blethers

A rare poem  from Caroline Fowler of the Buckie Blethers

 

THE RARE DISEASE

A hope yer Summer Holidays, hiv left ye feelin’ fine.

Wi a twa three puckle stories. Ah’ll tell ye ane o mine.

A found iss richt fine funcy place…hale-gran n’ afa classy

Bit…ach the fowk were afa posh; Ah’m jist a hameower lassie!

Weel… I jist sat n’ news’d awa, for a’ve ayewis liked a blether,

Maistly yarnin’ aboot ma bairns, the gairden, or the weather.

 

Bit the art o’ conversation iss… ‘glitter-ati’ fowk were haein…

A cwidna mak oot heid nor tail, o’ fit n’ e’ worl they were sayin’!

Syne a mannie stared stracht in ma een, fin a spoke aboot oor Bella,

His face it seem’t tae crumple up. A thocht, fit a shame ~ peer fella.

“Sit down my dear, I’ll fetch the Doc.. He’s a trusted friend of mine.

Don’t say another word my dear. I’m sure you’ll soon be fine.”

 

Bit I jist kept on claikin’, aboot fa’s been deein fit,

Ma loons aye tell me ‘hud yer weesht’. Fyles, a div ging on a bit!

A winnert fit the fuss wis…for e hale jing-bang gaithered roon,

“Ere’s nithin’ wrang, ah’m richt as rain!” On a cheer they plonked me doon.

Iss Doctor chiel looked maist concerned, n’ askit heaps o questions.

A’ answer’t them as best a cwid. Nae doot he’d gweed intentions!

 

“I fear, my dear, a rare disease.”   Losh b’gosh, he hid me worry’t.

Urgent tests were fit wis note!  Tae A’n’E’ got hurry’t.

Sae mony questions wis I asked,  ma thrapple wis gie parched.

A telt them so, they lookit grim, tae the Heid-Lad I wis marched.

Iss nursie taen twa steppies back. Fit a glowerin’ bisom…

“You have a very rare disease…BI-DIAL-ECT-A-LISM.”

 

Buy-FIT? Says I…Oh michty me. At fairly souns richt sair.

A hope it’s nae contagious, ah’ll nae get tae Peter Fair!

“It seems to be Pre-Vail-ent,  in the distant far North-East.

Spoken more in bygone times…in fact, I thought it ceased!”

A gied a smile, lat oot a sigh, in fact a’ felt euphoric.

Ah’d nae a rare disease ava ~ jist a gweed doze-o-the Doric!

 

A ken an Aipple is an Apple. Fair forfochen ~ Very tired.

A shave o’ loaf ~ A slice of bread! …‘Gotten hud o’, at’s ..Acquired!

“Noo, dinna fret, ye didna ken, ah’m gifted, Multi-Lingual.

Ye canna help the fact ma loon, yer speech is Uni-Singual!”

Sae that’s ma Summer story, a simple tale tae tell.

N’ thankfully ~ like the Doric, ah’m baith ‘alive n’ well’.