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  • Tales Of A Grandfather
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Tales Of A Grandfather

Alistair Lawrie

Dunnottar Churchyard Autumn 1793
“… these auld withered hands will frame a stane of memorial, that your name may not perish from among the people.”
“Old Mortality”

An aal chiel’s chippin steen, a younger een
files spierin, takkin notes, as lang ago
as gars ye winner foo aye yet ye’ll hear                    
their clinkin vyces tellin tales that mith               
be tint owre years o clouds an haar, sic tales     
as cut awa thae years o moss, birdshite an             
the foost that’s aawye roon aboot. Fit else?
For it’s a seemetry. Wi twa folk newsin.
Nae mair. An yet at’s foo it’s ayewis been - 
an aaler an a younger man baith lettin tales
tak shape atween them, baith fair mindit tae                  
be mindfu o fit’s lang past, een takkin tent                     
files t’ither’s makkin fit’s lang kent spleet new.                       
Clouds pass abeen, haar inatween,
The chisel cuts awa.
An aal chiel an a younger een
Ye’ve files been there anaa.
The sternness o his Gweed Buik set aside
I’d ask him for a tale an he’d lach oot        
files, wild as water tummlin doon a brae                      
retells itsel tae steens it’s clatterin owre.                 
Gweed behere, he’d say an t’wis, as ayewis,
aa roon aboot in aa the tales he tellt.                
The table pit awa, we’d range some cheers               
richt doon its length, mak on it wis a train
wi his aa steamed up, heids aa packed wi tales 
an tickets pleasin, hunkies waved like flags,                 
his bunnet noo a peakit cap, steam fustle
blawin peepin toot toot tootin hootin
howlin oot last meenute signals, man
an loon thegither. An lachter, tears o’t trippin’s    
wi a queerlike freedom, far we were lowsit                 
fae time an place, far we’d set aff stravaigin.                      
An ilka traivel wis a tale or mair,
at ilka stop strange folk wid come aboard
ilk een weel kent bit ayewis new, spellt oot                 
on an aal man’s tongue an shinin
in a young loon’s een. We’d gang agate                 
baith seated er, i kitchen hine awa,               
fae Mintla Station, Maud an aa the wye           
fae there tae onywye i tale wid tak’s,
ootowre ayont we’d ging, tae far he tellt,
tae far Kate Barlass files wid tak my airm   
or ens we’d mak a salmon lowp o faith
richt owre tae jine MacGreegor on his rock     
syne Stirlin Brig wi Wallace far we’d see              
at double hannit sword near twice my size
files on owre Rannoch Moor tae dark Glencoe         
far treachery lies in wait, neist border lans
far Bothwell shaks bleak Hermitage’s nieve
at aabody or ense Black Douglas follaein his hert,
still mindin at June day far we’ve aa been.
An files that’s fan he’d spik aboot the Bruce.     
On tip taes me, I’d stan up in stirrups,             
nae kennin fit a palfrey wis or carin,
bit I cwid feel the heft o that great ex,       
the rochness til its grip, its wecht an hear,
aye feel asweel, the clangin dunt at split
his helmet, bowld de Bohun, his heid anaa 
o like a walnut he wid croon an tell                   
me foo his broken ex wis aa Bruce rued.
Time an time owre again we’d ging aye back         
tae mak richt siccar we cwid mind it aa,
till, wun hame at last, we’d dover by i fire
still raivelt wi oor traivels an oor tales.
Clouds pass abeen, haar inatween,
The chisel cuts awa.
An aal chiel an a younger een – 
Dis’t ivver ging awa?
An were they true? Dis’t maitter? They shape ye
as ye shape them, tales like at, for gweed or ill.           
Fit wye’s MacGreegor lowpin owre i Dee?
At muckle sword the Wallace nivver eesed?
They’re lees we tell wirsels an ken they’re lees
bit tell them still an, mair nor at, believe
them files we dee’t. At broken ex still shines
inside my heid tho fit we mind the maist
isna the tales but fa twis tellt them til’s - 
a chisel cuttin steen or waterfas o lachter
at gar the tears come shairp intil your een.
An aal een an a younger, heids thegither,
Yarnin lachin lang syne in their een,
The shadda o mortality hingin owre wis aa
Is keepit back a whilie mair by siclike dreams.

Alistair Lawrie

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Scots Walter Scott 250

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