin nicht, jist eftèr nine,

Wi paper, pen an gless o wine,

A wheen o rhymes wis ma design

In Standart Habbie.

By Sowl, A cudnae scrieve a line

Fer A’m nae Rabbie!

A set, an set, an birlt tha pen,

Nae wurds cum oot tha ither enn.

Afore owre lang it wis hauf ten

A’m scunnèrt noo.

Mair hape o gettin bluid fae stane

It gars me grue.

Fer sim fowk mak it luk nae bither

Tae rhyme yin wurdie wi anither

A doot ma heid maun be throughither

A maun alloo it

Tae pit ma wee bit thochts thegither

A cannae dae it

Fiona McDonald

Newtown

1 March 2005

  Here's twa wee rhymes bae nane ither nir mae guid freen Philip Roabinsin wha noo hales frae Greba an cum frae aroon East Entrim in hes yung daes..

BORING SERMONS: 1

Tha mannysther o Furst Drumneuk

Wus murdher at tha preachin.

He fun his sermons in a buik,

An read thaim oot at Meetin.

Tha man that writ thaim wus lang deid,

Wi wurds sae lang he choakit.

The wudnae fit in oor man’s heid,

But richtlie in his poakit.

BORING SERMONS: 2

A wrocht that haird on Settherday,

A cud hae slep tae Monday.

Tha mair the caa it “Day o Rest”,

It’s Meetin Hoose on Sunday.

A joyed whan tae tha Hoose o God,

Gan up, they sayed tae me.

Fur oor man’s doon wi thrapple bad,

Nae sermon thar wull be.

          This is a wee rhyme aboot tha wye tha hale country behaves roon aboot election time and tha wye tha poleetecians plae on oor fears.

Bigot time again.

It’s roon again tae Election Time

An tha goulin’ hes baegun,

An tha hale country turns intae bigots

Ouch man sure wae think its fun.

Wae listen tae tha big boys

Wha cum roon in swanky kars,

An tell is bae sure an vote for them

An thae promise is tha stars.

Thae tell is things aboot oor neiboors

Thaut wud mak yer hair stan on en.

An try tae frichten is yince again

Intae pittin doon oor mark for them.

But noo thae niver tak mich aboot

Bringin work an tha lake roon aboot,

Tha mair aa here thae’r richtly aff,

Oh thaut A hae nae doot.

Thae goul aboot flags an emblems

A hoo sure wae man mak a stan,

But sure whun there ony fechtin

A didnae see mony them gein a han.

For tha maist o them ir but bags o’ win

Wha kan turn oor very heid

An mak is daft enouch again

Tae folla whur thae lead.

Sae dinnae worry yersel big man,

For am jest a bigot lake tha rest,

An a’ll gae oot an vote for you,

Sae thaut you kan leeve on tha best.

Tha Poocher

April 2005.

Trimmlin

Quhat Deil’s ayont tha blankets,

Quhats Fisslin aboot oot thar,

Quhat beist er worse a bogle man,

Is climin up tha stair.

Coorin alo tha patchwuirk quilt,

Houlin tha flannelet sae tycht,

Swat tummellin roon mae bru,

Nuckels lang syne turnt quyite.

Wie mae hair fer stanin oan mae heid,

An mae breath stuck i mae lung,

Nae crack tryne tae keip queeat,

When yer heirts leik a Lambeg Drum.

Mae oxters druket, mae thrapple dry,

An stertin tae pech fer air,

Shud a houl mae wheest, er let a goul,

Tae scar it bac doon tae its lair.

Bae soul am ginnae hae a gleek,

Fer Aa’m tevered lyin’ here,

If neithin else aa’ll hae wan last sook

O’ Gods ain precious air.

Wae shoothers bac an neives clenched tycht,

Aa maik aa spalter keen,

But tha gaist haes a big brycht lycht,

An hae's shinin i mae een.

Aw, less boul noo, Aa let oot a screicth,

Somthin haes a hoult a mae feet,

Aa fa on nae fais, an sprauchle aboot,

Mae fit wis cot i tha sheet.

Tha gaist it spoke, i mae Mithers voice,

Quhat are ye daen ye fool,

Get up af that fleer an get yer breeks oan,

Yer ginnae bae late fer scuil.

Wullie frae tha Brae.   (11/12/04)

Here is a wee rhyme o' mae ain a pit doon on paper whun A wus thinkin aboot tha fowk wha gein their aa on monies a battlefiel an tha hardship o' yins thaut wur left behin. It's jest ca'd.

WEE RAB.

A brocht up wee Rab as weel as A cud

Sure his feyther wus lamed in tha mill,

An efter twa months o' sufferin penn

He passed awa' an' life wus uphill.

A wrocht as a maid in tha big hoose sae gran

Wee Rab went bare fit tae tha schuil,

Nae hand-oots for is or naethin for free

An tha wurl trated is ill as a rule.

Wae hennin an getherin Rab shane wus man big

An tha coortin sprung intae his heid,

He met a nice lass wae  a richt bonnie face

Tha mair  nane o' them had a gleed.

Tha War clouds come scuddin intae oor toonlan

An claed tha hale place wae gloom,

But sure Rab wus a man, an he gaed aff tae fecht

Och hoch, it filled mae puir hert wae doom.

Noo his grave near Dunkirk it luks gran

Amang aa his brav comrades he lies,

For he gein his aa, deed some gein naethin ava

An noo Rab tarries neath thon foreign skies.

But noo that Am  jest clean dane, ye ken

An Rabs still a young laddie tae me

An tha  mair o' mae age an tha bad times an a

A thank God Wee Rabs country's, still free.

Charlie Reynolds 'Tha Poocher' Feb 2004

This is yin o' Tha Wizards mair thocthfa rhymes aboot tha yins wha went aff tae fecht in tha noo distant First War but still caase tha lake o' himsel tae think o' them in his ain rhymes.

THINK O' IS WHILES

IT BREKS MAE HEART FAE YOU'SE TAE PERT

TAE JOIN THE REST,TAE TRY MAE BEST,

TAE DAE MAE BIT, FOR FREEDOMS CAWSE.

ACH PET! YE KNOW I BETAE GO,

JOOST TELL THE WEANS I'LL SHANE BE HAME,

MAE BIT WEEL DANE, FOR FREEDOMS CAWSE.

NOO DIGHT YER EEN MAE AIN WEE QUEEN,

WHUN AL' WAR'S CEASE, AN THE WORLS AT PEACE,

YOU'LL BE PROOD I FOCHT, FOR FREEDOMS CAWSE.

I'M COUNTRY RAR'T AN ILL PREPAR'T,

TAE LARN THE SKILL O' HOO TAE KILL,

THEY SEY FOR FREEDOMS CAWSE

IS RA' RECRUITS MAN LARN TAE SHOOT,

SHANE ANTRIMS SONS, WULL HANNEL GUNS,

TAE FECHT, FOR FREEDOMS CAWSE.

BRAVE MEN ADVANCE, GANG OWER TAE FRANCE,

AN ON THE STRAN LET IVERY MAN,

STAN STRECHT, FOR FREEDOMS CAWSE.

FRANCE ? YE COODNAE TELL, IT'S MAIR LAKE HELL,

BUT WER'E MAKKIN GRUN , IVERY STEP HARD WON,

FOR GOD, AN FREEDOMS CAWSE.

BOYS KEEP GAN ON, IN THE BLUID RID DAWN,

SAE FAR FAE HAME, I MICHT THINK SHAME,

BUT I'M FEART O' FREEDOMS CAWSE.

A FLASH , A CRAK, I'M ON MAE BAK,

PAIN OWER MAE HEART, IT'S GETTING DARK,

PLEASE GOD NAW THIS, FOR FREEDOMS CAWSE.

FAE SCUTCHIN MILLS, NAW BOARN TAE KILL

WAE HEART AN SOWL,THEY NIVER GREW OUL,

BUT GEEN THOOR AL', FOR FREEDOMS CAWSE.

SAE MONY LOAST, ACH! SICH A COAST,

YOUNG WEEDA'S TEARS, FOR LANG DREICH YEARS ,

IR SHED , FOR FREEDOMS CAWSE.

A FEM'LYS LOSS, A WEE WHITE CROSS,

WILL THE KILLIN CEASE, WILL THE DOVE O' PEACE,

IVER SOAR UP HEIGH FOR FREEDOMS CAWSE

THE WIZARD O' THE FLOUGH.

This is anither yin o' mae freen Tha Wizards rhymes an as iver it disnae need ony introduction.

Earth

Let me watch the evenin' troot risin',

Hear the whum o' the big bummle bees,

Len me the earth while I'm livin'

An let me gruw oul wae the trees.

Moather earth you're  the rayle provider,

Geen deep in yer heart it micht please,

Let me share while I'm here o' yer bounty,

An let me gruw oul wae yer trees.

The beauty in all o' yer saysons,

Is there for the man wha can see,

Can I watch all yer moods an yer changes,

Can I joost gruw oul wae yer trees.

Ye hae nourished mankind through his follies,

Ye cud crush him whuniver ye pleased,

Cud I ax ye joost yin last wee favour

Will ye let me gruw oul wae yer trees.

Mans greed is boun tae destroy ye ,

Yer cripple't an doon on yer knees,

But I want nae pert o thoor murder,

I joost want tae gruw oul wae the trees.

Here's a wee rhyme o' Tha Wizard o' tha Flough thaut mines es hoo mich wae aa lake tae hae guid nybors.Hae a wee keek an ye'll naw bae yin pit aff wae et, fur tha Dervock man aye scrieves a guid yin.                 

NYBORS

SAMUEL , SIT UP NIXT THE FIRE ,

AYE A HEARTY SICHT IT BE'S,

THE WUN HAE'S JOINT TAE RISE A BIT

I HEAR IT SUGHIN THROO THE TREES.

AYE THEMS THE PEATS FAE THON BLAK BINK,

NIXT M'CORMICKS KNOWE,

THOOR A BIT O LAST ABOOT THEM,

THEMS NAE OUL FOZEY FLOUGH.

HETH THE HEAT 'AT'S AFF THEM'S PIRFA,

OCH A HEARTSOME HAMELY SICHT,

GUID LUK TAE ONY BEIN'

THAT HAE'S TAE GOOT THE NICHT.

A WEE SOMTHIN FOR TAE HEAT YE,

MAN DEAR THE KETTLE'S ON,

WHA'S THAT AT THE DOAR WEANS ,

ACH BLISS MAE SOWL IT'S JOHN.

COME FORRIT HERE AN HEAT YERSEL,

GEE THAT WEELASS YER COAT,

AN WHUN YE HAE TAE GO'OT AGAIN ,

YE'LL KNOW THE VALUE O'IT .

WHA'S THAT 'AT YE HAE WAE YE ,

ACH DAMMIT JAMES IT'S YOU,

BAE MAE SOWL I HAE NAE SA YE,

SYNE THE NICHT YE BOCHT THE SOO.

AYE SHE PIGGED ELEVEN LEEVIN,

DIN'T I TELL YE SHE'D DAE WEEL,

BOYS ELEVEN HEALTHY TOORIES ,

CAN FAIR RED UP THE MEAL.

A HET HOOSE FU' O' NYBORS ,

BOYS WE KAILY'T LANG AN LOW,

TAE THE OUL WAG STRUCK THE DIZZEN,

AN THEY ALOO'T THE BE TAE GO.

WE TAK'T O THINGS WE KENN'T ABOOT,

THE MOSS AN STOCK AN LAN,

HETH YE COODNAE BATE THE COMP'NY ,

O' ANITHER COUNTRY MAN.

THE WIZARD O' THE FLOUGH

Here's anither o' tha Wizard's Rhymes in a kine a switherin o' mood.

YIN WURD

CUC-KOO SHE CRIED AN' I DRIFT'T AWA,

TAE A PLACE ON THE EDGE O' MAE MINE'

WHUR I LEY ON THE GRASS,YIN EVENIN IN MIE,

WAE NAE THOCHTS O' THE PASSIN O' TIME .

MEBBE SIVIN OR ECHT IN OUL HAND'T DOON CLAES,

WAE A  JECK RUSSEL DOAG BAE MAE SIDE,

AN THE SWALLA'THAT HEICH THEY WUR NEAR OOTAE SICHT

AN MAE OUL FREEN IVER CUC-KOO SHE CRIED .

THEY TOUL ME MAE FREEN WUS A MURDERIN THEIF,

AN O' THE DURTY DECEPTION SHE WROCHT,

BUT I LAKE'T HIR NAE ODDS WHUT THEY SEY'T SHE HAD DONE

FOR SHE EY' BROCHT THE SIMMER I THOCHT.

THE DRAGON FLY DERTS AN THE HONEYBEE GANGS,

WAE HIS LOAD THROU