In P7/6 have been learning our Burns poems during our quick start every morning, we have also been identifying Scots language and how this is different to some of the words that we use today.

As mentioned in class, can children please comment ‘Winter Ready’ and the poem that will be reciting below, to let me know that, in the event of any adverse weather, you are able to access the blog.

Many thanks – Miss Anderson

P6 – Breakin’ Rainbows

He wis jist a wee lad
dibblin in a puddle,
glaur fae heid tae fit,
enjoyin haen a guddle.
He micht hae been a poacher
pu’in salmon fae the beck.
He coulda been a paratrooper
swamp up tae his neck.
Oneywey, he wis faur awa,
deep wandered in his dreams.
It richt sobered me tae mind
a dub’s no whit it seems.
An while ah watched an grieved
the loss that maks a man a mug,
alang the road fair breenged his Maw
an skelpt him roon the lug

To a Mouse

Wee, sleekit, cowrin, 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’ murdering 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, whyles, but thou may thieve;

What then? poor beastie, thou maun live!

A daimen-icker in a thrave

‘S a sma’ requet;

I’ll get a blessin wi’ the lave,

An’ never miss’t!

 

Thy wee-bit housie, too, in ruin!

Its silly wa’s the win’s are strewin!

An’ naething, now, to big a new ane,

O’ foggage green!

An’ bleak December’s win’s ensuing,

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 and stibble,

Has cost thee monie a weary nibble!

Now thou’s turned 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 are blest, compared wi’ me!

The present only toucheth thee:

But Och! I backward cast my e’e,

On prospects drear!

An’ forward, tho’ I cannot see,

I guess an’ fear!

 

P7 Red Red Rose

O my Luve’s like a red, red rose,
That’s newly sprung in June:
O my Luve’s like the melodie,
That’s sweetly play’d in tune.

As fair art thou, my bonie lass,
So deep in luve am I;
And I will luve thee still, my dear,
Till a’ the seas gang dry.

Till a’ the seas gang dry, my dear,
And the rocks melt wi’ the sun;
And I will luve thee still, my dear,
While the sands o’ life shall run.

And fare-thee-weel, my only Luve!
And fare-thee-weel, a while!
And I will come again, my Luve,
Tho’ ’twere ten thousand mile!

To a Louse,

On Seeing one on a Lady’s Bonnet at Church

 

Ha! whare ye gaun, ye crowlan ferlie!

Your impudence protects you sairly:

I canna say but ye strunt rarely,

Owre gawze and lace;

Tho’ faith, I fear ye dine but sparely,

On sic a place.

 

Ye ugly, creepan, blastet wonner,

Detested, shunn’d, by saunt an’ sinner,

How daur ye set your fit upon her,

Sae fine a Lady!

Gae somewhere else and seek your dinner,

On some poor body.

 

Swith, in some beggar’s haffet squattle;

There ye may creep, and sprawl, and sprattle,

Wi’ ither kindred, jumping cattle,

In shoals and nations;

Whare horn nor bane ne’er daur unsettle,

Your thick plantations.

 

Now haud you there, ye’re out o’ sight,

Below the fatt’rels, snug and tight,

Na faith ye yet! ye’ll no be right,

Till ye’ve got on it,

The vera topmost, towrin height

O’ Miss’s bonnet.

 

My sooth! right bauld ye set your nose out,

As plump an’ gray as onie grozet:

O for some rank, mercurial rozet,

Or fell, red smeddum,

I’d gie you sic a hearty dose o’t,

Wad dress your droddum!

 

I wad na been surpriz’d to spy

You on an auld wife’s flainen toy;

Or aiblins some bit duddie boy,

On ’s wylecoat;

But Miss’s fine Lunardi, fye!

How daur ye do ’t?

 

O Jenny dinna toss your head,

An’ set your beauties a’ abread!

Ye little ken what cursed speed

The blastie’s makin!

Thae winks and finger-ends, I dread,

Are notice takin!

 

O wad some Pow’r the giftie gie us

To see oursels as others see us!

It wad frae monie a blunder free us

An’ foolish notion:

What airs in dress an’ gait wad lea’e us,

                And ev’n Devotion!