Poems

Mercy O Gode
on 01st Jul 2010

Poetry in Scots

Poetry in the Scots language began to be written down in the 14^th century, beginning with John Barbour’s ‘The Brus’, and continuing through the makars of the 15^th and 16^thcenturies. The poetic revival of the 18^th century led to the work of Robert Burns, and many others, and Scots poetry has continued to be composed in both general and regional forms down to the present day. Poetry probably remains the most common medium by which most Scottish people experience the fullness of Scots as a language and as a written, literary tradition.

Sally Evans, the Editor of Poetry Scotland has a life long interest in poetry in each of Scotland's indigenous languages. Sally joins us as editor of the poetry section of the SLC web site.

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Poem of the Month

Mercy O Gode

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Twa bodachs, I mind, had a threep ae day,
Aboot man’s chief end –
Aboot man’s chief end.
Whan the t’ane lookit sweet his wards war sour,
Whan the tither leuch out his words gied a clour,
But whilk got the better I wasna sure –
I wasna sure,
And needna say.

But I mind them well for a queer-like pair –
A gangrel kind,
A gangrel kind:
The heid o’ the ane was beld as an egg,
The ither, puir man, had a timmer leg,
An’ baith for the bite could dae nocht but beg
Nocht but beg –
Or live on air!

On a table-stane in the auld Kirkyaird,
They ca’ ‘The Houff’,
They ca’ ‘The Houff’,
They sat in their rags like wearyfu’ craws,
An fankl’t themsel’s about a ‘FIRST CAUSE’,
An’ the job the Lord had made o’ His laws,
Made o’ His laws,
In human regaird.

Twa broken auld men wi’ little but jaw –
Faur better awa
Aye – better awa;
Yammerin’ owr things that nane can tell,
The yin for a Heaven, the ither for Hell;
Wi’ nae mair in tune than a crackit bell –
A crackit bell
Atween the twa.

Dour badly he barkit in praise o’ the Lord –
‘The pooer o’ Gode
An the wull o’ Gode’;
But Stumpie believ’t nor in Gode nor man –
Thocht life but a fecht without ony plan,
An’ the best nae mair nor a flash i’ the pan –
A flash i’ the pan
In darkness smored.

Twa dune men – naither bite nor bed! –
A sair like thing –
An unco thing.
To the Houff they cam to lay their heid
An’ seek a nicht’s rest wi’ the sleepin’ deid,
Whar the stanes wudna grudge nor ony tak’ heed
Nor ony tak’ heed:
But it’s ill to read.

They may hae been bitter, an’ dour, an’ warsh,
But wha could blame –
Aye - wha could blame?
I kent bi their look they war no’ that bad
But jist ill dune bi an’ driven half mad:
Whar there’s nae touch o’ kindness this life’s owr sad
This life’s owr sad
An’ faur owr harsh.

But as nicht drave on I had needs tak’ the road,
Fell glad o’ ma dog –
The love o’ a dog:
An’ tho’ nane wad hae me that day at the fair,
I raither’t the hill for a houff than in there,
‘Neth a table-stane, on a deid man’s lair –
A deid man’s lair –
Mercy o’ Gode.

Pittendrigh MacGillivray (1856-1938)

Selected by the Scotish Poetry Library

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Mercy O Gode

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