Mither Tongue

Written on hearing the Rev. Lamont's Service in Scots,  Denburn Parish Church

’Twis a gey stammygaster, a meenister spikkin’ like yon —
Nane o’ yer peely wally affairs, that hae ye hodgin’ i’ the pew
That’s best forgon.

“Gin ye despise yer mither tongue, as weel despise yersel”
These were his wards, or near eneuch —
Nae pan-loaf bletherin’, bit cantie, couthie stuff.

Syne I didna sit in a kirk ava — for his wards struck hame —
The years rowed back, like meltin’ sna’, an’ I sat ma lane
In a cauld, hard chair, at a fantoosh schule
Recitin’ the ‘Puddock.’

Abody snichered an’ smirked as the wards fell deid
At the only bairn o’ the hale jing-bang, tae ken fit she read.

I felt like a dinosaur, I tell ye — the last o’ a line
A freak at a sideshow, better kept oot o’ sicht;
A grim day yon — ye wis naething there,
Gin ye couldna cock yer snoot, or yer crannie, or baith
‘Uppity vratches, nae worth mindin’,’ ma mither said.
Aye; bit they hurt me sair.

And tae this day, tho’ I ken it’s wrang
If the wards slip oot — the auld spik, in genteel company
I feel a pang o’ shame for the bonnie, birlin’ wards
That loup frae hairt till mou,
Couthie, an’ kent, an’ fine
For I’m back in time, on a cauld hard chair
At yon fantoosh schule — an’ the snichers there.

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