Rab Wilson, a great Scottish bard in our midst. A review:

[English Bloke]

Not sure of the copyright issues of reproducing this, but the object of the post is not to steal but to highlight a great Scottish poet, of which some members may not be aware and maybe you'll follow the link to buy one or two of these wonderful books.

Rab Wilson is, in my opinion, a man of the caliber of Burns. He writes with a keen eye on the present but with a nod to the Great Scottish Bard. He is hugely deserving of greater acclaim and he writes mainly in the Scots dialect, as did Burns.

As with all British dialects it is vital that these are not lost in the awful homogeneity of contemporary UK street speak
(naa' aah mean i'nit laike) and Rab's work is helping to protect and preserve this... Fret not, I am as passionate about Lancastrian and all other British dialects as I am about Lallans but Rab Wilson definitely stands out in a crowd for me.

I have two of his truely great works. "Accent of the mind" and "Life Sentence: More Poems Chiefly in the Scots Dialect"

His biography and further links to buy his books (if you like what you see) can be found here at The Scottish Book Trust website.

A couple of examples of his poems are quoted below: Please Enjoy.

Whare Burns Has Wrote, In Rhyming Blether...
Ah'm Stuid at Mauchline Cross, in sairch o' Burns,
Aw roond me there are signs that he's still here;
His Niasmyth image keeks frae ilka shoap,
Mauchline-ware aboonds in his museum.
Plaques oan waws state this wiz whaur he leeved,
Ah chap the door – But Rabbie isnae in.

Wistfully Jean Armour's pensive ee
Frae her plinth anent the Library,
Yearningly scours the Howffs o Louden Street,
The oot-raxed haund, vainly seeking yours?
Her heirt that beat sae waarmly, turnt tae bronze

It's obvious she's waitin oan her man,
Whae's aiblins bein taigled bi his Muse,
An's drinkin' Coila's health in Johnny Doo's;
Whit'evr, Jean recks that soon Rab wull cum hame.

Yer ghaist, wanrestfu, seems tae haunt this place;
Doun the Cowgate, Castle Street, the Kirk,
Ah Hawf expeck tae see yae staundin there;
Thon lustrous ee, that stubborn manly air -
But noo, nae maitter hou we aw micht luik,
Ye're anely nou the stuff that dreams are made oan.

Ah daunder past the flooer shoap, Red, Red Rose,
An nip intae the Mauchline Service Station,
Tae grab a can o' juice an bite tae eat.
The Lassie seems a sonsie gracious sort,
Wha spies the tourist pamphlets in ma haund,
Then blithely blethers proudly anent 'The Bard'

Unbidden, syne she rowes up her sark-sleeve,
An there ye are! Tattooed upon her airm.
Yer face, the dates, the legend; 'Robert Burns'
Her een licht up – 'We aw luve Rabbie yet!'
An shakkin her haund tae gae, ah say 'We dae.'


Better Things
A leaflet came wi ma pey-line the day
Wi the oaffir o' a personal loan
The Bank o Scotland an whit they could dae
Tae enhance the appearance o' ma home.

Bi tackin oan a conservatory
Or mibbes some equally uissless thing
A Bio-weapons laboratory
A conference centre in the east wing

Ah'll admit that the auld ancestral seat
Is like a Gulag in Siberia
But they'd gie me the cash if ah could meet
Their stringent financial criteria

They said they subscribed tae the Banking Code
I thocht tae masell 'Whit ur these fowk oan?'
They oaffirt tae help me lichten the load
'A decision in meenits ower the phone.

Wi their 'Special rates' that wir 'Juist fir me'
'Afford the bigger, better things in life'
Ye'd think that we hudnae to een tae see
That debt fir puir Scottish fowk hus run rife

Thare must shairly be better things bi faw
Than these sops haunt oot tae the workin' man
Third rate holidays an saicont haun caurs
The debts dinnae fade as quick as yer tan

Maist months ah'm skint but you'll nae hear me moan
Ah paused to reflect bi the wheelie-bin
The best things in life urnae bocht wi loans
Ah scruncht up the leaflet, and flang it in.


Just tremendous poetry! Here's that link again The Scottish Book Trust.

I need to say thankyou to Emma from Ferintosh in Dumfries for introducing me to this fellow. Cheers mee dears!!

[Dale Seago]

Thanks for sharing this! I think Burns could sincerely relate to the second of the two poems -- I could definitely see him writing the like if he lived today.

[McClef]

And to hear him rendered by Emma at Ferintosh is a real treat.

[Jack Daw]

HAH! I'll need to share, Better Things, with some people I know at the Houston office of the Bank of Scotland. Thanks for those great verses.

[English Bloke]

Want another?

'A Scottish Prejudice...'
In ma bairntide, I' the primary schuil,
Ah coudnae thole arithmetic lessons;
Fractions, lang diveesions and gaes-in-taes.

Thair 'Language Laboratory' left me cauld.
Aye trailin ahint twa, three smairt lassies,
Wha aye struck gowd when aw wiz left wi bronze.

In a Scunner ah wid longingly gaze
Oot the windae at promised Summer hills,
Cled in trees tae be clomb, burns tae be swum.

But aye an oan Ah'd sit there in a dwam,
When Mrs MacSween wove magical spells,
Anent Scotia's fecht fir independence;

Hou the bold Douglas sclimb't up Embra's crags an DING'T the hale English garrison doun.
Hou the Bruce oan a fleet heilant powny, cleaved rash De Bohan's proudful helm in twa.
An William Wallace, Brave heartit Wallace!

Each gory detail o' his obscene daith
Wis etched upon our young and fertile minds;
The noble heid, piked atour London Bridge,

His airms displayed at Berwick an the Tyne
His legs, hung oot like butcher's bloody jynts
At Aiberdeen and Perth, aboun they ports.

Fir rats an hoodie craws and laithsome mauchs
Tae swall thair kytes an feast thairselves upon.
The kindae mundane Horror we-ans enjoy!

Nou mair as thirty year syne ah sit here,
A copy o' 'Bline Harry' in ma haund
Readin the notes o' some auld Scots divine.

Jamieson, quotin frae Andrew de Wyntown;
'A thousan three hunnerd and the fifty yhear
Aifter the byrth of our Lord dear.
Sire John of Menteth in thae days
Took in Glesga, William Wallace.
And sent him in-till England Swine
Thare wez he quairtid and undone.
Be despite such injury
Thare he told this martyry' .

Micht thon auld teacher wryly smile tae ken,
The boys she tocht hae aw nou grown Scots men.
An thon keen prejudice whilk kennled Burns

Whilk she, sae glegly instillt intae us
Strivin tae mak siccar, lest we forget,
Still floods OOR veins, and NEYVER will abate.