Tae a Scotch Pie

Fair faa yer gustie mutton mince,
Scotland's michty Pastry Prince,
Mair hertsome nor a quiche or quince
Or finnan haddie,
I've looed yer sairin ivver since,
I wis a laddie.

Wi Bovril on the Gorgie braes,
I mind ye in a blythsome haze,
O muckle joy and scantlins waes,
An Jam Tarts fame,
As glegly on thae cantie days,
Ye beeked ma wame.

I champed inil yer crinchy crust,
Wi blythe delicht, for I cuid trust,
That smervie juices syne wad brust,
Apon ma pree,
Tae satisfee ma eydent lust,
I haed nae dree.

Ower Forfar bridie, sassidge roll,
Cullen skink, taid i the hole,
Ower batter't haddie, breidit sole,
An aa sic slaister,
Ower aa the trashtrie man cuid thole,
Ye are the maister.

The wunners frae the baxter's han,
Scones an breid, baith plain or pan,
They beir the gree aa throu this lan,
Maist douce an braw,
But Scotch pies tae the fitba man,
Is pride o aa.

David C. Purdie

à Verdun

I memore o the Battle o Verdun, 1916, this hunner year bygane

I: tae Verdun

We’v left wir wark, wir fowk, wir hame,
aa sodgers nou, tae weir ir set
an, be-in train’d tae fell an maim
wi gun, grenade an baigonet,
it’s tae the front tae fecht we’r gaun,
i backs o shooglin larries sit
an speak or no, Lebel* i haun,
tae battle for Verdun ill-pit

Whit men ir we, we ask, whit men ir we?

II: at Verdun

Hou lang sin first we cam it seems,
hou muckle hae we been i weir;
nou hame an pace is far aff dreams,
wir life this wratchit nichtmare here;
a life whar aa is wall’d i wae,
ilk ither kill an mang sae fell;
that ill the things we see an dae
that writin hame whit can we tell?

Whit men ir we, we ask, whit men ir we?

III: fae Verdun

We lea Verdun, its gruesum scenes,
throu time, at lang an lenth, win hame,
but canna lea ahin its teens
or onie ither wey we’r lame;
for throucums tholed we grue wi stouns
an auld mischiefs we dree an rue;
tae ithers we ir fremd for wouns,
aye hamelt aince, whiles ootrels nou

Tho hame, the men that’s fae Verdun ir we

IV: wi Verdun

It’s nou a hunner year bygane,
the Battle o Verdun lang syne,
an aa us sodgers turnt tae bane
an you the men that’s doun the line;
the wey o weir still wi ye tho,
its dolorous succession face,
an gin ye’r sodgers or ye’r no,
ye’r men that hinna yit fan pace
Whit men ir we, maun ask, whit men ir we?

*Lebel - staunart French infantrie rifle i the Gret Weir

Hamish Scott

Recent Scrievin in Prose and Verse

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Circle Gemme Fran BAILLIE
Speugs Edith BUCHANAN
Lost Loons Stephen PACITI
Tae a Scotch Pie David PURDIE
A Verdun Hamish SCOTT
Rapunzel Miriam SULHUNT