LL-L: "Resources" [E/S] LOWLANDS-L, 16.JUN.1999 (01)

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From: Sandy Fleming <sandy at fleimin.demon.co.uk>
Subject: RE: LL-L: "Resources" [E] LOWLANDS-L, 23.APR.1999 (04)

There's yet another collection up on my Website, this time the poems of
Charles Murray, who wrote in the Doric - at least I think it is, although
the spelling seems quite standard. Whatever it is, Murray certainly writes
magnificent, yet authentic, Scots.

To me, Murray's greatest poem is "The Whistle" (for which, see the website).
We had to memorise this in school and it was a pleasure. However, by way of
an example of Murray's writing I give you the following passage from Virgil.
I can't help thinking that Murray chose to translate this passage in
particular when reading it in Latin and being struck by the "aa ae oo"
effect of the final line.

VIRGIL IN SCOTS

AENEID, BOOK III, 588-640

NEIST mornin' at the skreek o' day
The mist had newlins lifted;
The sky, a whylock syne sae grey,
To fleckit red had shifted:
When suddenly our herts gaed thud
To see a fremt chiel stalkin',
Wi' timorous steps fae out the wud,
As fleyed-like as a mawkin.
Lod! sic a sicht, half hid in glaur,
It made us a' feel wae, man;
His hams were thin, his kyte was waur,
It hung sae toom that day, man.
His mattit beard was lang an' roch's
Gin it had ne'er been shorn;
His kilt could barely fend his houghs
Fae stobs, it was sae torn.
A Greek was he, wha short afore
At Troy was in the brulzie,
An’ tho’ a halflin then, he bore
A man’s pairt in the tulzie.
As soon’s he spied our Trojan graith
He nearhan’ swarfed wi’ fear;
But maisterin’ his dread o’ skaith
At last he ventured near.
"I charge you by the stars," he cried,
"And by the powers on high,
To snatch me hence, nor lat me bide
At Cyclops’ hands to die.
I’ll no deny that I’m a Greek,
Or that I was at Troy;
Nor yet to hide the part, I’ll seek,
That I took in the ploy.
Sae gin ye judge my fau't sae sair
That grace ye daurna gie,
Tear me to bits, fient haet I care,
And sink me in the sea.
I’ll meet my death without a wird,
If dealt by men like these,"
He said: syne flang him on the yird,
An’ glammoched at our knees.
Wi’ kindly mint we stilled his fear,
Enquired his name an’ clan,
An’ what fell bluffert blew him here
Wi’ sic a hertless flan.
To set him further at his ease
Anchises gae him ‘s han’,
An’ heartened by our kindliness
The chiel at last began:
"My name is Achaemenides,
An’ Ithaca my land;
An’ some ooks syne I crossed the seas
Wi’ poor Ulysses’ band.
Oh, why left ever I my hame?
I’d troubles there enew;
My comrades left me, to their shame,
When fae Cyclops they flew.
Cyclops himsel’, wha can describe?
The stars are ells below him;
Gude send we ne’er may hae to bide
Within a parish o’ him.
His dungeon large, a hauddin’ fit
For sic an awsome gleed;
There at his fae’s dregies he’ll sit
And splairge aboot their bleed.
Wi’ horrid scouk he frowns on a’
An’ heedless o’ their skraichs,
He sweels their monyfaulds awa’
Wi’ wauchts fae gory quaichs.
I saw him, sirs, as sure‘s I live,
Ance as he lay at easedom,
Twa buirdly chiels tak’ in his neive,
Syne careless fae him heeze them.
They fell wi’ sic a dreadfu’ thud,
Whaur stanes lay roun’ in cairns;
The causey ran wi’ thickened blood
Like stoorum made wi’ harns.
I watched him tak’ their limbs an’ cram
Them ower his weel-raxed thrapple;
The life scarce left the quivering ham
That shivered in his grapple.
But never was Ulysses slack
To pay where he was awin’,
An’ starkly did he gie him‘t back,
An’ bravely cleared the lawin’.
For while the hoven monster snored,
An’ rifted in his dreams,
We first the great God’s help implored
An’ blessing on our schemes;
The kavils cuist: a feerious thrang
Syne gaithered roond aboot,
An’ wi’ a sturdy pointed stang
We bored his ae e’e oot.

Sandy Fleming
http:\\www.fleimin.demon.co.uk

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