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Ode Tae Colin Leslie Dean, Australia's Leading Erotic Poet Allegedly
Weel, colin man, ye’ve done us proud
Ye’ve plestered a’ the wa’s an’ a’
Ye’ve sprung fae in a b’low yer shroud
An’ flashed us wi yer whang an’ a’
An’ mushrooms rare ye didnae spare
Until oor very een were sare
Wi kittlin’ skits this day
But feminists aroon the globe
Are writhing wi their wrath an’ a
An’ probably there’ll be a probe
Wi’ bile an’ much anathema
Yer rhymes are ripe fer getting sockt
Yer tool’s in line fer getting’ dockt
In whittlin’ fits this day
An’ aye it seems there come the day
Whun structured rhymers, scribes an’ a’
Must realise it’s time tae slay
Some ither fiends some ither whar
Ye’ve fed us foo on Aussie prose
Wi chittlin whits ye passed as brose
Never-endin’ly this lang day
To The Commissioners Of Northern Lights
I SEND to you, commissioners,
A paper that may please ye, sirs
(For troth they say it might be worse
An' I believe't)
And on your business lay my curse
Before I leav't.
I thocht I'd serve wi' you, sirs, yince,
But I've thocht better of it since;
The maitter I will nowise mince,
But tell ye true:
I'll service wi' some ither prince,
An' no wi' you.
I've no been very deep, ye'll think,
Cam' delicately to the brink
An' when the water gart me shrink
Straucht took the rue,
An' didna stoop my fill to drink -
I own it true.
I kent on cape and isle, a light
Burnt fair an' clearly ilka night;
But at the service I took fright,
As sune's I saw,
An' being still a neophite
Gaed straucht awa'.
Anither course I now begin,
The weeg I'll cairry for my sin,
The court my voice shall echo in,
An' - wha can tell? -
Some ither day I may be yin
O' you mysel'.
poem by Robert Louis Stevenson
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He has coosten his cloak on the ither shouther.
Oor ain reek's better than ither fowk's fire.
Ye cut lang whangs out o' ither folk's leather.
Some cut lang whangs aff ither folk's leather.
Bread and cheese is gude to eat when folk can get nae ither meat.
Expect not a very covetous person to be very honest for a long time. Experience keeps a dear school, but fools will learn in nae ither.
The Sair Stroke
O waly, waly, my bonnie crew
Gin ye maun bumpit be!
And waly, waly, my Stroke sae true,
Ye leuk unpleasauntlie!
O hae ye suppit the sad sherrie
That gars the wind gae soon;
Or hae ye pud o' the braw bird's-e'e,
Ye be sae stricken doun?
I hae na suppit the sad sherrie,
For a' my heart is sair;
For Keiller's still i' the bonnie Dundee,
And his is halesome fare.
But I hae slain our gude Captain,
That c'uld baith shout and sweer,
And ither twain put out o' pain—
The Scribe and Treasurere.
There's ane lies stark by the meadow-gate,
And twa by the black, black brig:
And waefu', waefu', was the fate
That gar'd them there to lig!
They waked us soon, they warked us lang,
Wearily did we greet;
'Should he abrade' was a' our sang,
Our food but butcher's-meat.
We hadna train'd but ower a week,
A week, but barely twa,
Three sonsie steeds they fared to seek,
That mightna gar them fa'.
They 've ta'en us ower the lang, lang coorse,
And wow! but it was wark;
And ilka coach he sware him hoorse,
That ilka man s'uld hark.
Then upped and spake our pawkie bow,
—O, but he wasna late!
'Now who shall gar them cry Enow,
That gang this fearsome gate?'
Syne he has ta'en his boatin' cap,
And cast the keevils in,
And wha but me to gae (God hap!)
And stay our Captain's din?
I stayed his din by the meadow-gate,
His feres' by Nuneham brig,
And waefu', waefu', was the fate
That gar'd them there to lig!
O, waly to the welkin's top!
And waly round the braes!
And waly all about the shop
(To use a Southron phrase).
Rede ither crews be debonair,
But we 've a weird to dree,
I wis we maun be bumpit sair
By boaties two and three:
Sing stretchers of yew for our Toggere,
Sith we maun bumpit be!
poem by Sir Arthur Quiller-Couch
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Song of the Edinburgh Academician
If ony here has got an ear,
He'd better tak’ a haud o’ me,
Or I'll begin, wi’ roarin’ din,
To cheer our old Academy.
Dear old Academy,
Queer old Academy,
A merry lot we were, I wot,
When at the old Academy.
There's some may think me crouse wi’ drink,
And some may think it mad o’ me,
But ither some will gladly come
And cheer our old Academy.
Some set their hopes on Kings and Popes,
But, o’ the sons of Adam, he
Was first, without the smallest doubt,
That built the first Academy.
Let Pedants seek for scraps of Greek,
Their lingo to Macadamize;
Gie me the sense, without pretence,
That comes o’ Scots Academies.
Let scholars all, both grit and small,
Of Learning mourn the sad demise;
That's as they think, but we will drink
Good luck to Scots Academies.
poem by James Clerk Maxwell
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Willie and Helen
'WHAREFORE sou'd ye talk o' love,
Unless it be to pain us?
Wharefore sou'd ye talk o' love
Whan ye say the sea maun twain us?'
'It 's no because my love is light,
Nor for your angry deddy;
It 's a' to buy ye pearlins bright,
An' to busk ye like a leddy.'
'O Willy, I can caird an' spin,
Se ne'er can want for cleedin';
An' gin I hae my Willy's heart,
I hae a' the pearls I'm heedin'.
'Will it be time to praise this cheek
Whan years an' tears has blench'd it?
Will it be time to talk o' love
Whan cauld an' care has quench'd it?'
He's laid ae han' about her waist--
The ither 's held to heaven;
An' his luik was like the luik o' man
Wha's heart in twa is riven.
poem by Hew Ainslie
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This Crazy Game o' Golf
Tae pick up a stick an' chase a wee ba'
I jist canna see the sense in it ava'
Hittin' a ba' roond a park full o' holes
ye'd think t'wis a new wey tae kill a ' the moles
But they tell me it's golf - it's the "IN" game the noo
It swackens ye up withoot hae' in tae bou'
Bit if yon's meant tae swacken ye? - Hodgin' aboot
Aff o' ae fit on' till't ither, o' this there's nae doot
Yer banes are mair like tae seize up than tae swacken
Bit golfin' freends say "Fresh air is nae lackin'"
"Jist think o't yer lungs are gettin' a treat"
Bit wi' the win' there is here ye'd be blawn aff yer feet
An faur's the fresh air, faur's the sport faur's the tricks
Fin the rain's poorin oot o' the doup o' yer breeks
An' syne come the winter, it's nae eese ava'
Lookin' for holes amon' sax fit o' snaw
So takkin't a' roond, ye'd be better by far,
Tae stick tae the nineteenth - an' bide in the bar!
poem by Frances Jaffray
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Will He No Come Back Again?
Royal Charlie's now awa,
Safely owre the friendly main;
Mony a heart will break in twa,
Should he ne'er come back again.
Will you no come back again?
Will you no come back again?
Better lo'ed you'll never be,
And will you no come back again?
Mony a traitor 'mang the isles
Brak the band o' nature's law;
Mony a traitor, wi' his wiles,
Sought to wear his life awa.
Will he no come back again?
Will he no come back again?
Better lo'ed he'll never be,
And will he no come back again?
The hills he trode were a' his ain,
And bed beneath the birken tree;
The bush that hid him on the plain,
There's none on earth can claim but he.
Will he no come back again?
Will he no come back again?
Better lo'ed he'll never be,
And will he no come back again?
Whene'er I hear the blackbird sing,
Unto the e'ening sinking down,
Or merl that makes the woods to ring,
To me they hae nae ither soun',
Than, Will he no come back again?
Will he no come back again?
Better lo'ed he'll never be,
And will he no come back again?
Mony a gallant sodger fought,
Mony a gallant chief did fa';
Death itself were dearly bought,
A' for Scotland's king and law.
Will he no come back again?
Will he no come back again?
Better lo'ed he'll never be,
And will he no come back again?
Sweet the lav'rock's note and lang,
Lilting wildly up the glen;
And aye the o'erword o' the sang
Is "Will he no come back again?"
Will he no come back again?
Will he no come back again?
Better lo'ed he'll never be,
And will he no come back again?
The Elphin Nourrice
I heard a cow low, a bonnie cow low,
An' a cow low down in yon glen;
Lang, lang will my young son greet,
Or his mither bid him come ben.
I heard a cow low, a bonnie cow low,
An' a cow low down in yon fauld;
Lang, lang will my young son greet,
Or is mither take him frae cauld.
Waken, Queen of Elfan,
An hear your Nourrice moan.
O moan ye for your meat,
Or moan ye for your fee,
Or moan ye for the ither bounties
That ladies are wont to gie?
I moan na for my meat,
Nor yet for my fee,
But I mourn for Christened land--
It's there I fain would be.
O nurse my bairn, Nourice, she says,
Till he stan' at your knee,
An' ye's win hame to Christen land,
Whar fain it's ye wad be.
O keep my bairn, Nourice,
Till he gang by the hauld,
An' ye's win hame to your young son,
Ye left in four nights auld.
poem by Andrew Lang
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Will He No Come Back Again?
Royal Charlie's now awa,
Safely owre the friendly main;
Mony a heart will break in twa,
Should he ne'er come back again.
Will you no come back again?
Will you no come back again?
Better lo'ed you'll never be,
And will you no come back again?
Mony a traitor 'mang the isles
Brak the band o' nature's law;
Mony a traitor, wi' his wiles,
Sought to wear his life awa.
Will he no come back again?
Will he no come back again?
Better lo'ed he'll never be,
And will he no come back again?
The hills he trode were a' his ain,
And bed beneath the birken tree;
The bush that hid him on the plain,
There's none on earth can claim but he.
Will he no come back again?
Will he no come back again?
Better lo'ed he'll never be,
And will he no come back again?
Whene'er I hear the blackbird sing,
Unto the e'ening sinking down,
Or merl that makes the woods to ring,
To me they hae nae ither soun',
Than, Will he no come back again?
Will he no come back again?
Better lo'ed he'll never be,
And will he no come back again?
Mony a gallant sodger fought,
Mony a gallant chief did fa';
Death itself were dearly bought,
A' for Scotland's king and law.
Will he no come back again?
Will he no come back again?
Better lo'ed he'll never be,
And will he no come back again?
Sweet the lav'rock's note and lang,
Lilting wildly up the glen;
And aye the o'erword o' the sang
Is "Will he no come back again?"
Will he no come back again?
Will he no come back again?
Better lo'ed he'll never be,
And will he no come back again?
poem by Anonymous Americas
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Ny Nannie, O
Behind yon hills, where Lugar flows,
'Mang moors an' mosses many, O,
The wintry sun the day has clos'd,
And I'll awa to Nannie, O.
The westlin wind blaws loud and shill;
The night's baith mirk an' rainy, O;
But I'll get my plaid, an' out I'll steal,
An' owre the hills to Nannie, O.
My Nannie's charming, sweet, an' young:
Nae artfu' wiles to Will ye, O:
May ill befa' the flattering tongue
That wad beguile my Nannie, O.
Her face is fair, her heart is true,
She's spotless as she's bonnie, O:
The op'ning gowan, wet wi' dew,
Nae purer is than Nannie, O.
A country lad is my degree,
And few there be that ken me, O;
But what care I how few they be
I'm welcome aye to Nannie, O.
My riches a' 's my penny-fee,
An' I maun guide it cannie, O;
But warl's gear ne'er troubles me,
My thoughts are a' my Nannie, O.
Our auld guidman delights to view
His sheep and kye thrive bonnie, O;
But I'm as blythe that hauds his pleugh,
An' has nae care but Nannie, O.
Come weel, come woe, I care na by,
I'll tak' what Heav'n will sen' me, O;
Nae ither care in life have I,
But live, an' love my Nannie, O.
poem by Robert Burns
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My Nannie, O
Behind yon hills, where Lugar flows,
'Mang moors an' mosses many, O,
The wintry sun the day has clos'd,
And I'll awa to Nannie, O.
The westlin wind blaws loud and shill;
The night's baith mirk an' rainy, O;
But I'll get my plaid, an' out I'll steal,
An' owre the hills to Nannie, O.
My Nannie's charming, sweet, an' young:
Nae artfu' wiles to Will ye, O:
May ill befa' the flattering tongue
That wad beguile my Nannie, O.
Her face is fair, her heart is true,
She's spotless as she's bonnie, O:
The op'ning gowan, wet wi' dew,
Nae purer is than Nannie, O.
A country lad is my degree,
And few there be that ken me, O;
But what care I how few they be
I'm welcome aye to Nannie, O.
My riches a' 's my penny-fee,
An' I maun guide it cannie, O;
But warl's gear ne'er troubles me,
My thoughts are a' my Nannie, O.
Our auld guidman delights to view
His sheep and kye thrive bonnie, O;
But I'm as blythe that hauds his pleugh,
An' has nae care but Nannie, O.
Come weel, come woe, I care na by,
I'll tak' what Heav'n will sen' me, O;
Nae ither care in life have I,
But live, an' love my Nannie, O.
poem by Robert Burns
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The Death and Dying Words of Poor Mailie
The Author's Only Pet Yowe
An Unco Mournfu' Tale
As Mailie, an' her lambs thegither,
Was ae day nibbling on the tether,
Upon her cloot she coost a hitch,
An owre she warsl'd in the ditch:
There, groaning, dying, she did lie,
When Hughoc he cam doytin by.
Wi' glowrin een, and lifted han's
Poor Hughoc like a statue stan's;
He saw her days were near-hand ended,
But, wae's my heart! he could na mend it!
He gaped wide, but naething spak,
At length poor Mailie silence brak.
"O thou, whase lamentable face
Appears to mourn my woefu' case!
My dying words attentive hear,
An' bear them to my Master dear.
"Tell him, if e'er again he keep
As muckle gear as buy a sheep -
O, bid him never tie them mair,
Wi' wicked strings o' hemp or hair!
But ca' them out to park or hill,
An' let them wander at their will:
So may his flock increase, an' grow
To scores o' lambs, an' packs o' woo'!
"Tell him, he was a Master kin',
An' aye was guid to me an' mine;
An now my dying charge I gie him,
My helpless lambs, I trust them wi' him.
"O, bid him save their harmless lives,
Frae dogs, an' tods, an' butchers' knives!
But gie them guid cow-milk their fill,
Till they be fit to fend themsel';
An' tent them duly, e'en an' morn,
Wi' taets o' hay an' ripps o' corn.
"An' may they never learn the gates,
Of ither vile, wanrestfu' pets -
To slink thro' slaps, an' reave an' steal
At stacks o' pease, or stocks o' kail!
So may they, like their great forbears,
For mony a year come thro' the shears:
So wives will gie them bits o' bread,
An bairns greet for them when they're dead.
"My poor toop-lamb, my son an' heir,
O, bid him breed him up wi' care!
An' if he live to be a beast,
To pit some havins in his breast!
An' warn him - what I winna name -
To stay content wi' yowes at hame;
An' no to rin an' wear his cloots,
Like ither meseless, graceless brutes.
"An' neist, my yowie, silly thing,
Gude keep thee frae a tether string!
O, may thou ne'er forgather up,
Wi' ony blastit, moorland toop;
But aye keep mind to moop an' mell,
Wi' sheep o' credit like thysel'!
"And now, my bairns, wi' my last breath,
I lea'e my blessin wi' you baith:
An' when you think upo' your mither,
Mind to be kind to ane anither.
"Now, honest Hughoc, dinna fail,
To tell my master a' my tale;
An' bid him burn this cursed tether,
An' for thy pains thou'se get my blather."
This said, poor Mailie turn'd her head,
An' closed her een amang the dead!
poem by Robert Burns
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