Da Nose Hair

No doubt like most men my age there is a tendency for hairs to grow where they're not wanted, as well as hairs not to grow where they are wanted.
Last year I had a lot of trouble with my dear peerie trowie trying to remove a rather unsightly hair from the point of my nose with either fingers nails or tweezers.
This little verse was the result of those encounters.

Da Nose Hair

Just a peerie black craetir,
Staandin firmly on his ain,
He’s never buddered me afore,
Ir geen me ony pain.

Bit fir reasons dat I canna say,
Her indoors dusna laek da geezer,
An tries ta tweak da beggar oot,
Wi fingers nails ir tweezers.

Why ta hell it budders her,
Da Loard alone just knows,
It’s just a peerie curly hair,
Dat grows oot o me nose.


Auld Rasmie

Da Tinkin Shair

Inspiration for this little ditty was the wife. And her very comfortable connection with her favourite chair.

Da Tinkin Shair

Maest every hoos böst hae een,
a peaceful saaft auld shair,
whaur you can sit an winder on
your life an aa hit’s cares.

Da een atil wir hoos
reclines an geengs near flat.
Bit da wife haes life lang tenure,
hit’s whaur shö’s elweys sat.

Sometimes fae dat shair
I hear a peerie snorie soond,
bit if I mention sleepin,
Shö’ll whirl her heed around.

An tell me in a wye I ken
dat I söd no dispute,
Dat shö wis only tinkin,,,,
Aboot sleepin, I hae nae doot.

Auld Rasmie

Dat Pillie

Hopefully this will be the nearest to controversial that I ever get in a poem. At least from a sexual point of view.

In the Shetland dialect, 'Penis' = 'Pillie'. And although that part of the male anatomy generally rules the normal brain cell, and my thoughts most of the time, this poem was actually written while thinking about a man who ran a bar in the south end of Shetland.
He had a habit of saying "Dat Pillie" when he heard of somebody who had acted on the impulse of 'da pillie' rather than the brain.
So this one is in memory of Peter. He served me many a good glass of beer.



Dat Pillie

I sit an winder lang sometimes why life can be sae trang,
why aches an pains an nyglie bits ir aetin at me krang.
I oosed ta be sae nimble an able i da bed,
bit noo I faa atil it buggered, dun, an dead.

Dir wis a time when I cud geeng fur nichts wi little sleep,
as lang as da mutton dagger got an antrin steep.
Bit noo a’m auld an grey even dat bits no sae vynded,
he’s lat me doon twice dis year, weel twice dat I hiv minded.

I winder if Viagra wid aese dis sorry plight,
an pit him back ta staandin 10 oors every nicht.
No dat a’m complainin, fir da boady needs a rest,
bit missin twice atil ee year is way below me best.

Bit feth, a’m meybe telling wrang, a’m just looked at da time,
da day’s no ower yet, just midnicht minus nine.
So twartree meenits left ta pit da world ta right,
a’m gaain ta steep me pillie, mair sharn anidder nicht.

Auld Rasmie

Dear Santa, 2009

Following on from a previous poem which failed to bring everything wished for from Santa Claus, this verse was spawned before Christmas 2009.
Whether or not this begging list to Santa was successful will no doubt be revealed in my Dear Santa 2010 thoughts, if that happens.


Dear Santa

Last year I med a Santa list
o twartree peerie tings I wissed
da auld white bearded een wid tak
ta me atil his Santa Sack.

Weel, he brocht me twartree Piltock flees
an böts dat cam up tae me knees
he furyat da new airs fir da yoal
bit I got eens paid fir wi da dole.

I aksed him fir a dreultin tree
bit neevir cam dat ting ta me
instead he sent a gruelie tree
language confusion, him no me.

So maist o whit I wanted cam
an a'm blyde o aa, sic an sam
so dis years list a'm scribblin noo
ta see whit Santa's gyain ta do.

Da first a'll aks is fir guid helt
an penga ta raise me ertly welt
dan all faa upö me bended knee
an aks igyen fir yun dreultin tree.

An noo whit I aks is no fur mesel
It’s sometin ta aese Shetlan fae hell
Dear Santa, cud do fin dy wye clear
ta replace da cooncil, dis comin year.

Auld Rasmie

Sadly my ugly face fell in front of a camera to record this one. I think it was actually the result of a very bad bottle of wine, or maybe two very bad bottles of wine. Either way here's the poem, in roughly the way I tried to envisage it when it was written...

Auld Age

I think we all reach an age where the body no longer wants to put up with the torture we inflict on it from working too hard, or indeed playing too hard.
After another week of pushing the old carcase to the limits at work, and suffering all the resulting aches in joints and muscles, this little verse popped out of my old brain cell. Perhaps proving that the body may be getting weak, but the brain is still running on 5 of it's 4 available cylinders.
It was also partly inspired by a line from a Willie Nelson song. " Old age and treachery, always overcomes youth and skill".


Auld Age

Auld age dusna come itsel, it taks it's kin alang,
da aches an pains an niggly bits dat bugger up your crang.
Veesits tae da doctor get shorter in atween,
you book da neest appointment afore da hidmaest een is been.

Bit auld age isna aa aboot da tings dat will geeng wrang,
dir's wan muckle bonus aboot livin fur sae lang.
Auld age an glegness will elweys play it's bit,
ta owerpooer da young eens overly ös o bullsh*t.

Dear Santa

Sadly, Christmas is coming fast. All over the world children will soon be writing letters to Santa Claus, asking for things which they may, or may not, get.
A couple of years ago (2008), my youngest daughter came up with her usual Santa wish list, and in a reflective moment, I wondered what an old Shetland man, like me, would ask Santa for. This poem was the result.

Dear Santa

Wir peerie bairn wis sittin ben,
heed bent low ower paper an pen,
writin oot her Santa list,
an hit wis wirded sometin laek dis.

"Dear Santa I have been good all year
and never shed an angry tear,
so here’s the things that you can bring me,
when you sneak in through our chimney.

Nintendo DS with a game,
pyjamas printed with my name,
a singing Kettle DVD,
and new pink slippers, in size three.

A Mouse Trap game for me to play,
and paints and brushes on a tray.
A great big, cuddly, fluffy dog,
and a mobile ringtone, the Crazy Frog

The latest CDs in the charts,
a doll that burps, pees, and farts.
Lots of sweeties and lots more toys,
ones for girls, not for boys.

So Santa I’ll ask for nothing more,
and enjoy what you bring for ever more.
I’ll  even leave you some cake to eat,
and get Dad to leave you a dram as a treat."

Weel whit shö wrat med me tink dis,
geen da chance, whit wid I wis?
So I set mesel doon an wrat me a list,
an hit wis wirded sometin laek dis.

Auld Santa me boy du haes de a wark,
fae du gets up at Yöl an hauls on de sark,
bit here’s whit I’d laek, if du sud come,
asumin du fin’s dee wye doon wir lum.

Me auld rubber böts ir laekin a bit,
a’m been feelin some weet upö me left fit.
So a pair o new Argyls atil size eleven,
dan muckin da byre will just be laek heeven.

A twartree new tedders ta fasten da rams,
an a new pair o pliers fur libbin da lambs.
Mebbe a brand new bled fur da sye,
an a bucket ta ös whan milkin da kye.

New piltock flees wid be awful fine,
an a box o new heuks fur wir auld haddock line.
An if du tocht ta fin dy wye clear,
new airs fur da yoal, dir been dön since last year.

Bit dir’s wan peerie ting dat I fairly wid laek,
ta fill in a slap atil lifes rummeled daek.
Ta add tae da bed, fur da wife an me,
Loard bliss de, we’d laek a new dreultin tree.

Auld Rasmie (Gamle Rasmus)

As usual, if anybody wants a translation of any words, just ask. With the possible exception of "Dreultin Tree". I'm finding it really hard to come up with an explanation of that in English, but suffice to say that it is one of the most famous 'trees' in Shetland, likely the most used, and without a doubt the most useful.

Onywye, yun's aa fir enoo.

BUT....
Thanks to the wonders of the internet thingy,, here's a rare video recital of this poem by yours truly, Da Auld Een.

Wrack Wid

Now that autumn is approaching rapidly, and stormy weather more likely, I started thinking about the thrill I used to get from finding drift wood (wrack wid) along the shores (banks) of Shetland.
There was no greater excitement for a beach comber (wrackie man), than hearing on Radio Shetland that a wood carrying boat had lost a deck cargo.
I'll never forget the early 70s when such an event happened. A form of driftwood fueled insanity crept into the daily life of many Shetlanders. Women were left wondering if they still had a husband, until he came home in the middle of the night soaking wet from his nights work of dragging timber from the sea.
That particular event was even immortalised in a song, by Eddie Barclay  on his 1983 album 'Hame Aboot', called 'Widdy Ert'.

Well, here's my thoughts on the noble act of saving timber from the ocean. It may not read well, but it sounds good when sung. Even with my voice. ;)

Da Wrackie Man’s Prayer
(Set loosely to the tune of: My Bonnie Lies Over The Ocean)

I stood on da banks bro dis moarnin,
Wi my een peegin hard ‘po da sea,
An I offered a prayer ta da Guid Loard,
Wid he please send som wrack wid ta me.

Chorus:
Wrack wid, wrack wid,
Dael planks an battens,
A wrackie man’s spree,
Wrack wid, wrack wid,
Oh Loard send some wrack wid ta me.

I ken a’m no much fir da kirk Loard,
So please dunna tink ill o me,
Whin I ask dee ta do as a’m biddin,
An please send some wrack wid ta me.

(Chorus)


Da last time du sent wis a scaur loard,
Hit fair filt me auld heart wi glee,
Bit hit aa guid ta big a new hen hoose,
So send a deck cargo ta me.

(Chorus)

Dis time I need wid fur a box bed,
Ta keep da wife closer ta me,
Shö wins oot o a king size ower aesy,
So Loard send some wrack wid ta me.

(Chorus)

Inch planks wid be awfully handy,
Less cutting an sawin fur me,
An meybe a guid fower inch pit prop,
Loard I need a new dröltin tree.

(Chorus)




.
.
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By the way, if anybody wants translation on any of the words, or verses, just ask, and I'll do my best.

Yun's aa fir enoo

Snyirk

This is a new concept for me. I'm going to try to explain a few words from my Shetland dialect, by making verses about these words. Worst of all I'm going to write the verses in English.

In some cases I might get it right, but most likely I'll make a complete gonads of it. This could be a project doomed to failure.

The first word for this treatment is Snyirk:

It's many years since I last heard
the snyrkin of a straining oar,
or the snyirk of a rusty hinge
on  an ill-maintained barn door.

When motors replaced oars
boats fly along so fast,
and that, with well oiled hinges,
means that snyirk is a word of the past.

I'll try to do better with my next verse explaining a Shetland word, so bear with me. Some Shetland words are damned hard to find any way of explaining within the restrictions of the English language.

Yun's aa fir enoo

Mindin A Face

This strange little poem, which I wrote about 25 years ago, was a reflection of things which I had witnessed whilst helping my brother to deal with sheep gathering at Cunningsburgh.
Perhaps it's just my idea of the Shetland crofter, but I'm sure that other Shetlanders, if they read this, will see something very real about it.

Additionally, this is one of the poems I've written which has appeared in the strangest place. On a French website about poetry, between a poem by Christine De Luca and one by Edgar Alan Poe.

Mindin A Face

Some times whin I look at a face in a crood
I  tink,  feth I ken him, or at least I shöd,
a’ll no mind da name, or whit pairt he's fae,
meybe fae Mossbank, or Vidlin, or Brae.

Bit mindin faces is a winderfil art,
an da  Shetlan crofter’s da  man fir dis pairt.
He can staand at da crö an tell at a glance,
wha owns a hug, wi his look or his stance.

“Yea yun een is Rasmies”, he’ll declare wi glee,
“He’s ower little wirt ta belang ta me”,
an, "Yun lamb ower yunder belangs ta da Knowe"
"Hit has a face laek a weel ridden sow”.

Bit dis art o da croftir can geeng a bit gly,
whin greed taks ower, du kens da wye.
For as shön as he sees a guid looking lamb,
hye shouts, “Sees du dat boy, da face o wir ram”.

Auld Rasmie

Faain Bye

Some folk just have no sense of fun. And considering a response to my last post, which I had to edit for fear of retribution of the most heinous female kind, it came to my mind that the only response was another poetical one, since I only think in rhymes.

Faain Bye ( A ting only weemin dö)

Followin on fae da last post I med,
some een girned hard at da tings dat I sed.
A'm no sure I ken whit wis irkin hir birse,
apairt fae her sittin flat on her erse.

I only ever write whit I see,
so why dö fok tak dat oot on me.
If dey dunna want ta end in me verses,
staand at da bar, dunna faa 'pö dir erses.

Auld Rasmie

Swittlin Foo

Since it's a Friday night it seemed only fair to post yet another reflection on the Shetland drink culture.
I wrote this poem, many years ago after observing the normal Friday night crowd at a drinking facility in Sandwick. Many, if not most of those there, were male. Many, if not most of them, possibly including myself, were drunk, or getting that way. In Shetland dialect it could safely be said that most were 'Swittlin Foo', hence the title.

Swittlin Foo

Lined up at da bar laek hens on a baak,
glaepin pints sae fast dey wir laek ta shock.
Seekin excuses no ta geeng hame,
tae da wife wha’s anger is rising laek steam.

Da stories du hears at da face o a bar,
range fae sex, ta politics, an maybe da car.
If du staands lang enyoch hit’s a winder ta hear,
foo grit some tales get whin telt trow beer.

Du’ll hear o da olick dat weighed twinty pound,
an he gets a bit gritter wi every round.
Or da coo at da show wi a calf o grit size,
twa pints later sho’d twins an dey baith wan a prize.

Du’ll hear o da sexual exploits o man,
i da back o a Mini or an auld Austin van.
Or da time at da paet hill whin castin a bank,
dat some een fell foo heid first i da stank.

Bit der’s wan tale a’m sure du never will hear,
nae odds foo muckle’s been swittled i beer.
An dat is foo muckle trouble an strife,
dis drinkin’ll mak wance du’s hame ta da wife.

Auld Rasmie

Untitled Verse

I try to avoid writing in English, especially when it comes to poetry, purely because I have such a terrible grasp of English grammar. But sometimes my old garbled brain cell picks up on an idea, won't let it go, and the result is something like this.

Let faith be your guide, through all of your fears.
Let love be your comfort, through all of your years.
Let friendship come first, and cruel thoughts come last.
Let your mind seek the future, you can't change the past.

Auld Rasmie

Da Best Tings i Life

I suppose that nostalgia was the root of this little verse which I wrote last year.
No doubt all Shetland exiles have thoughts from time to time about the things they miss about the islands.
Although, sitting in the glory of a West Norway summer's afternoon, with the temperature several degrees above any Shetland record, it's a bit hard to think about force 8 horizontal rain and salt spray, with any degree of longing. ;)

Da Best Tings i Life

A greetin bairn du can had i de airm,
a lass du can cuddle ta keep dysel warm,
an Olick dat maks dee airms sair whin du hauls him,
an a lang lost freend dat's plaesed whin du calls him.

A beer dat's sae cauld dy troats laek ta freeze,
a curry sae hot dat du faas tae dy knees,
a warm simmers day whin da Laevriks ir trillin,
an troots i da tap o da loch ir swillin.

A cauld winters nicht upö a craig stane,
sprootin soe fur sillocks, dy tae ta tak hame,
a tocht o da place du wis boarn an cam fae,
Shetlan, oh Loard, whit mair cud du hae.

Auld Rasmie

Just a thought..

Some weeks ago my lovely daughter posted this picture on her blog. A picture of a gull who wanted a share of her fish and chips.
I thought at the time that it was a picture which was begging for a caption.
I wondered for a while what the gull could be saying, then it struck me that the reply to the gull was far more likely to be interesting.

Who do you think you’re looking at?
What gives you the right to stare?
I’m only eating my fish and chips,
So get your arse out of there.

Beans Means Wind

This little verse was inspired by the reaction of my wife to the serious problems that baked beans cause to my intestinal tract. And, yes, I have to admit that everything in this poem actually happened.
I have signed the pledge now, haven't eaten a baked bean for almost 8 months now, and that's not surprising when you consider that Heinz baked beans, which are the only ones worth eating, cost nearly £2 a tin in Norway.

Beans Means Wind

A wind can blaw fae mony earts,
trow muddows, hills, an idder pairts.
Bit elweys i da life o man,
da warst wind comes oot o a can.

Heinz baked beans da label sed,
I hed some dan I guid ta bed.
Da duvet cudna had da breeze,
an shön wis blawn aboot me knees.

Da idder half took flight at wance,
da stink near hed her in a trance,
runnin fae da gaseous mass,
risin fae me rotten ****.

So left aleen i bed ta winder,
why me drawers wir riven sinder,
a'm signed da pledge, "Heinz Nae Mair",
lat wis aa hae fresher air.

Auld Rasmie

Shetlan's Screwed

Some time after I wrote the previous verse I got to thinking more about the proposed Viking Energy wind farm, and what people will feel if/when permission is given for the project to go ahead. My own feelings of hatred for Viking Energy, Shetland Islands Council, and indeed the shower at Hollyrood, were starting to come to a head when I wrote this verse.

Shetlan's Screwed

I can see da windmills turnin, an aa da hills ir spread,
wi da concraet an da metal, fae da windferm dat dey sed,
wid bring da money tae da isle, an gie wis wealth galore,
bit is onybody tocht foo da isle's treated laek a whore.

Prostituted fur da fact dat Scotlan's affshore isle,
canna be seen fae Edinburgh's parliamentary pile.
Maist fok sed dey didna want it, bit maist fok hed nae say,
Shetlan's screwed dat's a fact, da islands mirkest day.

So big da whirliegigs upö da isle, lat Vikin hae dir wye,
laeve paece tae da croftir tae fasten furt his kye.
Bit neever wance tink dat a Shetlan man excuses,
dat wirtless Shetlan Cooncil craetirs fir aa o dir abuses.

Auld Rasmie

Vikin Hill Fermir

On a recent visit to Shetland I took a wander up to the wind farm above Dale. The hill is a lovely place for views over Tingwall, and west towards Skeld,  but in my opinion the windmills do nothing to help the scenery.

A few, like those aren't too bad, but what will Shetland be like when Viking Energy build their proposed mega wind farm?
When their plans were first revealed, a year or two ago, I put pen to paper and came up with this mildly critical little scribble.


Vikin Hill Fermir

Dir’s aye been Shetlan crofters, wi sheep upö da hills,
da grain o money dat dey mak just aetin up wi bills.
Bit noo a Vikin fermir is set his sichts up high,
he wants at tak da hills ower, bit no fir grazin kye.

He’s gyain ta plant some whirlie gigs ta harness power fae wind.
He says  “They’ll not affect the view”, he böst tink fok ir blind.
Dey’ll be seen fae every angle, veesible fir teens o miles,
a pain ta da een dat’ll feel da sam, as a backside foo o piles.

Dis Vikin fermir tells wis,“It’s a golden opportunity,
to bring prosperity to Shetland, and help the local community.”
Of coorse he’s bound ta say dat, til he gets da go aheed,
be dan da common Shetlander'll be wisin he wis deed.

Da Vikin’ll mak some money, an wi luck he’ll pey his bills,
bit he’ll never gie a tocht ta da wye he’s ruined wir hills.
I maybe widna care sae muckle, if eftir he wis trow,
da whirlie gig crangs he leaves ahent cud shelter an auld hill yowe.

Bit eftir he’s med his money, he’ll hae nae tocht fur da place,
he’ll leave wir boanie isles laek a monimental disgrace.
Worn oot whirlie gigs, scattered ower da hills.
Nae view ta get da tourists back, ta help wis pay wir bills.

Vikins raided wis afore, dey cam here be da hunder
Dey nae doot gluffed da local fok, wi dir pillage, rape an plunder
Bit dis modern Vikin’s a gritter de’il, dan ony dat cam wi da sea
Fur dis plunderin Vikin fermir, haes da help o da SIC.


Auld Rasmie

Tesco's Psalm

Since the new extension to the Tesco supermarket in Lerwick, which will broaden the range of goods they sell, is due to open soon, and since Tesco now has the biggest religious following in Shetland, I thought it was time that this little scribble surfaced again.

Tesco's Psalm:

Tesco's me Loard I sanna want
dey hird me tae dir till
trow skelves o ower priced bruk
sae I can dö dir will.

Dey gie me puirless wirtless sowl
a wye ta fin a hame
an aese me burdened wallet
aa atil dir name.

If I sud geeng ta idder shops
as I maest laekly will
a'll lae me doon upö me knees
an pray fur Tesco’s till.

Dey lat me set me table oot
we maet dat is sae dear
an lubricate me tonsils
wi unkan foreign beer.

Trow aa me days upö dis eart
tesco lords ower me
intil dir aesed me wallet
an penniless I will be.

Auld Rasmie

Twinty Ten

I suppose the title should be "Hamefarin, Twinty Ten", since that is what I intended when I wrote it, but for some reason I just left it as it was since I had a plan to revisit the isles myself in twinty ten. So maybe this is more a reflection on my own desire to keep in touch with Shetland, rather than a general comment on hamefarers.

Either way, I would imagine the thoughts of all Shetland exiles are fairly much the same.

Twinty Ten
Da years grind by an we grow auld,
wir boadies weaken an geeng twa fauld,
we loss wir will ta hadd wir pairt,
upö da steid o da Loard's guid ert.

Bit trow da crubbit start we hae
ta glisk da boanie licht o day,
dir's aye a tocht dat keeps wis gyain,
dat we'll see igyen wir ain hamelaand.

Ta staand igyen upö a isles
dat we hed left sae mony miles.
Ta feel igyen da cauld saat air,
toosle trow wir auld grey hair.

Ta see da sichts dat we hadd dear
we wir ain een sae veev an cleer.
Ta staand upö wi ain banks broo
an ken wir hame ta Shetlan noo.

Ta meet da freends we'd left sae lang,
ta hear igyen a weel kent sang,
ta draw a sillock fae da steen,
an sook a reestit mutton been.

Da tochts ir mony trow da mind
o a sowel awa fae lang sinsyne.
So draw doon da fiddle, inveet wis ben,
wir aboot fir hamefarin twinty ten.

Auld Rasmie

Dis Wadder

Before I got round to adding any more of the old rubbish, and thanks to a sudden change in the weather, this little thought ran through my brain cell today.
The weather this year in West Norway has been, to say the least, SHI*E!!
But in typical Norwegian style the temperature can rise by up to 20 degrees centigrade in a frighteningly short space of time.
On the 1st of May last year I was wearing shorts, but the first time my bare legs have been revealed to the air this year was today, 1st of July. Global warming?????

Anyway, here's the little verse which sprang forth from this sudden climate change.


Dis Wadder

Na bairns, dis aafil wadder, a’m no seen da laek afore.
We hed seevin monts o winter, dan twa monts o slestery voar.
Hit’s only twartree ook sinsyne da lang drawers wir led awa,
an only six ir seven ooks fae I buksed ta me erse i da sna.

Bit noo short breeks ir ‘pö me trams, an little mair abön,
hit’s fairly pleased me auld worn hert ta see a grain o sun.
I hoop dis simmir bides a start ta tan me snippered hide,
a twartree monts o sun sae bricht wid mak me aafil blyde.

Bit da wye da wadder’s been dis year I hadd no muckle hoop,
da hairst i’ll no be far awa, anidder slestery sloop.
Bit fir enoo a’ll dö me best ta enjoy hit whin hit’s fine,
a’ll set me I da Sitterie Ooterie, wi a peerie gless o wine.

Da Moarnin Eftir

This poem, like a few others which may follow, was inspired by the Shetland  "drink culture". There is all too much said about the troubles caused by alcohol in Shetland, and there is no doubt that less consumption would be better, however alcohol consumption in Norway creates a much more severe problem and no doubt I will get poetically reflective on that before too long.
This poem, I can assure you, is pure fiction. It never happened to me. Or if it did I can't remember.

Da Moarnin Eftir

Dat first glisk o life i da moarnin,
nae doot du kens whit I mean,
waakened raamished an hungower
fae too muckle beer dastreen.

So I rise an I geeng tae da keetchin,
a slestir laek du's neevir seen,
red tins spread roond laek deed indians,
wi pizza brucks lyin atween.

Me drawers ir lyin i da trance,
an me breeks ower neest door's fence.
Me socks ir hung on da lampshade,
bit somethin joost dusna mak sense.

I cam haem dis drunk, dunna doot dat.
I fan me wye, Christ kens foo,
bit why his da wife no sturred yet
ta see me in siccna a sloo?

Du sees I neevir wan tae da bed,
I waakened faa'n by 'pö da floor,
so a'd better joost geen fir a skoit
roond da neuk o da bedroom door.

Hoopin ta see hir soonded,
an neevir bliderin an ee,
bit Loard bliss me da bed's empty.
Whaur ta da De'il can shö be?

We guid furt,,, Oh Loard, noo a'm minded.
Baith o wis guid furt dastreen.
So whaur his da auld beesom wun tae?
Nae doot aff wi sum idder een.

Oh begger her, lat her hae her wye.
Shö can do whit shö bloddy weel wants.
Dis time I hae da upper haand,
whin shö's aff upö een o hir cants.

So lat me be whit I be,
whin shö comes haem a'll see shöll no fin
ony bruck i da hoos ta bitch aboot,
a'll wap hit aa furt i da bin.

So a skurt foo o tinnies an hellery,
an da New Shetlander's latest big scoop,
dat's ower coorse tae use i da oot hoose ,
bit hit's already weel stained wi poop.

Ower da green tae da shed,
I see some claes faa'n aff da line?
Skirt, bra, tank top an G-String,,
Dat's hers, mind you,,no mine.

Da shed is staandin wide open,
an sunlicht sheens in trow da door,
shawin da shape o her bare naked erse,
leak an ebbed up whale upö da floor.

So I tocht I wis da wan i da doghoose,
da wan ta be burdened wi shame,
bit boy will shö evir live dis doon?
Nae shanse... Dis is her oor o fame.

Auld Rasmie

Simmir

Just now and then I actually reflect sensibly on Shetland.
The following little verse was written after a walk on one of those rare Shetland evenings when everything was just PERFECT.
The sentiments in this verse, that fine weather is rare, could be better explained by the old story about an American tourist who asked a crofter, "Say bud, when does summer come to these parts?". The old crofter scratched his head, then replied, "Weel, last year we held it upö a Tuesday".

Hit's no mony days dis wadder comes,
see da reek rise strait fae aa da lums.
If du staands a start i da still saft air,
du'll hear da laebrack just ower dere.


Hear da drummie-bees on dir busy roond,
an da lichtsome trill o da laevriks soond
Da yalls o da bairns oot ower on da hill,
an da hark o da water trow da mill.

As da hömin draws near, an da sun sinks wast,
hit pents da lift wi a reddish cast.
I winder if hit'll be da sam da moarn,
an I tank da loard I wis Shaetlan born.

Auld Rasmie

Peerie Bairns

I'll start by posting a poem which was inspired by the trauma of having children who, as I'm sure you all know, can easily become ill, but equally easily bounce back from their illness very quickly. Leaving you wondering what just happened to your expected night of sleep.

Peerie bairns gettin ready fur bed,
Da maist distress ony hoose ever hed,
Dey tollie owre da toothpaste an even da pan,
Dir's naethin mair traan dan da offspring o man.

Dey race fur da stairs, wha'll be first,
Noo baith o dem's faain, wha's greetin da warst,
Cuddled an soothed an sent on dir wye,
Tucked in an lichts oot, dey'll sleep bye an bye.

Noo settlin doon fur a nicht at da fire,
Your hopes o paece gettin higher an higher,
Dan dir's a sprech fae da heid o da stair,
A heid or a gut or somethin is sair.

So you sit up aa nicht an tend ta dir pain,
Ony paeceful tochts ir right doon da drain,
Bit come da moarn whin you're worn til a crang,
Dey spang oot o bed laek naethin wis wrang.

So dey geng ta school, an you geng ta wark,
An you feel laek dir's lead i da tail o your sark,
Bit nichts laek yun just happen da wance,
You'll get paece da nicht, - Some Bloddy Chance.!!

Auld Rasmie

Why I started this blog.

Until recently I had posted a lot of my silly scribbles on another site, but I realised that the humourous content wasn't really right for a serious site, hence I've moved them here.
Or, I will move them here over a period of time, because I'm too lazy to do it all at once.

More will be added from time to time, when my tangled old braincell comes up with new ideas.