Mad Agane the Moontain Pad

Wha wudnae get Madigain ower the heid o Le forde wi Dinnygall's craa steps an corbell fast an loose lukkin doon on the Croon an Shamrocky road in or oot till ye get Slaimish in yer sicht. The big man's waitin thonner on ye for a wurd an thon man abane aa the while.

MOONTAIN PASS

Tha wye forrit

A fit-sair, heich sprachle

Owre stye blak-hairtit roaks.

Coul wat fing’rs,

Shoothers crooched,

Bent dibble wi tha pains.

Nae grup an nae mair püsh.

Apen coul mooth

Lang crack’t a-pechin

Frae breesht tae thrapple

Tae dinnlin teeth.

Tummlin oot

Wairm cloods o puff-baa steam,

An sae half-blin tae aa abain.

“Apen yer een

An tak a luk”, qo He.

Behin, an doon

Tha wye he cum on safter pads.

Tae stap an quat tha clim,

Tae gang hame,

Tae sangs o weans

An lichter, hairtsome thochts,

Faa intae tha dairk o memries.

Ower tha sheddins

Tha blin tap, loast in tha cloods.

Nae sicht nor soon o hoo far

Tha ither side,

Tha simmer fiels,

Or tha lenth o tha line afore him.

Or tae whit it micht be enchor’t.

“Apen yer een

An tak a luk”, qo He.

Graipin forrit.

Tha raip he pu’ed on yinst mair,

An wi tha pu, he seen

Tha ither en.

A helpin han

Tae dae tha pu’in, whan aa bes daen.

Tha nixt life’s coard hel ticht.

Tae tha en.

“Apen yer een

An tak a luk”, qo He.

Coallie Wabbles

Them tap-cats an' unnerdogs maun hae their day in day oot wi' every tam cat an' hairy scrabbin behin the dorr forto get in if the're oot an' oot if the're in an' whaniver the're gran' oul Dukes neither. HMV gien the doag tha Buik o Rules fortae lairn him it's no for eatin nor spoartin wi. Fetch a pail o water - is there no a man Jack o ye can read wi'oot me rhymin on? Bring the bucket then guid boy an lee the buik alane for ye'll dae mair hairm nor guid. Daft doags an the Inglis man maun dae their roons door tae door wi nae en in sicht barrin their daily breid. Youse cannae unnerstan the buik sae jist give ear an' dae whut ye're bid.

Manx Factor for men-o-war

Cat o eight tails, whippin up troubled waters. Mann dear, ye shud a let that Africa wumman lie, lie low on the Strangford shore. A' washed up, and naewhere to go. Thanks be and in twa shakes of a lamb's tale up be John an a bigged abbie . O course-he had a han in it an a'. John Doe, the land factor, state agent for oul biggings floggin a deid horse yet, factorin in unreal estate an floggin naethin ava til the sweat's drippin. The land-blubber lard o Greba has him in a half-hairted Nelson under his oxter. The reek o stalemeat wud choke ye. I cudn't say that the Manx Factor's just the dab. It wud take a wee drap o the Scotch to sell it tae the tourists noo, or tug-a-way on the bus tae the Bush.

Grebarish Allsorts

A. Janus, the two-faced skitter-ma-loo tip-keyed uup into Sanctus Boscus ony to find it empy of all reg . This bloker is hunting his other half-crown. Heads or Harps, I'm bordered with it all. The big yin RIP. Outspannin all ithers, Shannon-doh, I love yer holy water, roll on de odour and row for the shore. Is yer heid craic'd? Talkin a'sorts o Grebarish. The X-Factor wudn't let him vote, just for the crack.
May-day. Dear help ye, here yin day and gone the next. B. Janus, ye're a' the same. I don't know if ye're cumin or goin.