Ulster-Scots Verse / North Antrim Rhyme

THE POOCHER'S REPLY

A hae read tha rantins o tha 'Kat' himsel,
An he disnae fu' me wae hes tunge sae swell,
For the English he scrieves in, brecks nae delph wae me,
For Am nae doser A wisnae boarn at tha fit o' a tree.

North Antrim Rhymes

(Ulster Scots Verse)

These Rhymes were written by North Antrim Folk,
about the Big Cat that's been sighted around Ballybogey.
They were posted in my column -'Traditional Notes',
in the 'Ballymoney Times', during the winter of 2003/04.
I find them 'mair nor middlin', I hope you enjoy them too.

THA GARRY KAT

Oul North Antrim noo haes got a kat,
Nae ordinary moggie wha lies on tha mat,
But a big blak thing that ates yer sheep,
An gaes intae tha Garry an haes a sleep.

Noo this big boy haes bane sa far an wide,
An appears jest at wull alang tha dake side,
In Conagher moss twa polis got a sicht o' him,
Thae said he luked weel an wus in guid trim.

Tha USPCA follaed him for a brave while,
Ower monies a moss, feil, sheugh an stile,
But this moggie niver staps for mair nir a minit,
He's aff in a flash lake a flay doon yer simmit.

Thers yins that wud sweer that he haes a brither,
That wus sa' near Bushmill in a feil fu' o' heather,
An oul boy frae Bogey sa him rin ower tha tap feil,
Saes tha kat dinnae fool him for its surely tha deil.

Noo tha hale cuntry side is oot efter this Kat,
For he haes become famous thers nae doot o' that,
He haes run rings roon them aa for monies a dey,
An nae odds o' tha toonlan sure hae aye gets away.

Noo maesel A think haes lakely o' tha blak airt,
An micht turn intae a burd or a doag or a kert,
An whun tha wunther comes tae tha oul Garry
Sur tha kat in these airts wull nae langer tarry.

'Tha Poocher'

*********************

BIG CAT MAE THOOM

I'm sittin' here mae lane in the moss, hunker't doon in a stank
Feart tae move fae whur I am, joost keekin' oot ower the peat bank
Hoo's a boady aspose't tae cope, corner't here agin thoor will
Wae a' the orders comin' in, an I canna get peace, tae mak still

Ivery whur yae luk there polis, an a' kines o' boadys wae guns
Whirlybirds fly'in oot ower yer heid, hokin' through iv'ryboadys grun
Folk oot wae battery lamps, ye'd think they'd naithin' better tae day
Hoo's a' honest boady lake me gan tae get the still up an barmin away

Some say thoor a'oot there lukkin' for a serious big baste o' a cat
But thoor naw foolin me, aw naw, fur I ken fine weel what thoor at
Thoor efter mae still, an the finest oul whusky t'wus iver lipp't bae man
Fame't roon the worl an farther, made only as a countryman can

I larn't it fae mae oul folk who wudnae gee the government thoor bill
Takin' awa a workin boadys pleasure, och! I can hear mae granda still
Taxin all a boady daes an every bite an sup he puts intae his mooth
If it stud for him it'll stan for me an mine ye that's the truth

They kin luk a' they want tae for them cats, be they broon or black or blue
I'll fill mae orders fur the dacent folk what wae Christmas comin' noo
An as fur mangy cats an the stories an the folk wha started this farse
Tak yer nebs ootae whuns an rashes an stick them in the stillmans poakit

Aqua Vitae

*********************

BIRDS EE VEIW

I'M SITTIN' UP THIS SYCAMORE,
AN‚ I'M WATCHIN' ALL ABOOT,
FOR THEY TELL ME THERE'S A PANTHER
IN THE PLANTIN' LUKKIN' OOT.

BUT I'M DAMN'T IF I CAN SEE HIM,
FAE MAE PERCH AWA UP HIGH,
AN' BOYS I DAE NAE MISS MUCH,
ON THE GRUN OR IN THE SKY.

YE SEE BOYS I'M A BUZZARD,
AN' MAE EEN IR BRAVE AN' GUID,
AN' GEEN THE BOYO IS STILL IN THERE,
BAE MAE SOWL HE'S BRAVELY HID.

I HAE BEEN WATCHIN FOR MAE DINNER,
ROON HERE THIS WHEEN O' YEARS,
AN' I HAE YIT TAE SEE A PUMA ,
OR A PANTHER ABOOT HERE.

BOYS NOO YE NIVER HARD ME SEYIN,
THAT THERE'S NAW YIN ON THE LOOSE,
BUT IT'S ODD THE WYE I MISS'T HIM ,
WHUN I WUDNAE MISS A MOOSE.

I HAE SA' THE GHAIST O' TOBER MOOR,
GANN DRIFTIN' OWER THE FLOUGH,
I HAE SA' BENVERDINS LADY,
AN' THE WITCH O WILE GLENTOW.

I SA' THE THINGS THAT GAR THE FOLK,
PU' THE QUILT OOT OWER THOOR HEID,
BUT I NIVER SA' NAE LION BOYS,
O' ONY CLASS OR CREED.

THE WATCHER

*********************

Frae the shores o' LOCH NESS

Ochan, ochan! I am chust a wee bittie concerned
about thon muckle moggie you have over there.
Bad mannered! Hoots mon,
he (or she) was no brought up right!
He (or she) has gone and stolen
my copyright on elusiveness.

Cannae have that man! After all,
wasn’t it me wha’s invented it?
And what’s the Highland Tourist Board
going to say about it
- them as have invested a lot of tax-payers’ money
in promoting me?

The right’s no in it man!
Och man, yon moggie’s no right in the head!
If thon Kat as you call it wants a wee bit of my action,
then the least he (or she) could do
is be polite about it and ask me.
If he (or she) can find me that is.

Ay, wheel, perhaps that’s where the problem lies.
Tell you what to do man –
if you can find yon moggie
– ah but then maybe you won’t,

So here’s plan B
- chust leave him (or her) a wee note,
somewhere where he (or she) is bound to find it,
saying he (or she) has got to come to Scotland,
to Loch Ness to see me and talk things over –

I’m sure we can come to some understanding
about this oversight on his (or her) part,
and maybe do a deal.
Now I can chust hear you saying
“If Nessie is so elusive,
how in heaven is our moggie going to find him (or her)?”

Nae bother – when you write your wee note
tae thon moggie, tell him (or her)
to leave his (or her) camera at home.
That way he (or she) is bound to find me!

And no polis or reporters mind,
or I’ll just dive deeper
and the poor wee (sorry – “muckle”) moggie
will never find me.
Ahhhh! …. taing do Dhia (Thank God)

I’ve got that off my very large chest before the New Year!
No use carrying that sort of baggage around too long.
I feel better already.

Now I can wish all your readers
“Bliadhna Mhath Ùr” as we say in these parts –
that is “Happy New Year”. Tioraidh ma tha! (Bye then!)

I’m off to scare the wits
out of another unsuspecting tourist in a boat –
“Fhir a’ bhàta, na ho ro eile ……..”
(Did you know I wrote that song?)

Yours elusively,

'Nessie'

*********************

BAD NEWS TREVILLS QUICK

I'VE JOOST HAD A LETTER FAE "NESSIE"
WHA LIVES AS YOU KNOW 'OWER THE SHEUGH',
SEYIN, WHA'S THIS DAMN'T CAT, THE IMPUDENT BRAT,
BOYS, OUL 'NESSIE' WUS KICKIN UP ROUGH.

NESSIE SEYS, NOO, DINNAE YOU THINK ,
I'M JOOST RISIN A STINK,
I'M SWEEMIN‚ HERE NEARLY IN TEARS,
AN‚ I'M NAW JOOST RANTIN‚ ABOOT SOME CAT IN A PLANTIN‚
I'VE BEEN SCARRIN‚ THE FOLK HERE FOR YEARS

FOR YEARS AT MAE PRANKS I HAE SCARR'T VISITIN‚ YANKS,
WHUN I STUCK MAE HEID OOTAE THE WATTER,
THEY PEEL'T ELBAS AN SHINS AS THEY TORE THROUGH THE WHINS,
ACH! BOYS I LACH'T WHUN I SA' THEM AL'SCATTER.

NOO NESSIE'S THE NAME AN' ELUSIVES THE GAME.
AT JOOKIN' I CLAIM AL' THE FAME,
WHUN THEY AL' THINK I'M DEID, I JOOST STICK UP MAE HEID,
AN' START THE HALE BIZZNESS AGAIN

TELL YOUR CAT I'M AGGREIVED, AYE JOOST A BIT PEEVED,
WEE IMPUDENT BUNNEL O' FUR,
TELL THON CUR "HOUL YER WHEESHT",
THERE JOOST YIN MYTHICAL BEASHT,
CLEAR AFF OR I'M COMIN O'ER .

by NESSIE'S COUSIN BESSIE

*********************

Am I here, or am I not?

I am the King of the Jungle,
But there is no jungle here,
So I stroll around Liscolman,
And fill the kids with fear.

There's not a lot to do,
Or come to that, to see,
Just wander cross these fields,
And think of what could be.

Thanks to a dutiful master,
Who kindly set me free,
I feel so lost and lonely,
In a place I long to flee.

This land to me is very strange,
And not what I'd call home,
I am a Panther big and black,
My destiny's to roam.

Choppers, planes and men with guns,
I've come across the lot,
All went home with heads bowed low,
The Panther they hadn't got.

It's really up to you,
If I am real or not,
The County Antrim Panther,
Forever will be sought.

Should you come across me,
Or pass me on your way,
Stop a while and think,
Of what you're going to say.

Just like Father Christmas,
I am very seldom seen,
It's only when I've left,
That you will know I've been.

by P. Anther and S. M.

*********************

Bye la's

There's a rumour gane roon thae sae tha kat haes got wed,
Tae a yung whuttrick frae near Deffrick wha's fond o' hir bed,
Thae sae if its true thae hae noo a femmilie o' three,
An hae their een on a snug biggin awa' up a tal' tree.

Noo if ye beleeve a ye hear ye'd eat a ye see,
Sae pin bak yer lugs for this news is for free,
It's time we'd a la' tae stap these fool things,
For tha Cooncil maun tak it undther their wings.

Can thae naw a agree jest for yince in their life,
Tae adopt tha poor Kat his cubs an' his wife,
An ect on behaf o this rare kine o' breed,
Oot o' guidness o' hert jest gie them a feed.

For tha nixt that we'll hear a new la' Europe wull pass
That micht mak tha Toon Cooncil oot a bit o' an ass,
Sae cum on mae freens pit on yer green hats,
An pass a Bye la' tae luk efter baith Whutricks an kats.

Charlie "Tha Poocher" Rannals

*********************

AW NAW MAIR CATS

COME POOCHERS, HUNTERS, PICTS AN GLENSMEN,
AN' AL' ASOART'T RYMIN' KINSMEN,
THE PANTHER CAT'S ABOOT TAE WED,
AN OCCUPY A DOOBLE BED.

HE'S STEPPIN OOT AS BOUL AS BRASS,
AS IF TAE SEY BOYS, KISS MAE "PAW",
GETTING WED, THE TOVEY SKITTER ,
AN GEEN THE SPRING, THEY'LL HAE A LITTER.

IT'S NAW MAE NATURE BOYS TAE BUM,
BUT MINE I WARN'T YE THIS WUD COME,
AS IF YIN PANTHER'S NAW ENUCH,
THEY'LL BE KOOKIN OOTAE IVERY SHEUGH.

NOO LISSEN TAE ME FREENS AN NEIGHBOURS,
WHUN THON SHE CAT GANGS INTAE LABOUR,
SHE'LL HAE HIR KITTLINS SIX OR EIGHT,
OCH! OCH! A HANNLIN THEY'LL CREATE.

YE'LL NIVER GET A MINITS PEACE,
THEY'LL ATE FIVE YUWS A WEEK AT EAST,
YE MICHTNAE FRET AN RUB YER BROO,
THE GARRY BOG IS NOO A ZOO.

AN FAE THE STROAN TAE OUL BURN GUSHEY,
THEY'LL BE MONKIES SPEELIN UP THE BUSHES,
AN THE FERMERS LIFE WILL BE GYE ROUGH,
THEY'LL BE CROCODILES IN IVERY SHEUGH.

CROCODILE DRUMLEE

*********************

And now for something completely different:

Here's a wee rhyme by The Wizard

about the Ballintoy Gunslingers.

BURBERRY MAN M'GREW

Me an the boys wur fu' as po's,
In M'Shafertie's saloon,
An a fermers boy fae Balintoy,
Wus murderin a Jim Reeves tune.

At the enn o the bar in dungarees,
An whut wus left o a Burberry coat,
Sut a boy wha come in, as blak as sin,
An a baerd like Jamiesons goat,

Sittin watchin him lake a cat wae a moose,
An naw a bar in hir grate,
Sut a rickle o‚ bones aboot seven stone,
She wus known as Tolly Eye't Kate.

She had fell through the door, She wus kell't like a boar,
She had sa‚ monies a gye ruch hoose
She cursed an she swore an she sput on the floor,
Drinkin still an boortry juice.

Weel she wink't at the boy in the Burberry coat,
An seys she, ir ye passin through,
Seys he, yis ma'am, indeed I am,
I am gan tae the boar wae a soo.

She striddl't oot ower an she seys tae him,
Mae boy that's a gye dark nicht,
It's up tae you but for drivin a soo,
Ye cud Œve dane wae a bit o a licht.

Seys he sowl dae ye know, yer‚e naw sae slow
For baith me an the soo‚s clean bate,
She tweedl't hir thooms an she bar't hir gooms,
Is that the soo that's tied tae the gate,

I hae a Hurrican lamp up at my oul camp,
An strenger if your game
I'll see ye richt for the len o' a licht,
Geen you wud see me hame.

Weel he got cleek‚t on hir erm'the boady mean‚t nae herm,
But that's whun hell bruk loose,
For Scabby Heid't Dan the oul dolls man
Come intae the public hoose.

Weel he lukk‚t at the boy in the Burberry coat,
An lot oot a baw like a bull,
An seys he richt mate, lee go oor Kate,
Or I'll knock in your bloody skull.

He pley't race for yer man in the Burberry coat,
An put him clean aff hes feet,
An in a cloud o stoor they gane throo the dure,
An they focht in the dark coul street.

Weel they tell mae that, barrin twa buck cats,
Sich a fecht wus niver seen,
The steet turn't red as the twa boys bled ,
An blaken't ithers een.

Boys the rips an the tears ye wud‚v thocht twa bears,
Wus fechtin for Tolly Eye't Kate,
On murder bent tae doon they went,
Ower the soo that wus tyed tae the gate.

As sure as ye wur boarn the very nixt moarn,
Lyin there wae thoor pans knock't in,
Wus Scabby Heid‚t Dan an the Burberry man,
Wae nebs an knuckles skinn't.

Sure it's nae surprise, that mens naw wise,
It's mony times prove't true,
As they got wash't at the pump,wae thoor heid full o lumps,
Oul Burberry miss't the soo.

Seys the fermers boy fae Belintoy
An he swore whut he sey'd wus true,
Och! Bliss mae sowl, whun ye's wur baith felt coul,
Oul Kate wus away wae the soo.

Tha Wizard

*********************

Here's a wee Rhyme, Charlie Gillen wrote,

to celebrate the launch of our wee group.

'SCAD THE BEGGARS'

WE’LL TAK YE BACK TAE GRANNY,
WAE HER SKILLET ON THE CROOK,
THE RECIPES O’ YISTERYEAR,
THEY NIVIR LEEV’T WITHIN A BOOK.

CHORUS
SCAD THE BEGGARS, MEALIE CRUSHIE,
YE CAN CA’ IT WHAT YE CAN,
OATEN MALE AN BACON CREESH,
TASTY FRYIN IN THE PAN.

WE HANNAE GOT THE OAT MEAL,
NOR HAE WE A FRYIN PAN,
BUT WERE HERE TAE ENTERTAIN YE
WI THE SCAD THE BEGGARS BAND.

COME BACK IN TIME A DANNER ,
JOOST COME WAE US FOR A WHILE,
TAE HEAR THE TUNES AN SANGS AN STORIES ,
THAT ARE SURE TAE YE BEGUILE.

HOOCH, CLAP AN JOIN THE FUN ,
AN WATCH YER CARES A' FLEE AWA’,
AN GIN YE’D AYE KEN THE CHORUS ,
THEN YE AW CAN SING AWA’ .

SHUT YER EEN AN DRIFT AWA ,
FOR MEMORIES O’ TIMES LANG GAN ,
ON THE SHIP O' DREAMS COME SAILIN ,
WAE THE SCAD THE BEGGARS BAND.

Charlie 'The Wizard' Gillen

*********************

INDEX BIG KAT RHYMES: Tha GARRY KAT - 'Tha Poocher' The PUMA'S TAIL - or TALE? - 'Moggus Garrybogus' The POOCHER'S REPLY - 'Tha Poocher' GARRYBOGUS TWO - 'Moggus Garryboggus' THE HUNTER - 'The Pict' THE PUMA'S PLEA - 'Felis Concolor' PUIR OUL POOSHEY - 'Tam the Santer' A REBUKE TAE THA POOCHER - 'Tha Poocher' BIG CAT MAE THOOM - 'Aqua Vitae' The MELANCHOLY COLLIE - 'Shep' BIRDS EE VEIW - 'The Watcher' HOW QUAINT - 'Lover of Books & Reader of Men' The FOX AND THE PANTHER - 'Glensman' FRAE THE SHORES o' LOCH NESS - 'Nessie' BAD NEWS TREVILLS QUICK - Nessie's Cousin 'Bessie' AM I HERE, OR AM I NOT? - 'P. Anther and S. M.' BYE LA'S - Charlie "Tha Poocher" Rannals AW NAW MAIR CATS - 'Crocodile Drumlee' THE CAT-O-LOG, EPILOG - 'The Wizard O' The Flough' ASSORTED RHYMES: BURBERRY MAN M'GREW - 'Tha Wizard' WAE GOD ON THEIR SIDE - 'Tha Poocher' PRATAS - 'The Wizard' SCAD THE BEGGARS' - 'The Wizard' McDOUGAL'S KIRSTNIN - 'Dusty Rhodes' THE POOCHER'S REPLY A hae read tha rantins o tha 'Kat' himsel, An he disnae fu' me wae hes tunge sae swell, For the English he scrieves in, brecks nae delph wae me, For Am nae doser A wisnae boarn at tha fit o' a tree. A ken weel eneuch what he's tryin tae dae, Wae his big wurds that maist folk jest cannae sae, He's tryin tae sweetyba‚ tha puir fermers an aa, As if he had niver committed nae crimes ava. An he'll shane larn that tha guid folk frae roon here, Dinnae fa' for sich tak an wull no leeve in fear, For thae hae aa cum thegither wae yin thocht in mine, Its time that North Entrim sa' tha last o yer behine. Sae cum on ye boy ye' hae sense whun ye ir still free, A hae a listen tae mae wurds an advice that A gie, Tak yersel an yer 'brither' bak hame tae yer lair, An stie in tha Garryboag ir tha sweet forest o' Clare. An sae noo tae conclude A hae this jest tae sae, Yer naw invited tae roon here for yer tay, A hae naethin but respect for tha folk o Bogey an aa For A wus boarn in Benverdin jest ayont the Wee Ha‚ 'Tha Poocher' *********************	North Antrim Rhymes (Ulster Scots Verse)
	These Rhymes were written by North Antrim Folk, about the Big Cat that's been sighted around Ballybogey. They were posted in my column -'Traditional Notes', in the 'Ballymoney Times', during the winter of 2003/04. I find them 'mair nor middlin', I hope you enjoy them too.
	THA GARRY KAT Oul North Antrim noo haes got a kat, Nae ordinary moggie wha lies on tha mat, But a big blak thing that ates yer sheep, An gaes intae tha Garry an haes a sleep. Noo this big boy haes bane sa far an wide, An appears jest at wull alang tha dake side, In Conagher moss twa polis got a sicht o' him, Thae said he luked weel an wus in guid trim. Tha USPCA follaed him for a brave while, Ower monies a moss, feil, sheugh an stile, But this moggie niver staps for mair nir a minit, He's aff in a flash lake a flay doon yer simmit. Thers yins that wud sweer that he haes a brither, That wus sa' near Bushmill in a feil fu' o' heather, An oul boy frae Bogey sa him rin ower tha tap feil, Saes tha kat dinnae fool him for its surely tha deil. Noo tha hale cuntry side is oot efter this Kat, For he haes become famous thers nae doot o' that, He haes run rings roon them aa for monies a dey, An nae odds o' tha toonlan sure hae aye gets away. Noo maesel A think haes lakely o' tha blak airt, An micht turn intae a burd or a doag or a kert, An whun tha wunther comes tae tha oul Garry Sur tha kat in these airts wull nae langer tarry. *'Tha Poocher'* *********************

	THE PUMA'S TAIL - or TALE? Just a few lines from the "Puma" hoping this finds you all well, Just lately all this attention has this Puma's nerves shot to hell, It started one idyllic evening as I went for a stroll 'as you do', Alas ! I was seen by a farmer, who started a hullabaloo. Next day as I went for my breakfast 'I fancied the ear off a ewe', Well such a crowd of police and reporters 'one could hardly believe the to-do', As you know this was just the beginning I was harried by air and by land, I was chased to the bridge at 'Burn Gushey' by men in a white Transit van. To elude these intrepid intruders, I thought, I'll visit my cousin in Clare, In my haste I forgot 'was I in for a shock' t‚was the week of the Oul Lammas Fair, The tailback it stretched to Moyarget this spoiled my weekend by the sea, And as I went for a rest in Clare forest some-one took a photo of me. Now, this when it got to the news-desk it started the cat-hunt anew, Some folk just kept 'mum' some said, "can't be done" and decided of 'me' there is two, The experts they said, 'most unlikely' for a 'moggy' now 'that's quite a hike', But in you I'll confide, I come from a pride, of Pumas who ride motor bikes. Will you please spare a thought for the Puma, do not sit in judgement in haste, Although a chewer of ears, I did not wish to be here, and for mutton I've quite lost my taste As I write from this secret location I know I might sound a 'right prat', But to avoid confrontation and my own ruination, I am one vegetarian cat. 'Moggus Garrybogus' *********************
THE HUNTER I WAS HEADING FOR THE 'YUKON', WITH A SHOVEL AND A PICK, WHEN A RIDER OVERTOOK ME, SAYIN‚, I HAVE BRUNG YOU WORD FROM 'DICK', OLE‚ DICK'S STILL ON THE FIDDLE, WELL! I AIN'T SURPRISED AT THAT, THEN HE SAID PLEASE COME TO ANTRIM, AND CATCH THE 'BOGEY CAT', WELL I GUESS I OWE THE OLD GUY ONE , SO I TURNED THE MULE AROUN‚ AND BACKTRACKED DOWN THE 'DAWSON TRAIL', DESTINATION 'BOGEY' TOWN. YOU SEE I USED TO BE A HUNTER, THEY SAY OF SOME RENOWN, SO THAT 'PUMA'S' ASS I MEAN TO KICK, NEXT TIME HE COMES AROUN. MY WALLS ARE HUNG WITH TROPHIES, EXOTIC BEASTS ADORN, A BIT FORLORN WITH JUST ONE HORN, I STUFFED THE UNICORN. I WRESTLED WITH THE 'YETI', IN THE MOUNTAINS OF NEPAL, WITH A FOREARM SMASH I SETTLED HIS HASH, HE NOW STANDS IN MY HALL, ON THE SUNBLEACHED 'SERENGETI' PLAINS, THE LIONS BREATH I TOOK, NOW HE'S MOUNTED ON MAHOGANY, TO GRACE MY CHIMNEY NOOK. OF POLAR BEARS I HAVE A BRACE, OF GRIZZLIES TWO OR THREE, AND A GREAT WHITE SHARK, ALL BITE NO BARK IS HERE FOR ALL TO SEE. I SCOURED THE PLAINS FOR BUFFALO, WITH THE BLACKFOOT AND THE CREE, MAE FETHER COME FAE GUNYUCK, AN MAE MA'S A CHEROKEE . SO NIGHT- NIGHT MR PUMA, I WILL SOON BE ON YOUR TRAIL, AND ON JOHNNY KENNEDY‚S PETROL PUMPS , I'LL HANG YOU BY THE TAIL. WHO AM I YE MICHT WEEL AX, AM I THE SPIRIT O THE NIGHT, OR SOME OUL DOTIN EEJIT, WHA TAKS A LOAD O' RUBBISH . 'THE PICT' ******************* A REBUKE TAE THA POOCHER A met an oul fermer wae a face lake a lantern As A wus trevillin roon aboot North Antrim, Saes he, "Ir ye tha Poocher wha writes yer Rhymes Fae week tae week in tha Bellymoney Times" Saes I, "Heth that A am", an reached oot for his han, But A cud see me bein there wus mair than he cud stan, A jest thocht tae masel whut A micht hae dane But deed it wusnae lang tae he did explain. Saes he, "Is fermers dinnae tak tha Big Kat licht An aff coorse you toon yins aye think yersels richt, For yersel an Garry Bogus, tha Hunter an tha lake, Wud bae better if yese wud jest button yer bake. For tak it frae me if yese kent onything ava Yese wud shut yer big mooths if ye velue yer ja, For wur tha fermers wha if loasin oor sheep An its is an naw youse that's een niver sleep." Sae wae that A slid aff wae mae kep in mae han For tae me it wus wise whun still able tae stan, For A think A hae larnt thon fermers naw slow An maesel a'll ony write aboot sumthin‚ A know. 'Tha Poocher' ***************** THE MELANCHOLY COLLIE I AM A BONNIE SHEEPDOG, MY WHOLE LIFE IS UPSIDE DOWN, 'CAUSE MY ONE TIME HAPPY MASTER, NOW FOREVER WEARS A FROWN. I AM PRACTICALLY REDUNDANT, AND I SUPPOSE IT MUST BE SAID, THERE'S NOT MUCH ROUNDING UP TO DO, WHEN THE SHEEP ARE IN THE SHED. YOU SEE MY CHARGES USED TO GRAZE, QUITE NEAR THE GARRY BOG, BEFORE THAT BLOODY PANTHER CAME, AH! JUST ONE MAN AND HIS DOG. OH! DAMN AND BLAST THAT MANGY BRUTE , COAT AND SOUL AS BLACK AS NIGHT, OR PUMA BEIGE OR SANDY BROWN, WHO GAVE OUR EWES A FRIGHT. I'M GETTING FAT AND OUT OF SHAPE, FROM LYING ON THE MAT, MY CAREER IT LIES IN RUINS, AND FOR WHAT ? A BLOODY CAT!!. SO SLING YOUR HOOK "YE SLEEKIT BASTE", IM AFRAID THAT'S HOW I FEEL, AND LET ME GET SOME PRACTISE, FOR THE TRIALS AT LOUGHGUILE SHEP ***************** HOW QUAINT I AM MAJOR TIM PONSONBY BLUNT, THE MASTER OF BURN GUSHEY HUNT, "CHARLIE FOX" IS MY USUAL QUARRY, BUT THIS PUMA YOU SEE, MIGHT BE WORTH TWO OR THREE, AND I'M TOLD ARE DELICIOUS WHEN CURRIED. SO IF YOU REQUIRE, I SHALL CLEAR THE ENTIRE, COUNTRYSIDE OF THIS OUTLANDISH BRUTE, "BASSET HOUNDS" AT THE READY, NOW STEADY LADS STEADY, AND TWO "POMERAINIANS" TO BOOT. YOU MIGHT FIND THIS STRANGE, BUT I DO LIKE A CHANGE, FOR TRADITION I CARE NOT A JOT, YOU MAY THINK I'M QUITE MAD, 'CAUSE I HUNT ON A QUAD, MY DEAR WIFE SAYS I'VE QUITE LOST THE PLOT. YOU SEE HORSES AND ME, WE HAVE NEVER AGREED, AND I CAN'T STAY ABOARD ONE FOR LONG, THAT TRADITIONAL "GET-UP", DEAR ME WHAT A "SET-UP", I PREFER STEEL TOE'D BOOTS AND A THONG. COUNTRY LIFE IT HAS CHANGED, "IS THIS FELLOW DERANGED", DEAR FRIENDS I WILL SAY ONLY THIS, THIS RED WINES TWENTY PROOF, THE WHOLE TALE IS A SPOOF, AND IT'S ONLY ME TAKING THE - - - -, LOVER OF BOOKS & READER OF MEN *******************		GARRYBOGUS TWO (this time it's personal!) Oh! Poacher man your so unkind, To slight me so, but never mind , My feline feelings you have hurt, With comments dastardly and curt. And quite outrageously uncivil, To liken me unto your "divil", By such talk I am misunderstood , The "Phantom of the Garry wood " My grace and beauty you may trace The epitome of feline race, I emplore you Sir if you don't mind, Don't point your gun at my behind. The Poacher" takes the game of others, Beneath the skin Sir, are we brothers ? The sport the thrill at worst affray, We both thus far have got away. When winter nips as soon it might, Do not forget this Puma' s plight, While you in slippered feet recline, I shiver in a land not mine. So watch your telly sip your wine, Oh! don't mind me, misplaced fe-line, Or for old Puma spare a thought, I did not come here I was brought. 'Moggus Garryboggus' *********************
		THE PUMA'S PLEA I AM FREEZING IN NORTH ANTRIM, IN MY MAKESHIFT FOREST LAIR, AND FITFULLY I DREAM OF HOME , AND WISH THAT I WAS THERE. OH YES, I ONCE WAS WANTED, AS A PET, A RICH MANS WHIM, HOW I WISH THAT AS HE TREATED ME, SOMEONE NOW, WOULD THUS TREAT HIM. I MUST EAT SOON OR I SHALL DIE, MY NATURE IS TO KILL, BY MAN I'M SHUNNED, A MURDERER, THE HUNT HAS LOST IT'S THRILL. YOU SURELY SEE I MUST RETAIN, MY FREEDOM WHILE I CAN, I NEVER CAN SURRENDER, FOR I COULD NEVER TRUST A MAN. *'FELIS CONCOLOR'* ******************* PUIR OUL POOSHEY I'M THINKIN‚ BOYS THE KATS GYE QUATE, DAE YE THINK DAE POOSHIES HIBERNATE, I NIVER KNOW'D THE LAKE AFORE, MAYBE HE HAE'S TANE A SNORE. WILE SCUNNER'T HAE'S HE GOT DEPRESSION, IN A SORTA FELINE POOSHY FASHION, IS HE IN A STATE O' CAT DELIR-I-UM. AN EFTER MALES MAN TAK TWA VAL-I-UM. EFTER SCOBIN‚ TURNIPS AN SOOKIN‚ SOORUKS, HE RUN AWA WAE TWA WEE ERACKS, KNOCK‚T THEM IN HIM SPITTI'N FEATHERS, BURIED THE BONES AMANG THE HEATHER, CRYED HIMSEL SOME LATIN NAME, TOUL THE FOLK THE MICHT THINK SHAME, AN‚ HUNT NAE MAIR THE FOREIGN POOSHEY, ROON THE BREWS O' OUL BURN GUSHEY. THON OUL POOCHER RIZ A ROW, SAID THE POOSHEY HE WUD COW, HE‚LL TRACK HIM BETTER COME THE SNOW. HE MICHT, BUT MINE YE I DON'T KNOW. THE PICT SAID HE WUD KETCH AN STUFF HIM, THE POOSHEY MICHT DRAW AFF AN CUFF HIM, HE'S HUNTIN DEYS ARE BY LANG SYNE, FOR KEREEDLIN' EFTER THEM FELINES. SO COME ON RHYMERS LET IS HEAR YE, TAE THE TIMES I MEAN TAE STEER YE, LET IS HEAR YOUR BIT O‚ CRACK, AN LAKE BIG ARNIE "I'LL BE BACK" 'TAM THE SANTER' ***************** BIG CAT MAE THOOM I'm sittin' here mae lane in the moss, hunker't doon in a stank Feart tae move fae whur I am, joost keekin' oot ower the peat bank Hoo's a boady aspose't tae cope, corner't here agin thoor will Wae a' the orders comin' in, an I canna get peace, tae mak still Ivery whur yae luk there polis, an a' kines o' boadys wae guns Whirlybirds fly'in oot ower yer heid, hokin' through iv'ryboadys grun Folk oot wae battery lamps, ye'd think they'd naithin' better tae day Hoo's a' honest boady lake me gan tae get the still up an barmin away Some say thoor a'oot there lukkin' for a serious big baste o' a cat But thoor naw foolin me, aw naw, fur I ken fine weel what thoor at Thoor efter mae still, an the finest oul whusky t'wus iver lipp't bae man Fame't roon the worl an farther, made only as a countryman can I larn't it fae mae oul folk who wudnae gee the government thoor bill Takin' awa a workin boadys pleasure, och! I can hear mae granda still Taxin all a boady daes an every bite an sup he puts intae his mooth If it stud for him it'll stan for me an mine ye that's the truth They kin luk a' they want tae for them cats, be they broon or black or blue I'll fill mae orders fur the dacent folk what wae Christmas comin' noo An as fur mangy cats an the stories an the folk wha started this farse Tak yer nebs ootae whuns an rashes an stick them in the stillmans poakit Aqua Vitae ***************** BIRDS EE VEIW I'M SITTIN' UP THIS SYCAMORE, AN‚ I'M WATCHIN' ALL ABOOT, FOR THEY TELL ME THERE'S A PANTHER IN THE PLANTIN' LUKKIN' OOT. BUT I'M DAMN'T IF I CAN SEE HIM, FAE MAE PERCH AWA UP HIGH, AN' BOYS I DAE NAE MISS MUCH, ON THE GRUN OR IN THE SKY. YE SEE BOYS I'M A BUZZARD, AN' MAE EEN IR BRAVE AN' GUID, AN' GEEN THE BOYO IS STILL IN THERE, BAE MAE SOWL HE'S BRAVELY HID. I HAE BEEN WATCHIN FOR MAE DINNER, ROON HERE THIS WHEEN O' YEARS, AN' I HAE YIT TAE SEE A PUMA , OR A PANTHER ABOOT HERE. BOYS NOO YE NIVER HARD ME SEYIN, THAT THERE'S NAW YIN ON THE LOOSE, BUT IT'S ODD THE WYE I MISS'T HIM , WHUN I WUDNAE MISS A MOOSE. I HAE SA' THE GHAIST O' TOBER MOOR, GANN DRIFTIN' OWER THE FLOUGH, I HAE SA' BENVERDINS LADY, AN' THE WITCH O WILE GLENTOW. I SA' THE THINGS THAT GAR THE FOLK, PU' THE QUILT OOT OWER THOOR HEID, BUT I NIVER SA' NAE LION BOYS, O' ONY CLASS OR CREED. THE WATCHER *******************
THE FOX and THE PANTHER I wuz eyin up a wee hen hoose Aye toorthy nichts ago When I heared the chickens a takin Gabbin and keeklin ye know. It wuz maistly oul clish-ma-claver But I jooked roun behin the peat stack An I cocked yin ear tae listen An yin tae cover me back. "Oh God," sez yin tae anither "Did ye hear aboot thon big black cat?" "Naw indeed," sez she, I didnae- What in uther o God is that?" "Ugh Mary," sez she, "You're dotin, Sure they're doon ivery wee hole an pad Searchin for a big sleekit panther An they say he's a killin mad. "Apparently he's sixteen fut or mair Oh a fearsome lukin brute Wi teeth as shairp as razshor bleds An them al stickin oot" "Oh God o God," sez Mary, Dinnae be fearin me Jane- Maybe this place is no just sae bad The mair noo it's far frae clane." "Begod I think you're right," sez Jane, An maybe you'll fin this strange But I'd rather be cooped up in here Than wantherin oot there free range." Well I listened a weethin langer But there wuznae much mair sense Then I catched the faintest whuff o cat And be jaipers I cleared the fence. I run for nearly half a mile Till I wuz just a peckin Then I stapped an studied up a while Aboot al thon oul fool scraitchin I paced the floor half the nicht In yin o my oul dens An I wanthered how a fox like me Wuz feared be cats an hens. So I githered al me wits and will An sez I, 'I'll no be bate, I'll just set me ain wee trap An lie doon here an wait.' So I scarted about until I foun Whar I buried half a lamb An as sure as Gods in heaven If it wuznae there - bedamned. The blert man bate me tae it Me wee larther in the moss Sez I, 'You'll pay for that ye boy For noo ye made me cross. Well I threw maesel down in the heather An I tried tae think an think An the next I catched anither whuff O thon oul panther stink I tracked him doon a mile away Fornenst an oul farm gaivel He wuz purrin like an engine For al that he wuz able. He stiffened up at my approach An barred thon big thite pegs If I couldna run I michta But I couldna fin the legs. The mair me heart wuz in me mooth I wuznae gan tae turn Sez I, 'I hae crow tae pluck An I come on wan-ends-ern.' Sez he, "What's yer problem mate?" Oh as boul as boul could be. Sez I, 'It's you, ye keerion Noo listen here tae me.' 'Ye shouldnae even be here An weel ye know it's true You're fitted for the jungle Or up in Belfast Zoo.' 'I was born an raired here You're just a runner in, Gan back tae whar ye came frae An keep company wi yer ain kin.' "Are ye finished" said the big cat, "Am I alood tae spake? If ye dinnae stap yer girnin I'll shut yer wee red bake." Well I'm no sae brave I'm stupid An I wuznae gan tae ficht So sez I, 'gan aheid ye boy ye Mine I hinae got al nicht.' "I dinnae want tae be here I wuznae gien a choice." Boys I knowed that he wuz vexed noo By the wee tremmle in his voice. "I'm doon tae eatin wee scaldies An the odd oul broken moothed yo Sure I stick oot here like a sore thumb Especially oot in the snow." "An they're huntin me doon like an outlaw I'm beginnin tae think they're no wise The polis is through here in hunthners An them boys al eatin big frys." "God I wished I'd the price o their fother I coud pay for maesel tae get hame I'm only lukin a single For I wudnae be back here again." "But I'm runnin aboot here half founthered, No a day goes by but there's rain If I hadnae met up wi Molly I'd be scungin me leif alane." Well the shivers ran doon tae me brush sir As them words sunk intae me heid An I picturad a big hairy she cat An the blood in me veins turnt tae leid. Sez I, 'Ye don't mean tae tell me?' Sez he, "I think that I do." An me eyes could harly believe it When the one cat turnt intae two. Well if I wuznae oot o me depth afore I got maesel in a tither I michta stood a chanst wi yin But no wi two thegither. But a licht come on in the farmhoose An the farmer stepped oot tae the yaird But I stood on in the shadows The mair I wuz mortally scared. Well he caled his oul doag frae the byre An smoothere his twa barreled gun An part o me wanted tae stan there An part o me wanted tae run. I knowed he wuz just aboot tae play bleenge But oot o the side o his eye He spied thon two big black pushies An he let oot whuntherful cry. Be that an oul collie made at me I suppose he thought I wud run But up stepped thon two big black panthers Boys was thon oul dog no while done. Then tha farmer expended baith barrels Hairmlessly intae the dark An the oul collie ran roun behin him An bravely he started tae bark. Well I turned on me tail an I hooked it Away back tae me oul winters den An I thought aboot collies and chickens- An I thought aboot big cats an men. But maistly I thought on thon panthers For it's no ivery nicht that ye meet A boy like yersel that's an outlaw, At least yin wi mair than two feet. An the mair I thought on thon panthers- An how they saved me oul skin, I didnae begrudge them thon wee bit o lamb Naw indeed they're me ain kith an kin. 'Glensman' ******************* THE CAT-O-LOG, EPILOG I S'POSE ITS TIME THAT I CONFESSED, I DOOT A GUID WHEEN NOO HAE GUESSED, THAT I'M THE BOY WHA IS TAE BLAME, FOR RHYMES WRIT UNNER ITHER NAMES. THE NAMES WUR A PERT O THE JOKE, BUT YE CANNAE FOOL NORTH ANTRIM FOLK, SO HERE I STAN TAE TAK THE BLAME FOR AL' THON ITHER OUL FOOL NAMES. 'THE HUNTER', 'PICT' AN 'SHEP THE DOAG', AN 'MOGGUS FAE THE GARRY BOAG', 'WEE AGGIE' FAE ABANE KNOCKSOUGHY, WHA WUS' YE'LL MINE A NERVOUS BROCKEY. TAE ADD TAE A THON OUL FOOL BANTER, A TALE WUS TOUL BAE 'TAM THE SANTER', IN TROTH WE EVEN HARD FAE 'BESSIE', COUSIN O' THE FAMOUS 'NESSIE'. THE 'POOCHER' WRITIN IN THESE ANNALS, MAE FELLA RHYMER CHARLIE RANNALS, AN AS THE BEANS I'M NOO AL' SPILLIN, YER HUMBLE SCRIBE IS CHARLIE GILLEN. P.S. COME ON YE POETS BARDS AN RHYMERS , LABOURIN MEN AN SOCIAL CLIMBERS, WHUTIVER TONGUE YE MICHT RECITE IN, CHUW YER PENCIL, KEEP ON WRITIN. I'M TOUL THE BOY WHA RINS THE 'TIMES', KINNA LAKES THE WEE BIT RHYMES, COME NOO FOLKS AN DAE YER BIT, TAE COIN A PHRASE JOOST 'KEEP HIR LIT'. "THE WIZARD O' THE FLOUGH" *******************
		Frae the shores o' LOCH NESS Ochan, ochan! I am chust a wee bittie concerned about thon muckle moggie you have over there. Bad mannered! Hoots mon, he (or she) was no brought up right! He (or she) has gone and stolen my copyright on elusiveness. Cannae have that man! After all, wasn’t it me wha’s invented it? And what’s the Highland Tourist Board going to say about it - them as have invested a lot of tax-payers’ money in promoting me? The right’s no in it man! Och man, yon moggie’s no right in the head! If thon Kat as you call it wants a wee bit of my action, then the least he (or she) could do is be polite about it and ask me. If he (or she) can find me that is. Ay, wheel, perhaps that’s where the problem lies. Tell you what to do man – if you can find yon moggie – ah but then maybe you won’t, So here’s plan B - chust leave him (or her) a wee note, somewhere where he (or she) is bound to find it, saying he (or she) has got to come to Scotland, to Loch Ness to see me and talk things over – I’m sure we can come to some understanding about this oversight on his (or her) part, and maybe do a deal. Now I can chust hear you saying “If Nessie is so elusive, how in heaven is our moggie going to find him (or her)?” Nae bother – when you write your wee note tae thon moggie, tell him (or her) to leave his (or her) camera at home. That way he (or she) is bound to find me! And no polis or reporters mind, or I’ll just dive deeper and the poor wee (sorry – “muckle”) moggie will never find me. Ahhhh! …. taing do Dhia (Thank God) I’ve got that off my very large chest before the New Year! No use carrying that sort of baggage around too long. I feel better already. Now I can wish all your readers “Bliadhna Mhath Ùr” as we say in these parts – that is “Happy New Year”. Tioraidh ma tha! (Bye then!) I’m off to scare the wits out of another unsuspecting tourist in a boat – “Fhir a’ bhàta, na ho ro eile ……..” (Did you know I wrote that song?) Yours elusively, 'Nessie' ******************* BAD NEWS TREVILLS QUICK I'VE JOOST HAD A LETTER FAE "NESSIE" WHA LIVES AS YOU KNOW 'OWER THE SHEUGH', SEYIN, WHA'S THIS DAMN'T CAT, THE IMPUDENT BRAT, BOYS, OUL 'NESSIE' WUS KICKIN UP ROUGH. NESSIE SEYS, NOO, DINNAE YOU THINK , I'M JOOST RISIN A STINK, I'M SWEEMIN‚ HERE NEARLY IN TEARS, AN‚ I'M NAW JOOST RANTIN‚ ABOOT SOME CAT IN A PLANTIN‚ I'VE BEEN SCARRIN‚ THE FOLK HERE FOR YEARS FOR YEARS AT MAE PRANKS I HAE SCARR'T VISITIN‚ YANKS, WHUN I STUCK MAE HEID OOTAE THE WATTER, THEY PEEL'T ELBAS AN SHINS AS THEY TORE THROUGH THE WHINS, ACH! BOYS I LACH'T WHUN I SA' THEM AL'SCATTER. NOO NESSIE'S THE NAME AN' ELUSIVES THE GAME. AT JOOKIN' I CLAIM AL' THE FAME, WHUN THEY AL' THINK I'M DEID, I JOOST STICK UP MAE HEID, AN' START THE HALE BIZZNESS AGAIN TELL YOUR CAT I'M AGGREIVED, AYE JOOST A BIT PEEVED, WEE IMPUDENT BUNNEL O' FUR, TELL THON CUR "HOUL YER WHEESHT", THERE JOOST YIN MYTHICAL BEASHT, CLEAR AFF OR I'M COMIN O'ER . by NESSIE'S COUSIN BESSIE ***************** Am I here, or am I not? I am the King of the Jungle, But there is no jungle here, So I stroll around Liscolman, And fill the kids with fear. There's not a lot to do, Or come to that, to see, Just wander cross these fields, And think of what could be. Thanks to a dutiful master, Who kindly set me free, I feel so lost and lonely, In a place I long to flee. This land to me is very strange, And not what I'd call home, I am a Panther big and black, My destiny's to roam. Choppers, planes and men with guns, I've come across the lot, All went home with heads bowed low, The Panther they hadn't got. It's really up to you, If I am real or not, The County Antrim Panther, Forever will be sought. Should you come across me, Or pass me on your way, Stop a while and think, Of what you're going to say. Just like Father Christmas, I am very seldom seen, It's only when I've left, That you will know I've been. by P. Anther and S. M. ***************** Bye la's There's a rumour gane roon thae sae tha kat haes got wed, Tae a yung whuttrick frae near Deffrick wha's fond o' hir bed, Thae sae if its true thae hae noo a femmilie o' three, An hae their een on a snug biggin awa' up a tal' tree. Noo if ye beleeve a ye hear ye'd eat a ye see, Sae pin bak yer lugs for this news is for free, It's time we'd a la' tae stap these fool things, For tha Cooncil maun tak it undther their wings. Can thae naw a agree jest for yince in their life, Tae adopt tha poor Kat his cubs an' his wife, An ect on behaf o this rare kine o' breed, Oot o' guidness o' hert jest gie them a feed. For tha nixt that we'll hear a new la' Europe wull pass That micht mak tha Toon Cooncil oot a bit o' an ass, Sae cum on mae freens pit on yer green hats, An pass a Bye la' tae luk efter baith Whutricks an kats. Charlie "Tha Poocher" Rannals ***************** AW NAW MAIR CATS COME POOCHERS, HUNTERS, PICTS AN GLENSMEN, AN' AL' ASOART'T RYMIN' KINSMEN, THE PANTHER CAT'S ABOOT TAE WED, AN OCCUPY A DOOBLE BED. HE'S STEPPIN OOT AS BOUL AS BRASS, AS IF TAE SEY BOYS, KISS MAE "PAW", GETTING WED, THE TOVEY SKITTER , AN GEEN THE SPRING, THEY'LL HAE A LITTER. IT'S NAW MAE NATURE BOYS TAE BUM, BUT MINE I WARN'T YE THIS WUD COME, AS IF YIN PANTHER'S NAW ENUCH, THEY'LL BE KOOKIN OOTAE IVERY SHEUGH. NOO LISSEN TAE ME FREENS AN NEIGHBOURS, WHUN THON SHE CAT GANGS INTAE LABOUR, SHE'LL HAE HIR KITTLINS SIX OR EIGHT, OCH! OCH! A HANNLIN THEY'LL CREATE. YE'LL NIVER GET A MINITS PEACE, THEY'LL ATE FIVE YUWS A WEEK AT EAST, YE MICHTNAE FRET AN RUB YER BROO, THE GARRY BOG IS NOO A ZOO. AN FAE THE STROAN TAE OUL BURN GUSHEY, THEY'LL BE MONKIES SPEELIN UP THE BUSHES, AN THE FERMERS LIFE WILL BE GYE ROUGH, THEY'LL BE CROCODILES IN IVERY SHEUGH. CROCODILE DRUMLEE *******************
And now for something completely different:
		The following rhyme won North Antrim Rhymer 'CHARLIE REYNOLDS' a prize, in December's 'ULSTER SCOT' paper. WAE GOD ON THEIR SIDE Thae left hame in hunners wae nae thochts o' fear, An tha hale countryside cum oot for tae cheer, These young men o' Ulster their ain kith an kin, Wha wae God on their side thae kent thae wud win. A wheen cum bak hame in wee dribs an' drabs, Tae silent sad faces an tha soun o' oul weeman's sabs, For sae mony wur slachtered wae God on their side, But thae a dee'd brav heroes tae stap Deil's tide. But that wus lang sine an folk shane forgot, Nae time for remembrance, nae time for regret, Naw even twa minits o' their silence tae spare, For wae God on their side shure thae dinnae care. Charlie 'Tha Poocher' Reynolds ******************* This next rhyme was the winning entry in last years 'BARD of BALYCARRY' competition, composed by North Antrim Rhymer - CHARLIE GILLEN. PRATAS Did ye gether tae a spinner, Whun the deys wus shoart an' coul, Did the digger man keep kempin, Tae yeh curst he's verra sowl. Did ye iver poo the prata taps, An' pile them in the fiel', An' burn them efter quattin' time, Whun oot the moon she'd steal. Did ye iver in the ashes, Roast a prata ye had dug, Did ye ate it lake a banquet, Wur ye blak fae ear tae lug. Did ye iver in the moonlicht, Bing up a prata pit, Lake I dane fifty years ago, Ach!! Heth I min' it yit. Did ye iver watch yer fether, Wae rashes thatch the pit, Wae yer bak turn't tae the greeshagh, O' the fire ye had lit. If ye niver sa' or dane these things, Ye'll mebbe naw agree, But memr'ys, whiles is al' we hae, Oul country men lak me. Yeh see, the fermer then, wae whut he had, He wrocht fae dey tae dey, An him an nature dooble yokkt, Gane on thoor simple way. They sey I'm oul an dotin', An in the past I'm loast, But tae the men o' yisteryear, I'd lake tae drink a toast. Here's tae them men wha know't the lan, The saysons an the craps, Wae misty een I see them yit, Amang the prata taps. Charlie 'The Wizard' Gillen ***************** McDougal's Kirstnin Wee Donald MacDougal's a laddie o' grace; He wisna tae blame for the row that taen place, When the wee drappie water wis pour'd on his face, The lad couldna help gettin' kirstned His father invited his freens frae th' hill, Tae come tae the kirstnin an' pree a drap yill: They came an' my certies, they had a braw spill, The night that wee Donald wis Kirstned. There was Coll Macintyre, an' Duncan McCraw, MacRonald, MacDonald, MacPherson, an' Shaw, Wi' Sandy MacVicker, an' Angus MacCaw, The muckle MacRab, and his mither; Blin Kirsty MacTaggart, an' brockit MacQueen, MacComish., MacGregor, daft Forbes, an' Steen, Wi' Alister Tunnock, an' blinkin MacBeen, Come doon tae the Kirstnin thegither. Wi' skill and descretion the table was laid, There was kail at the fit o't, an' beef at the heid, An' right in the centre a haggis displayed, Fu' temptin', its massive proportions, There wis partrich in dishes, an crowdie in caups; The wecht o' th' feed gar't the table collapse; The haggis wis bursted, an' some o' the jaups, I'd Duncan McCraw in contortions. Lang Alister Tinnock gat parritch enow, A wee drappie mair than he wanted, I trow, Frae his braw buckled sheen tae his bonnet o' blue, His hale corporation wis cover'd, Macpherson was coated wi' crowdie an' brose, McCraw wi' a plate lost the half o' his nose, An' brockit McQueen in a state o' repose, Wi' his heid in a tub was discovered. When the table was richted the guests wi' a will, Sat doon tae demolish the supper, An' when they had finished, the whiskey an' yill, Pit a' the braw lads in a flutter, Macpherson was roarin' "My Nannie's awa", An' Sandy MacVicker wis swearin' at Shaw; The muckle MacRab made a lunge at MacCraw, Wi' a dishfu' o' parritch an' butter. MacDonald succumbed tae a crack on the heid, Frae a fugitive fragment o' granite; He lay two-three meenits like ane that wis deid, Wi' his face tae the crust o' oor planet, When he came tae himsel', wi' a terrible aith, Like Moses, the oomph, he arose in his wraith, He nearly kicked Alister Tinnock tae daith, He swore it wis him that began it. Noo' Alister Tinnock resented the kick, He flew at MacDonald an' knockit him sick, An' then wi' a cuniform fragment o' brick, Perforated his new Hielan' bonnet, Blin Kirsty MacTaggart got into the way, When somebody glaumm'd at her bonnet o' strae, Half chokit she tripp'd ower a dish of kail bree, And cosily sat doon upon it. Och man, it wis unco excitin' tae see, Wi' deadly precision the furniture flee, A chair, an' a bucket, an' stools, twa or three, Were constantly keepit in motion, The piper kept playin' "The Laird o' Cockpen", Although his auld heid got a dunt noo an' then, The spirit o' war in his bosom, ye ken, Had banished ilk peacable notion. He yell'd at the lads like a creature possesed, Nor heeded the cries o' the women distressed, When a clype o' a pavin' stone pit him tae rest, An' ruin'd his pipes a' thegither, As he fell the auld pipes gaen their last deein' yelp, His bonnet reposed in a toorn parritch caup, An' there, like a warrior, he lay on the tap, O' the muckle MacRab an' his mither. The laddies were cryin' 'Hooch, aye" an' 'Hoo, ha', There dugs had a fecht o'er the nose o' MacCraw, There wasna a heid in the company a', That hadna a cut or contusion, When the battle wis ower wee Eppie Macmann, Wi' twa three guid neebours attended, An cairted them aff in an ambulance van, Tae see if their hurts could be mended. I hae spent a' my life in the Hielans sae braw, An' there hae been witness o' fechts ane or twa, Ma conscience, that splore wis the warst o' them a', Oor Donald's kirstnin wis ended. James Moore (Dusty Rhodes) *******************
Here's a wee rhyme by The Wizard about the Ballintoy Gunslingers. BURBERRY MAN M'GREW Me an the boys wur fu' as po's, In M'Shafertie's saloon, An a fermers boy fae Balintoy, Wus murderin a Jim Reeves tune. At the enn o the bar in dungarees, An whut wus left o a Burberry coat, Sut a boy wha come in, as blak as sin, An a baerd like Jamiesons goat, Sittin watchin him lake a cat wae a moose, An naw a bar in hir grate, Sut a rickle o‚ bones aboot seven stone, She wus known as Tolly Eye't Kate. She had fell through the door, She wus kell't like a boar, She had sa‚ monies a gye ruch hoose She cursed an she swore an she sput on the floor, Drinkin still an boortry juice. Weel she wink't at the boy in the Burberry coat, An seys she, ir ye passin through, Seys he, yis ma'am, indeed I am, I am gan tae the boar wae a soo. She striddl't oot ower an she seys tae him, Mae boy that's a gye dark nicht, It's up tae you but for drivin a soo, Ye cud Œve dane wae a bit o a licht. Seys he sowl dae ye know, yer‚e naw sae slow For baith me an the soo‚s clean bate, She tweedl't hir thooms an she bar't hir gooms, Is that the soo that's tied tae the gate, I hae a Hurrican lamp up at my oul camp, An strenger if your game I'll see ye richt for the len o' a licht, Geen you wud see me hame. Weel he got cleek‚t on hir erm'the boady mean‚t nae herm, But that's whun hell bruk loose, For Scabby Heid't Dan the oul dolls man Come intae the public hoose. Weel he lukk‚t at the boy in the Burberry coat, An lot oot a baw like a bull, An seys he richt mate, lee go oor Kate, Or I'll knock in your bloody skull. He pley't race for yer man in the Burberry coat, An put him clean aff hes feet, An in a cloud o stoor they gane throo the dure, An they focht in the dark coul street. Weel they tell mae that, barrin twa buck cats, Sich a fecht wus niver seen, The steet turn't red as the twa boys bled , An blaken't ithers een. Boys the rips an the tears ye wud‚v thocht twa bears, Wus fechtin for Tolly Eye't Kate, On murder bent tae doon they went, Ower the soo that wus tyed tae the gate. As sure as ye wur boarn the very nixt moarn, Lyin there wae thoor pans knock't in, Wus Scabby Heid‚t Dan an the Burberry man, Wae nebs an knuckles skinn't. Sure it's nae surprise, that mens naw wise, It's mony times prove't true, As they got wash't at the pump,wae thoor heid full o lumps, Oul Burberry miss't the soo. Seys the fermers boy fae Belintoy An he swore whut he sey'd wus true, Och! Bliss mae sowl, whun ye's wur baith felt coul, Oul Kate wus away wae the soo. Tha Wizard ******************* Here's a wee Rhyme, Charlie Gillen wrote, to celebrate the launch of our wee group. 'SCAD THE BEGGARS' WE’LL TAK YE BACK TAE GRANNY, WAE HER SKILLET ON THE CROOK, THE RECIPES O’ YISTERYEAR, THEY NIVIR LEEV’T WITHIN A BOOK. CHORUS SCAD THE BEGGARS, MEALIE CRUSHIE, YE CAN CA’ IT WHAT YE CAN, OATEN MALE AN BACON CREESH, TASTY FRYIN IN THE PAN. WE HANNAE GOT THE OAT MEAL, NOR HAE WE A FRYIN PAN, BUT WERE HERE TAE ENTERTAIN YE WI THE SCAD THE BEGGARS BAND. COME BACK IN TIME A DANNER , JOOST COME WAE US FOR A WHILE, TAE HEAR THE TUNES AN SANGS AN STORIES , THAT ARE SURE TAE YE BEGUILE. HOOCH, CLAP AN JOIN THE FUN , AN WATCH YER CARES A' FLEE AWA’, AN GIN YE’D AYE KEN THE CHORUS , THEN YE AW CAN SING AWA’ . SHUT YER EEN AN DRIFT AWA , FOR MEMORIES O’ TIMES LANG GAN , ON THE SHIP O' DREAMS COME SAILIN , WAE THE SCAD THE BEGGARS BAND. Charlie 'The Wizard' Gillen *******************
If you would like to read some more Rhymes in the North Antrim Dialect, then check out the home page of Charlie 'Tha Poocher' Reynolds: 'Ulster-Scots Rhymes': If you would like to submit one of your own rhymes for this page, please send it to me at: Back to 'Home Page'