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Wrannie

Ye wur thair the day is uswal,
jooking oot frae ahin a buss
tae fin yer brakfast
o beasties ower wee fur me tae tak tent.

Ye dinna gang faur, wee wrannie,
alang the hinnermaist knot
a maiter o yairds,
bit ye cum o traivellin stock.

Thaim as kens hae warkit oot
thit a wheen o meelion ’ears syne
yer forefolk cam frae America
traivellin bi a roonaboot wye.

 

Heich they wint,
aa gaun jist a maiter o yairds
an affin steying for geenerations
wi’oot gaun at aa.

 
Frae Alaska they fallowt a lan brig
tae stervin cauld Siberia,
whiles gaun, whiles bidin –
bit the movin wis in thaim

Skewin westwirds frae Siberia
thair scimpy wings whirt thaim
aa thru Europe afore raxin
the wester freenge o Scotland.

Ur yer skimpy wings an yer cockit tail
fit for a raik, wee wrannie?
Or ur yer timorsome wyes
keppin ye back?

Is the dry grun ablow ma speegnie rose
yer Sahara, ma aippleringie yer Amazonia?
Is ma rowan yer muckle ridwid?
Is yer warld mines in meenature?

 

Kep gaun, wee wrannie,
alang the hinnermaist knot
jist a maiter o yairds,
fur ye cum o traivellin stock.

Irene Howat

 

wrannie - a wren