POEM OF THE DAY

Scotch grannies have a special place in the affections of the nation, as priceless repositories of wisdom and warmth for younger generations. Here is a typical one, articulated by Helen B Cruickshank in her Collected Poems (Reprographia, 1971). The second poem is also by Cruickshank.

GRANNY

I’m deif, an’ canna hear

The birdies sing,

But fine I ken the unquait

Lilt o’ Spring.

For Rab my grandson shaves Noo ilka nicht,

An daunders, careless-like, Oot o’my sicht,

Awa’ up Whinny Brae

An’ Roods links he,

An’ comes na hame till ten W’ lichtit e’e:

But wha the lassie is

He ne’er lats dab!

O, fine I ken your state, My fykey Rab!

Weel, weel, it bude tae come I’ the green o’ the leaf. An auld tale Granny hears Altho’ she’s deif!

DESTINY

“I will not see too much of her,” said he, “Because I fear

Lest this sweet woman grows too dear, And I would still be free.”

“I will not think too much of him,” she said,

“Love’s chains, tho’ gold

“Too binding fetters make, I hold,

I do not choose to wed.”

But in the stars their destined children sang,

“Our time will come!”

Amid the laughter and the hum

Their happy voices rang.