Poetry Corner

We haven't had any MacDiarmid for a while - here's one of my favourites - even if we have become so anglified that we no longer understand all the Scots words, this poem derives much of its power from the sheer pleasure of saying these words out loud, which after all is one of the main purposes of poetry - isn't it wonderful that the Scots word for 'plenty' is 'feck' allowing the poet to say "Wi' feck o' swearin'" (reminiscent of the lawyer's trick of calling the witness a fecund liar). The message is clear - do not feck wi' the men o' Crowdieknowe. Crowdieknowe Oh to be at Crowdieknowe When the last trumpet blaws, An see the deid cum loupin' owre The auld grey wa's. Muckle men wi' tousled beards, I grat at as a bairn 'll scramble frae the croodit clay Wi' feck o' swearin'. An' glower at God an' a' his gang O' angels i' the lift ---thae trashie bleezin' French-like folk Wha gar’d them shift! Fain the weemun-folk’ll seek To mak' them haud their row Fegs, God’s no blate gin he stirs up The men o Crowdieknowe