Cooried Doon

Cooried Doon

Whan littlins coorie doon at nicht

Tae dream o whistlebinkies

An steek their trauchelt eenies ticht

An sook their thooms an pinkies

In shaddalan, the dwaums are thrang

Wi gee-gaws bricht an skinklin

Wi pirates, coos, an skelps o ships

Wi feys throw lamplicht winkin

An whan the shaddas merch aroon

Dumb sodjers in the nicht

The littlins hunker doon like tykes

An huddle ooto sicht

Syne mornin cams, it’s time tae rise

They lowp up hudderie heidit

Bit watch them play… uneirdly  fiers

Frae nicht are roon them spreidit

A bairn alane has friens unseen

Ye’re ower auld tae meet

Fur Bairnhood is the seelie time

The Warld’s at their feet!

Sheena Blackhall

Lang John on a Deid Man's Chest

Lang John on a Deid Man’s Chest

The starnies up abune leave weel alane
I reenge the  Muckle Furth in search o gowd
I skelp aff ithers’ heids wi ma swack blade
Gie ilkie bluidy corp a wattery shroud

Foo is it that ma blaik hairt lowps an stoons
At clink o siller, glisk o gems an pearls
An gars me hunt until the warld’s eyn
Aa treisur? At its touch, each finger dirls

Fa kens? Some fowk contentit, bide at hame
Bake breid, clip claith. I hae a derker goal
Ma weird’s tae sail aneth a reiver’s flag
For I hae fire an brimsteen in ma soul

Sae here I staun, the bairnie’s bogieman

Lang John, wi parrot an a cripple’s stick
Castin a shadda derk as puddock bree

Wi bling an scars, hale pirate’s rickmatick

An wis I bred tae be Auld Clootie’s fier?
Or wis’t a soorness in ma mither’s wyme?

Wis’t Chaunce or Fate, or Natur grew me coorse?

I neither ken nor care, I’m thirled tae crime!

Sheena Blackhall

Niverlan

‘Do you know, Peter asked, why swallows build in the eaves of houses? It is to listen to the stories.’  J.M.Barrie

 

Niverlan

Niverlan’s fur the bladded bide,

Trapped in their youth foraye

Ower feart tae step intae the licht

In the Big Fowk’s warld ootbye

Condemned tae dwall in the hynie back

Far crocodiles snap an rear

Fit malagaroozin spyled their weird

In the mists o yesteryear?

Ower feart tae raxx oot o the cage

Is’t better the hurt they ken

Than the fear o somethin waur than coorse

In the hames o grown up men?

Sheena Blackhall

Sea-Gift

Sea-Gift

The first box struck the shore

Whisky! It sat in the foam and spray

A Hebridean rhapsody from Fortune
From sea’s lamentable brine,

A given luxury.

Meanwhile, Neptune stretched out on a reef

Scratching his scaly thigh.

‘They are due a smidgeon of pleasure,

What with the rain that never ceases

Pounding their chilly acres.’

Crofters came hurtling through the tide

Wizened or young, with the great thirst on them

Even the scrunts of bushes, the sodden sheep

Looked up from their pious immersion in the hum-drum

Saying, ‘ochone, there will come a day of reckoning

Mark well, there is no pleasure without pain

Tè mhòr le beagan uisge

A large measure of whisky  with a little water

There will be the Devil to pay e’er this day’s done.’

Sheena Blackhall

Cutty Sarks

Cutty Sarks

Cutty sarks are aa the go

Cutty sarks an skirties skimpit

Cutty sarks wi aa on show

Lassies on the randan, primpit

Cutty sarks an jeely wymes

Wummlin ower a belt that’s nippit

Quines stravaig doon city streets

Far the win can teir peint strippit

Cutty sarks an hurdies creash

Hunkit inno jeans an g-string

Tattooed like a swyty tar

Ilkie finger thrang wi gowd bling

Cutty sarks an boozer’s drooth

Sinkin cocktails till they’re steamin

Niver heed yer witch’s breem

Doonin drams till they are fleein!

Cutty sarks are aa the go

Cutty sarks in ony weather

Snaa may faa an snaa may thaw

Cutty sarks are worn fitiver!

Sheena Blackhall