MY CRADLE TONGUE
ANON. Taken from the John O'Groat Journal Feb. 1914






There's rapture in the magic burn
And mirth in winking leaves
There's glory in the westing sun
Athwart the barley sheaves
Yet softer touch of something else
Entranced my heart when young -
The sappy words of Caithness-shire
My own cradle-tongue !


It found me when a 'boyag' small
( A dugend kithan' I ! )
Who 'cowned' and 'bellyed'' off and on
And 'cocked' till I was dry.


I got my 'sooans' now and then
Or ' burtstens' failing that .
And 'crackens' sometimes for my tea
Or ' meelans' fried in fat.


I loved the 'gollans' on the green
The 'lairags' in the sky
I caught the 'blockies' at the rocks
And many a 'peltag' fry


I often 'smyaggered' all my clothes
With many a 'foosum' trace
And sometimes when I took a 'stoon'
I ' dotted oot e' face''


Oh sunny days when 'butties' young
Played 'skibbie lickie' fast
With 'prisoners' base and rare 'key hoy'
Bright pleasures of the past !


Then, welcome Culture's lore and grace
And all the spells of Art,
But still the juicy words of home
Grip richest on the heart.