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
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
