Every time I think I know something about the place I’m living, I get thrown for a loop. I had no idea, for instance, that instead of just Scots and Gaelic — oh, and some say English — that Scottish people in the northeast speak Doric Scots. During the time of Chaucer, when people spoke Middle English, the Scots were speaking Middle Scots, or Doric. Doric dialect swaps “wh” with “f” so “with” becomes “fit.” There are, of course, other words that don’t have English equivalents as well.
Traditional Scots literature tends to be fairly sentimental religious or nature/farmland/sheep/home-life oriented, and Doric is no exception, especially in its 18th century revival literature. However, this poem by Charles Murray a late 19th-early 20th century poet of Aberdeen, is one I especially like. It’s …straightforward, opinionated, and amusing, like so many of the Scots I know.
Gin I Was God
- GIN I was God, sittin up there abeen,
- Weariet nae doot noo a’ my drag was deen,
- Deaved wi’ the harps an’ hymns oonendin’ ringin’,
- Tired o’ the flockin’ angels hairse wi’ singin’,
- To some clood-edge I’d daunder furth an’, feth,
- Look ower an’ watch hoo were gyaun aneth.
- Syne, gin I saw hoo men I’d made mysel’
[syne=since]- Had startit into pooshan, sheet an’ fell,
[pooshan=poison]- To reive an’ rape, an’ fairly mak’ a hell
- O’ my braw birlin’ Earth,–a hale week’s wark–
[birlin’=whirling]- I’d cast my coat again, rowe up my sark,
[rowe up my sark=roll up my sleeves]- An’ or they’d time to aench a second ark,
[aench=launch]- Tak’ back my word an’ sen’ anither spate,
- Droon oot the hale hypothec, dicht the sklate,
[dicht the sklate=clean the slate]- Own my mistak’, an, aince I cleered the brod,
- Start a’thing ower again, gin I was God.
- Charles Murray
(Need a wee translation? Here’s some help:)
IF I were God, sitting up there above,
Wearied no doubt, now all my work was done,
Deafened by the harps and hymns unending ringing,
Tired of the flocking angels hoarse with singing,
To some cloud edge I’d saunter forth and, faith,
Look over and watch how things were going beneath.
Then if I saw how men, I’d made myself
Had started out to poison, shoot and fell,
To steal and rape and fairly make a hell
Of my fine spinning Earth — a whole week’s work —
I’d drop my coat again, roll up my shirt,
And, ere they’d time to launch a second ark,
Take back my word and send another flood,
Drown out the whole shebang, wipe the slate,
Admit my mistake, and once I’d cleared the board,
Start everything over again, if I were God.
The Joan Osborne song “What if God was One of Us” always makes me laugh, wincingly. Given the fact that every day I want to scrub the slate blank — or scrub someone’s slate blank, anyway, it’s honestly just as well that none of us are…God.
I’m WAY out of the loop with regard to Poetry Friday stuff; this summer… I don’t know, I’m struggling to write, much less find and write poetry. But I DO know that my poetry sister Tricia is hosting today, and I had to come out of hiding for that. You, too, should hie ye on o’er to see who else is rhyming and rhapsodizing today.