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Fan wur good hooses first wiz beelt
we's nixt till park an fairm,
An ten months o e year or so id caused is no real hairm,
Boot harvest time wiz nivvur fine e season o e moose,
An ivry year a beastie called till squat in wur fine hoose.
Id nivvur let ye ken by daylicht id hed sneaked on in,
By bedtime he'd get kinna restless fan e licht wiz dim,
an choost as ye wiz dackin off a scratch wiz heerd on boord,
E gluff ah got then ivry year neer hed me bloomin floored.
Ah'd lie ere, ferd, ma beddie shakin, covers roond ma
heyd,
Loogs fair strainin for a sound, ah wished e broot wiz deyd,
An in e dark he grew in size, his whiskers three feet long,
Teeth lek swords, banana feet an full o muscles, strong.
Choost fit till eyt me, bed an all, beginnin at ma
toes,
At wiz enuff, ah lowped fey bed an grabbed a pile o clothes,
E couch ma bed indefinetely, ah couldna sheyre ma room,
Wi furry creyturs, beeg an small, ah's sooner sleep wi doom.
We set a trap, pit pizen doon, an closed e door up
ticht,
Ah didna dare go in again until e room wiz licht,
E pizen vanished fower days runnin, divil seemed till thrive,
Instead o numberin his days id kept e broot alive.
E trappie sprang at long, long last,boot fower orfive
days on,
Ma fithur threw um in e buckid, moosie wiz clean gone,
Boot clean in habits while alive? Yin moosie wiz a pest,
His "Visitin Cairds" wiz ivrywhere, includin ma good vest.
Ma bedroom drawer wiz left bit opin, sicht ad meyd me
howl,
Fourteen peyrs o cotton drawers, a chowed aboot e gowl,
A brassiere wi a holl in front, a bite oot eych suspender,
Defied e needle and e threed o even the clivrest mender.
If Robbie Burns wiz still alive, wi all his thochts on
mice,
Ah'd hand un ower Fred Sheyrer's bill an let um pey e price,
Though, thankfully thur's park no more behind wur family hoose,
E council scheme pit peyd till harvest visits fey a moose.
Caithness Dialect
for some Caithness words and their meanings
Fred Shearers mentioned in the last verse was a clothes
shop/drapers many years ago in Caithness
Robert Burns
To A Mouse,
On Turning Her Up In Her Nest With The Plough
Wee, sleekit, cow'rin, tim'rous beastie,
O, what a panic's in thy breastie!
Thou need na start awa sae hasty,
Wi' bickering brattle!
I wad be laith to rin an' chase thee,
Wi' murd'ring pattle!
I'm truly sorry man's dominion,
Has broken nature's social union,
An' justifies that ill opinion,
Which makes thee startle
At me, thy poor, earth-born companion,
An' fellow-mortal!
I doubt na, whiles, but thou may thieve;
What then? poor beastie, thou maun live!
A daimen licker
in a thrave'
S a sma request;
I'll get a blessin wi' the lave,
An' never miss't!
Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin!
It's silly wa's the win's are strewin!
An' naething, now, to big a new ane,
O' foggage green!
An' bleak December's winds ensuin,
Baith snell an' keen!
Thou saw the fields laid bare an' waste,
An' weary winter comin fast,
An' cozie here, beneath the blast,
Thou thought to dwell-
Till crash! the cruel coulter past
Out thro' thy cell.
That wee bit heap o' leaves an' stibble,
Has cost thee mony a weary nibble!
Now thou's turn'd out, for
a' thy trouble,
But house or hald,
To thole the winter's sleety dribble,
An' cranreuch cauld!
But, Mousie, thou art no thy lane,
In proving foresight may be vain;
The best-laid schemes
o' mice an 'men
Gang aft agley,
An'lea'e us nought but grief an' pain,
For promis'd joy!
Still thou art blest, compar'd wi' me
The present only toucheth thee:
But, Och! I backward cast my e'e.
On prospects drear!
An' forward, tho' I canna see,
I guess an''
fear!
The Official
Robert Burns site will give you everything - all the poems
and writings of Burns and the Meanings of words and lots more |