LL-L "Resources" 2003.07.27 (01) [E/S]

Sun Jul 27 18:32:19 UTC 2003

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From: Sandy Fleming [sandy at scotstext.org]
Subject: "Resources"

I've just set up a new version of the Scotstext site.
I'm hoping that the plain vanilla navigation and the
downloading of text in largish dollops will help people
to visualise the site as a whole better, and read more
before leaving the site. The old site had sophisticated
navigation but the logs seemed to show that most people
never discovered the best features!

There aren't nearly as many texts at the moment as there
were on the old site, but still plenty to keep everyone
busy while I get more put up! The old site is still fully
accessible through the "archives" selection on the menu,
however, and will remain uvailable until the new site
catches up with it on content.

A new concept on the site is attempting to put up all of
the published Scots works of authors, so that some poetry
collections (for example those of W L Ferguson, Margaret
Winefride Simpson, Violet Jacob) are drawn from several
of their published books and this may be the first time
their poetry has been brought together in one place.

Simpson's works amount to a huge collection of translations
from various European languages into Scots as well as a
large number of Scots poems of her own. This sometimes
results in classical styles of poetry which have rarely
been attempted in Scots (because Scots poets tended to
write their more "classical" pieces in English):

THE FIRST SMILE O SPRING (Théophile Gautier: 1811-1872)

Wi thrawn bit dargs for dreary oors
Forfochen fowk are trauchlin' sair
While Mairch, that lauchs despite the shouers,
In secret dis the Spring prepare.

Sleely for daisies roon' aboot,
While slumberin soon' is a' the lave,
Braw collarettes he irons oot
An gowden buttons dis engrave.

Throu yaird an orchard slips the wicht,
A stealthy perruquier is he
That taks a tuft o swansdoon licht
Wi rime to poother ilka tree.

Doon to the gairden teem an bare,
While Natur rests abed, I ween,
He steals to lace the rosebuds there
In velvet bodices o green.

While lilts o sang he dis compose,
An to the merles sowfs ower the tune,
Snawdraps attour the lea he sows
An violets in the wids aroon'.

'Mang cresses whaur the clear spring wells,
Whaur, watchfu, drinks the deer sae fleet,
The fair Mey-lily's bonnie bells
He shaks oot, stowlins, siller-sweet.

An for thy gaitherin reid to be
Aiverins he lays the gress below,
An braids owerheid wi leaves for thee
A shelter frae the sunlicht's glow.

Syne when his darg is duin indeed,
His reign near at an end an a',
At Aprile's door he turns his heid
An says: "Noo, Springtime, come awa!"

W L Ferguson is easily one of my favourite Scots poets,
always in there with a heady mixture of humour and
philosophy, as how the churchgoers in the following
poem seem to have received no better aid from their
minister as the little girl receives from her mother:

THE KIRK-SKAILIN

IT'S been a puir turn-oot the day!--
    The kirk gey thin:
Drookit umbrellies taks the brae,
    While yin bi yin,

Their faces dour as thunner cluds--
    The men in blacks,
The weemen, kiltin their bit duds
    Ower glaury tracks--

The glum procession warsles on
    Throu wund an weet;
Noo Mirren's lassie's slipped an fa'en,
    An sterts to greet.

Her minnie launds her sic a skelp
    Aside the heid;--
Maist unexpeckit kind o help
    In time o need.

What was he on the day?--Nae maiter!-
    They've praised the Lord;
In spite o glaur an wund an waitter,
    They've heard His Wird.

David Rorie is also a great favourite of mine for
crystal-clear observation of Scottish life and character:

THE PICNIC

EH! Sic langwidge!
Onybody hearin' ye 'ull hae a bonny tale to tell
An you a jined member o the Kirk!
Think black burnin' shame o yersel!
Wi your mou fou o sangwidge,
I won'er it disna choke ye,
Ye ill-tongued stirk!
An a' this tirravee
Ower a drappie o bilin' watter on your taes!
Keep me!
Dinna provoke ye?
Did onybody ever hear the like o't a' their livin' days!
Ye hae a guid neck!
Wi twa mile o sand to pit your muckle feet on
What gart ye stick ane o them
In aneth the stroup o the kettle?
An what sorra else did ye expeck?

You an your fit!
They're a perfeck scunner-
Baith the twa o them,
Ay, an haes been ever sin I kent ye.
A daecent wumman canna get moved at her ain chimblay-cheek,
An sma' won'er!
Hoo aften hae I telt ye I couldna get anent ye
An you aye lollopin' thae dagont feet o yours on the fender?
I whiles wish ye haed widden legs,
They wadna be sae tender
An they wad match your heid better-
Ay, wad they, fegs,
An hae saved ye happin' aboot the noo
Like a craw wi a sair inside.
Sit doon, man! See,
A' the fowk 'ull think ye're fou-
Here's your cuppie o tea!

Oho! Ye're no gaun to bide?
Ye've haed a' the tea ye're wantin'?
An ye're no seekin' ony mair o my clatter?
Weel, awa an tak a bit paidle til yersel,
Gin ye maun be gallivantin'
Try the watter.
The sea 'ull mibbie cool your temper
An your taes as weel.

But mind ye this o't!
I've taen your meesure,
My bonny man, aince an for a',
An this is the hin'most time
I'm oot for a day's plaesur
Wi you - ay is it!
For I'll stan' nae mair o your jaw!

Ach! You an your fit!

I've also started putting up a song collection: Volume 1
is available, although there are many more volumes to go
yet. Many of these songs were previously only available
as facsimiles of the originals, replete with elongated
"s"es and spellings that make current Scots orthography
look like a shining example of standardisation! I've
tidied all that up, so the songs are now perfectly
readable. No music as yet, alas - it's taking all my
time just to edit the lyrics, although  it should be
possible to find the music for many of them on the
Internet. But whatever lyrics you may find, I assure
you the Scots on Scotstext is better, and the wording
more authoritative!

Some of these have long been presented in bowdlerised
form. I've restored the honesty of the originals. An
example is "Jenny Nettles" (a wild, wonderful tune
which is well worth tracking down), which used to be
sung by nannies to children but since Victorian times
has been sung in a polite but dull and pointless form
to avoid using the word "bastard":

JENNY NETTLES

Saw ye JENNY NETTLES,
    JENNY NETTLES, JENNY NETTLES,
Saw ye JENNY NETTLES
    Comin frae the mercat?
Bag an baggage on her back,
    Her fee an boontith in her lap;
Bag an baggage on her back,
    An a babie in her oxter.

I met ayont the cairnie,
    JENNY NETTLES, JENNY NETTLES,
Singin till her bairnie,
    ROBIN RATTLE'S bastard;
To flee the duil, upo' the stuil,
    An ilka ane that mocks her,
She roond aboot, seeks ROBIN oot,
    To stap it in his oxter.

Fy, fy! ROBIN RATTLE,
    ROBIN RATTLE, ROBIN RATTLE;
Fy, fy! ROBIN RATTLE,
    Uise JENNY NETTLES kindly;
Score oot the blame, an shun the shame,
    An ithoot mair debate o't,
Tak hame your wean, mak JENNY fain,
    The leel an leesome gate o't.

I wonder if anybody would care to translate the Latin
in this song for the benefit of us non-classical scholars?:

SLEEPY BODY

Somnolente, quoeso, repent
    Vigila, vive, me tange.
Come me ambiebas,
    Videri solebas
Amoris negotiis aptus;
At factus moritus,
    In lecto sopitus
Somno es, haud amore, tu captus.
    O sleepy body,
    An drousy body,
        O wiltuna wauken an turn thee?
    To drivel an draunt,
    While I sich an gaunt,
        Gies me guid raeson to scorn thee.

    When thoo should be kind,
        Thoo turns sleepy an blinnd,
    An snotters an snores far frae me,
        Wae licht on thy face,
    Thy dowfy embrace
        Is eneuch to gar me betray thee.

Sandy
http://scotstext.org/

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