The Twelfth: an Ulster Scots Poem Found in a Drum

Editor's Note on "The Newtown Twelfth"

The following poem is one of a number which came into my possession under strange circumstances some years ago. The author, Ronnie Steenson, was an elderly gentleman with a passion for local history and culture, who lived in the Lower Ards of County Down. After his death his friends discovered, concealed in an old Orange drum that Ronnie possessed, a sheaf of writings and poems in broad Ulster Scots, presumably by the man himself.

A number of these poems have been published previously, but among the remainder this one stands out as being of interest. It depicts the sights and sounds of the day in some detail and in traditional Scots, "Christis Kirk" form. The date of composition is unfortunately unknown. After some consideration, I decided to allow The Gellick, as the authentic voice of Ulster Scots on social media, to reproduce this poem on his blog.

The Newtown Twelfth

Or, Christis Kirk on the Orange

The boneys' shunners smouldered on,

Their reek still scored the air,

An twitterin flute, like birdsang blythe,

Erupted here an there.

An Newtown toon, an Strangford Lough,

Skeenkled in the licht,

An on Scrabba's scraggy brae an tower,

The simmer sun shone bricht,

That morn.

A bonnie lass, wi bricht blue een,

Poued lillies fae the yird,

An in a callar simmer breeze,

The flags an buntin stirred.

An fae the fairms an loanens,

The closes, hooses, streets,

The folk jook oot, wi canty hairts,

Freends an neebours for tae meet,

On their Twelfth day.

Wi buggies, deck-chairs, kists o grub

Hirplin oot we race:

"Hurry up, ye footerin getts;

We'll never get a space."

Doonby the Peelers glower aroon,

Carnaptious in their sweat,

Bakes as lang's the day an the morra,

On aa the crabbit getts,

That cloase day.

Coddin weans, wi plestic flags,

Weel scrubbed, an weel turned oot,

Ferlie at the thrangs o folk,

That line the mairchers' route.

Aul yins, clockt noo tae the fore,

Hae mind o ither years,

An ither Twelfths, an ither folk,

They'll no see onymair,

Til the last day.

Then ilka lug o young an aul,

For wind-bourne flute note strains,

An fae the kerb, wi caperin glee,

Jook the skittrin weans:

"I hear them Ma, I hear them noo,

They're jest ayont the brae!"

The thrangs o mairchers soon appear,

Their banners in array,

Quare an bonnie that day.

White-gloved marshals clear the way,
An senses aa combine,
Throuither sounds an folk abound,
The colours quare an fine.
Some mairchers aim for dignity,
Baith in gait an mein,
Whilst others crack, an point an wave,
At ony kin or freen
They spy thon day.

A kiltie band noo passes by,
Wi eldrich skirls an wails.
They pech an blaw wi aa their micht,
Their beetroot chops like sails.
Their mixtur-maxtur patterned kilts,
Wi colours aa throuither,
Like tae the folks aroon these isles,
Champed up wi yin anither,
Tae this day.

Blood an thunner! Kick the Pope!
Noo here's the quare stramash!
A raucle flute band skelpin by
An beltin oot "The Sash".
The loupin leader clods his stick,
An birls it roon his wrist,
An the big drum's skin is clarted red,
Fae the drummer's bleedin fists,
As he bates that day.

We ken thon soond that thunners roond,
An sets the yird tae shakin:
A feardie-ba culfs up his lugs,
Ahint his Ma he's quakin.
Leanin back, Lambeg on wame,
The drummer grips his canes,
An maks his auncient rhythm dirl,
Intae oor hairts, oor guts, oor banes,
Fou strang that day.

The flutes they trilled, an through us thrilled,
The drums they battered rowdy,
An owre the heids o aa the folk,
The banners billowed gaudy:
They gie the crack o aa oor fechts,
Oor folk, oor toon, oor cause;
An them wha tholed aye for oor land,
Oor faith, oor God, oor laws,
In bygane days.

The prentice loons o Derry's toon,
Aye we're in their debt;
In sleekit James' rebel neb,
They cleekt thon Bishop's Yett.
An Billy, o immortal fame,
Wha on Boyne's grassy banks,
Gars traitors flee, an bears the gree,
Ulstermen in his ranks,
Fou strang that day.

Noo Moses baul, hauls owre his heid,
Thon covenant o stane,
An Jesus preaches on the Mount,
For oor eternal gain.
An Abraham, his gully grips,
Wi nieve that niver shakes
An Daniel danders amang the baists,
Sin God cleekt shut their bakes,
Quare an ticht that day.

Whan aa the bands hae dandert by,
There's nae time for tae waste,
We follae the mairchers tae the fiel,
Diel tak the dawdlin hinmaist!
Wi "Welcome Brethren" on the airch,
That aabody jooks unner,
An sic a throuither squathry o folk,
Would mak a body wunner,
Where they came fae that day.

Doonby a puckle o crabbit getts,
Are clockt on thonder stage,
Where a thran wee glunterpuddin,
Stauns gulderin in a rage.
A wheen o folk prick up their lugs,
(O God an Sin he's rantin)
Whilst lads an lassies pay nae heed
But scoot aff gallivantin,
Aboot the fiel that day.

Some keek up, an watch for skifters,
An haul their brollies near,
Some yarn an yuke, some ait a piece,
An ithers glug doon beer:
An a wheen wha maircht in sombre rank,
Like military battalions,
By efternoon are stocious fou,
A throuither crew o hallions,
Heidin hame that day.

At dailygaun I gie the toon
A dander aa my lane,
Tae hear the crack, an yarns, an sangs
Fae pub, an haa, an hame:
I wudnae gurn for skaith o gear,
Nor aa o London's wealth,
Sic whigmaleeries gar me scunner,
Jest gie tae me my Twelfth,
This yin day.

I ken there's them, wha cannae thole,
Nor much less unnerstaun us:
Their crack jest laes me scunnered man,
They'll even try tae ban us.
We ken it's mair, a quare lot mair,
Nor minin aul stramashes,
So may Newtown toon, an oor wee land,
Hae drums, an flutes, an sashes,
For mony's a day.

Ronnie Steenson

Ulster Scots Ode tae 2014

Hogmanay is aye a time whan folk think aboot aa that has haippened owre the year.  It's aye been a bit o a tradeetion for poets tae scrieve a wheen o lines at the dailygaun o the year yarnin o the ferlies o the aul year an giein their thouchts aboot the new yin. Noo maistly it was the grand folks' poets, sic as Laureates wha scrieved sic things. Hooaniver, Robert Burns himsel, wrote yin aboot the year 1787 or 1788, I cannae mind which yin. Wi Burns yin o the common folk cracks aboot a wheen o the maist important events o the year. Aiblins it's time tae bring back thon aul tradeetion: here's yin fae the Laureate o Ballygellick!

Ballygellick Kirkyaird: a Yarn

The aul Kirkyaird o Ballygellick is a gye eldrich kin o place. If you gae doon tae the inn an clock yersel doon wi yin o the aul hans fae the clachan, an buy a hauf- yin o whuskey, aiblins he'll tell ye a yarn or twa aboot the aul place sic as this....

"If ye tak a dander doon the loanen tae the Kirkyaird yin dailygaun an apen the aul rusty yett ye'll see forenent ye the aul ruined kirk wi its stane waas aa tummled doon. An if ye tak a dander aboot the kirkyaird, amang the aul throuither heidstanes an tombs tae the maist ootby neuk o the place, an if ye hae a hoke doon at the maist ootby, aulest pairt o it ye'll fin the aul stane dyke. An if ye see thon aul dyke an aiblins redd awa the aul moss an bushes ye'll see twa glowerin een keekin oot amang the aul stanes. An then ye'll hae foond what the folk caa McBane's skull, wha has clocked in thon aul dyke for wha kens hoo lang.

Onyway, if ye get doon on your hurdies there amang the aul heidstanes, an glower intae aul McBane's een for a wheen o minutes you faa intae a kin o a dwam. An then a quare thing happens, for aul McBane wull stairt tae yarn tae ye (in bonnie braid Ulster Scots, o coorse). An folk hae heerd aa sorts o things fae him: yin says he gies ye wee yarns aboot your ain folk fae lang syne; hooaniver, anither says he jest gulders fearfu abuse at ye; anither again wull tell ye he spaes your future an tells ye the day ye'll lie deid aneath him in the caul yird in the hint o thon stane dyke forenent the eldrich kirk.

Wha kens? Aiblins ye'll hae tae tak a dander doon at dailygaun yersel, if ye daur hear the crack o aul McBane's skull."

       McBane's skull in the stane dyke o Ballygellick Kirkyaird

     

The Gellick on Westmeenster

The Ulster Scots are no great yins for the aul politics: I jalouse it's jest no in oor nature ava. Hooaniver, I hae taen a wee notion for it noo that I'm on the aul "Twitter", an aa the folk on there ken sae much aboot it.

Sae, I was garravashin aboot the aul interwab yin day a wheen o weeks back, an I foond a clatter o folk yarnin aboot somethin caaed "Prime Meenister's Questions". I speired a wee aboot it an yin o the hallions taul me it was tae dae wi the aul " Politics" an you could hae a keek at it on the aul TV. Weel, I took the notion tae hae a wee keek at it mysel, sae I foond it on yin o them ootby channels (it was ayont the the channels whaur you get the footbaa, but no sae far as the yins whaur the coorse lookin lassies are aye getting their diddies oot). Onyway, the Prime Meenister's Questions was nane o thon type o cairry on ava.

Japers, but it was a quare geg aathegither! It's aboot a wheen o eejits caaed MPs, wha bide in an eldrich biggin, kin o like a castle, caaed Westmeenster. They aa thrang thegither tae blether an yarn aboot a mixtur-maxtur o things, an happenins in far awa places.

There's yin o them caaed Cameron, wha seems tae be the high heid yin. I jaloused at the first, on accoont o his name, he maun be a Scotch hallion, but his way o spakin was even mair daft nor the Scotchies - I could hairdly unnerstaun a wurd oot o him ava. He soonded like a desperate coof, an he had a quare big skeenkly heid on him forby. Forenent that jinny Cameron, there was a gansh caaed Ed Moribund, wha was a bit o an ornament himsel (nae hairm tae him). They clacked awa amang themsels an let on they didnae like like yin anither, but you could aye tell they were thick as thieves.

An the baith o them had a quare wheen o freends wi them ana: an sic a rake o crabbed, carnaptious getts you hae niver clapped een on in aa your days! They aa clocked on benches an maist o them were sic glunterpuddins that a wheen o ithers had tae staun the haill time. But the gulders an yukes o them wasnae normal: a Wednesday efternoon, an they were like ony crew o daft baists doon the clachan pub o Saiturday nicht!

Noo I'm no saying that it wasnae a good crack - they were haein a wunnerfu time by the looks o them. Hooaniver, I jaloused I'd be scunnered tae hae onything tae dae wi the likes o thon, ither than tae hae a bit o a snichter at their clishnaclaver. Whan I turned aff the TV, I thoucht tae mysel that I'm hairt gled that the folk o Ballygellick dinnae pay ony mind tae sic daft whigmaleeries as "Politics".

Macassey's Whigmaleerie: A Brig Tae Bate Finn McCool

No mony folk nooadays hae mind o Luke Livingston Macassey (1843 - 1908) fae doonby Carrickfergus. Hooanever, I jalouse he was a quare fella, wi a heid as fou o lairnin as a burn efter a thunnerplump. He was a barrister an an engineer .

We should hae mind o Macassey for twa o his notions: the yin was a thraveless whigmaleerie, but a baul yin an croose. He had taen the notion for tae big a brig atween Ulster an Scotlan. A kin o suspended tunnel tae pend the North Channel, Beaufort's Dyke ana. He thoucht tae cleek thegither twa countries baith forenent an throuither in folk an tongue. A brig tae bate Finn McCool nae less - a quare notion richt eneuch.

Noo thon brig wasnae biggit ava, but anither o his notions was, an stauns yet tae this day. They caa it "The Silent Valley" reservoir.

Think o him danderin aboot Victorian Belfast, an Empire's siller plooterin in. Doonby the Lagan he stops an keeks doon intae the clarry water, snootcloot owre his neb tae fend aff the reek. He taks a quare scunner as he keeks at the shite an smells the stroan. Doon a close a puckle o cloots shifts an an airch o boke skites owre his shoon. Typhus.

Later he stauns in a valley, clabber sooks at his shoon an birdsang japs fae the trees. The Mournes birl roond his heid. A skifter skites owre the moontains forenent an a watergaw swuthers in the sky. He kens this is the place tae big a reservoir for tae gie Belfast an mony ither toons in Ulster the water they need tae redd oot the disease.

It taks a quare fella tae even dwam o cleekin thegither twa countries. An it taks forby, a quare fella tae redd the birdsang fae a valley an mak it wheest, tae culf up a burn, tae mak a reservoir, an tae gar the callar water babble intae a clarty city.

Sae tak the tumbler in your haun, prie it, an whan you dae, hae min o the baul Macassey.

http://www.dia.ie/architects/view/3297/macassey-lukelivingston

Ulster Scots Scrievins o John Gamble on the Wab

I hae been maggin aboot in the ootby loanens o the aul interwab, an foond a wheen o aul books that hae tae dae wi the aul Ulster Scots. Twa o them are by John Gamble:

John Gamble: A View of Society and Manners in the North of Ireland (on Google Books)

John Gamble, Charlton, or Scenes from the North of Ireland (on Google Books)

Gamble was fae an aul Scots spakin airt o Ulster, doonby Strabane an haird by the border wi Donegal. He scrieved baith fiction an non-fiction fae the 1810s. Gamble didnae like that maist folk scrievin aboot Ireland saa aathing in terms o an Anglo-Irish "Ascendancy" forenent an aul Gaelic tradeetion: Gamble kenned richtly things were mair complex nor thon, an took tae crackin an yarnin aboot the Ulster Scots. The Scotch didnae fit weel intae what maist folk were writing aboot Ireland, but Gamble jaloused that they were a pairt o the haill tale.

"A View of Society" is aboot the throuiter mixtur-maxtur o folk in Ulster an the strang Scotch "manners". He yarns aboot releegion an leid amang ither things.

"Charlton" is a tale o 1798 an I jalouse the first "Ulster" novel ever screived, which maks it quare an interestin in my een onyway. A wheen o characters in it spake bonnie Ulster Scots. Yin uses the wurd "garravashin", which is a wheeker! It's fae the Scotch wurd "gulravage", meaning tearin aboot an cairryin on.

Nae mony folk hae mind o John Gamble noo, but he shoulnae be sae neglectit. Onybody interested in Ulster history, aul books, or the Ulster Scots wull hae tae gie him a wee keek.

The Jaa Banes (Jaw Bones): An Ulster Scots Ghaist Story

I hae heard that in ither places the folk dinnae believe in ghaists onymore, but that's no the way o it in Ballygellick. Here, you can hairdly set futt ootside wi oot skelpin intae a ghaist o some sort. But put your lug doon tae my neb an I'll tell ye a wee story that haippened nae lang syne.

Yin dailygaun, a pair o the eejits fae the clachan were reddin oot an aul sheuch that was aa culfed up. It was the end o the day an they stairted tae cairryin on an maggin aboot; weel, the shoon o yin o them, he was caaed Rab M'Blain, skited on the glaur an he fell doon on his erse. Noo, as Rab was spraughlin aboot tryin tae get up he saa somethin keekin oot o the face o the sheuch. He put his haun doon an it was haird, sae he hoked it oot.

Sae there he was, clocked in the glaur, glowerin doon at the thing: he jaloused it was maybe a stane at the furst. Belyve, the ither eejit, caaed Davie Harkness, came owre tae hae a wee keek an gied a quare gulder whan he saa it: "thon's a bane, a jaa bane, an it's no fae a baist!"

Weel, they swuthered aboot what tae dae, but decided that it micht be the body o some poor cratur sae they maun see if there were ony ither banes in the sheuch. They got doon on their hunkers an felt aboot in the dubs an soon they foond anither bane. Weel, they hoked it oot ana, but whan they looked they saa it was anither jaa bane. They kept hokin an foond anither, an anither, an anither forbye, but naethin ava but jaa banes - some wi aul yella teeth still in. Noo they were a wee feared, an jaloused there were ghaists ahint it.

They had gaithered up a hail puckle o banes afore lang - aboot a hunnerd I jalouse. Weel, they scratched their heids an wunnered should they caa The Peelers, but they decided no tae bother. Rab thoucht tae tak them hame tae think aboot it: it didnae feel richt tae lay them lyin aboot. Sae Rab won hame an broucht a muckle kist back wi him, an they put aa the jaa banes intae it an took it hame. He put it unner a spare bed in an ootby room an didnae think ony mair aboot it.

Hooaniver, Davie was fou yin nicht sae thoucht tae bide wi Rab for the nicht. He slept in thon bed wi the kist unner, though he didnae ken it was there. Aboot midnicht, Rab heard a quare gulder an ran doon the haa. Davie was clocked on the bed gurnin his een oot wi his hauns owre his lugs. Rab took him doonstairs whaur he calmed a wee an said he couldnae sleep wi aa the eldrich whusperin an clakkin in thonder room: it went on aa nicht, he said, though he couldnae unnerstaun a wurd o it.

Noo Rab had mind o the jaa banes an jaloused richt awa that it maun be them clakkin an yarnin awa tae yin anither. Sae he thoucht tae himsel that he maun be redd o them wi oot ony delay. He took them, kist ana, oot intae the Ballygellick Woods, oot thonder, an buried them deep in the yird. As he cairried the kist, he thoucht he could hear abin the wund, the faintest o whuspers.

An sae naebody warked oot whase jaa banes they were, nor why they wouldnae gie owre wi clakkin an whusperin, deid banes though they seemed tae be. But whan you're oot for a dander o a dailygaun, in Ballygellick woods, an you wheest, an prick up your lugs, you can hear them yet, on the wund, aye whusperin an clakkin, oot there amang the foonderin trees.