Scotch grannies have a special place in the nation’s affections, not least for their common sense and wisdom. Here, in this engaging wee poem by Helen B Cruickshank, the wisdom extends to matters of the heart. The second little poem, also by Cruickshank, strikes a more elegiac note. Both can be found in her Collected Poems (Reprographia, 1971).

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

Wi’ 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!

~

SPRING GANGS BY ME

The gairy-bee gangs by me

Bummin’ wi’ the news,

Pollen o’ the catkins

Yalla on his trews.

The cordial o’ springtime

Wiles him frae his byke

To feast amang the willow-saughs

By the rushin’ syke.

~

The gowden-feathered coltsfoot

Brave amang the stour,

The bonny-scentit crimson

O’ the curran’ flooer,

The blackbird i’ the lilac

Singin’ matin’-fain. . .

But neither sang nor sunshine

My wound o’ luve can sain.