Eggplant.place

64d

This far north, the harvest happens late.
Rooks go clattering over the sycamores
whose shadows yawn after them, down to the river.
Uncut wheat staggers under its own weight…

—Dorothy Lawrenson, “September”
published in Painted, spoken 22 (2011)

https://www.scottishpoetrylibrary.org.uk/poem/september/

#Scottish #literature #poem #poetry #September #autumn

September
Dorothy Lawrenson

This far north, the harvest happens late.
Rooks go clattering over the sycamores
whose shadows yawn after them, down to the river.
Uncut wheat staggers under its own weight.

Summer is leaving too, exchanging its gold
for brass and copper. It is not so strange
to feel nostalgia for the present; already
this September evening is as old

as a photograph of itself. The light, the shadows
on the field, are sepia, as if this were
some other evening in September, some other
harvest that went ungathered years ago.

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63d

The deid-hole’s a sma-boukit place for you.
You need tae be blawn aboot the cosmos
so’s your live matter mells wi the spaces
and you become the stour starns are made o…

—Alastair Mackie: In Memoriam Hugh MacDiarmid (1892–1978)

Christopher Murray Grieve – Hugh MacDiarmid – died #OTD, 9 September

https://asls.org.uk/publications/books/volumes/a-kist-o-skinlan-things/

#Scottish #literature #poem #poetry #Scots #Scotslanguage #HughMacDiarmid #InMemoriam

In Memoriam Hugh MacDiarmid (1892–1978)
Alastair mackie

The deid-hole’s a sma-boukit place for you.
You need tae be blawn aboot the cosmos
so’s your live matter mells wi the spaces
and you become the stour starns are made o.

Sma spirit, ye couped yoursel oot like an ocean
and on it ye sailed tae your odyssey.
Your poems set their bows for the infinite.
It was a sma bit coble made o Scots.

Ahent the muckle brae-face o your brou
barmed the thochts. They were like boolders,
ram-stam, ramgunshoch, aften wilyart. Polyphemus
hurlin craigs at the galleys’ hotterin starns.

And aye the sky-line cockit its fore-finger.
For fifty years laneliness was your crony.
Your spaces were polar anes, the cauld burn
o your mind the aixle-tree that iled your world.

I think o Pascal’s infinite spaces
and Scotland a wee dot in the abyss.
You gied it a starn; the muckle hole skinkles
yet in the licht. Sic matter never dees.

The terror that I feel is for the muckle howe-hole
your last sleep leaves ahent. As if a mountain
that held up the lyft had sunk intae the mools
and suddenly the sky-line’s unfrienly.

And oor steps styter and Scotland’s again
‘the bonny broukit bairn’. Lie back in your kist
licht bearer. And may the giant back-birn
ye cairriet lie lichtly in the earth’s happin.

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63d

There are times when I think
of the knowledge we had as children:

the patterns we saw in number, or the spells
and recipes we had
for love and fear…

—John Burnside, “Being and Time”
published in THE LIGHT TRAP (Jonathan Cape, 2002)

https://www.scottishpoetrylibrary.org.uk/poem/being-and-time/

#Scottish #literature #poem #poetry #JohnBurnside

Being and Time
John Burnside

There are times when I think
of the knowledge we had as children:

the patterns we saw in number, or the spells
and recipes we had
for love and fear;

the knowledge we kept in the bones
for wet afternoons,
the slink of tides, the absolutes of fog,

or how a lapwing’s egg can tip
the scale of the tongue;

how something was always present in the snow
that fell between our parish and the next,

a perfect thing, not what was always there,
but something we knew without knowing, as we knew

that everything was finite and alive,
cradled in warmth against the ache of space,

marsh-grass and shale, and the bloodroot we dug in the woods
that turned our fingers red, and left a stain

we kept for weeks, through snow and miles of sleep,
as if it was meant to happen, a sliver of fate
unstitching its place in the marrow, and digging in.

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62d

He moves the way light moves: now sudden,
racing up a field as sun clears cloud,

now unnoticed, leaching from the world
until you look up into dark…

—Sheenagh Pugh, “Him Again”
published in A Little Touch of Cliff in the Evening: New Writing Scotland 30 (ASL, 2012)

#Scottish #literature #poem #poetry #autumn

HIM AGAIN
by Sheenagh Pugh

He moves the way light moves: now sudden,
racing up a field as sun clears cloud,

now unnoticed, leaching from the world
until you look up into dark.

And he inhabits next door's peat stack,
waiting for winter, and the fat sheep

ready for the show, and the gap
in the window of what was a house

and is a shed, and soon will be out of use.
The berries that were once white blossom

on the brambles belong to him,
so they say, and lose all their taste

on a certain day, when he comes to harvest
what is alive, and ripe, and his own.

ALT

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43d

Behind us, Glencoe of the Slaughter,
Achnacone, field of dogs,
Achtriachan, where the water-bull
lurks among thin fish tickled by weed,
and the Great Herdsman of Etive
over us like a black axe…

—Alison Fell, “Rannoch Moor”
published in The Edinburgh Book of 20th-Century Scottish Poetry (Edinburgh University Press, 2005)

https://edinburghuniversitypress.com/book-the-edinburgh-book-of-twentieth-century-scottish-poetry.html

#Scottish #literature #poem #poetry #Rannoch #RannochMoor #hiking #walking

Rannoch Moor
Alison Fell

Behind us, Glencoe of the Slaughter,
Achnacone, field of dogs,
Achtriachan, where the water-bull
lurks among thin fish tickled by weed,
and the Great Herdsman of Etive
over us like a black axe

To pace the moor, and mark it,
like a cat bruises the grass
for its bed,
or be claimed instead –
scars of burnt heather, dead
weariness, the sheep paths
misleading, and the bogs
pitted with white water

Slow steps mark the line
on the moor sour with struggle,
where darkness is brought to the brim,
and the bog-cotton bursts
like puffs of smoke
after a musket,
and the broken bleached roots
of the old forest
are white bones under
the petrol shimmer of methane

Slow march in the whine
of telegraph wires,
while the wind chops
at my breath,
and the peat mud sticks to my feet
like rafts

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19d

On days when air was clarified by frost
and a translucent moon came close to earth
I’d hear the rhythms of pneumatic riveting hammers
in a high-tiered lecture room…

—James Aitchison, “Riveting”
Published in The Flight of the Turtle: New Writing Scotland 29 (ASL, 2011)

#Scottish #literature #poem #poetry #Glasgow #GlasgowUniversity #Clydeside #shipyards

James Aitchison
RIVETING

On days when air was clarified by frost
and a translucent moon came close to earth
I’d hear the rhythms of pneumatic riveting hammers
in a high-tiered lecture room.

Some of the shipyard men had served their time
when white-hot iron bolts were still slammed home
by sledgehammers with half-width heads,
precision instruments in riveters’ hands.

Riveters worked a forty-eight-hour week
ten, twenty, thirty, forty, eighty feet
above the Clyde. They felt the scaffolding
sway like a ship at sea when strong winds blew.

Shipyard credentials? None. My student jobs –
summer gophering on Grangemouth building sites,
delivering Christmas mail –
were so short-term they were paid holidays.

Back in the lecture room, Alexander Scott
taught in a voice that rattled window panes,
electrified the air and woke the dead.
William Dunbar is chanting in my head.

ALT

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47d

Lying asleep walking
Last night I met my father
Who seemed pleased to see me.
He wanted to speak. I saw
His mouth saying something
But the dream had no sound…

—W.S. Graham, “To Alexander Graham”
published in Collected Poems 1942–1977 (Faber, 1979)

A poem for World Dream Day

https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/48732/to-alexander-graham

#Scottish #literature #poem #poetry #father #fathers #dream #dreams #dreaming #WorldDreamDay

To Alexander Graham
by W. S. Graham

Lying asleep walking
Last night I met my father
Who seemed pleased to see me.
He wanted to speak. I saw
His mouth saying something
But the dream had no sound.

We were surrounded by
Laid-up paddle steamers
In The Old Quay in Greenock.
I smelt the tar and the ropes.

It seemed that I was standing
Beside the big iron cannon
The tugs used to tie up to
When I was a boy. I turned
To see Dad standing just
Across the causeway under
That one lamp they keep on.

He recognised me immediately.
I could see that. He was
The handsome, same age
With his good brows as when
He would take me on Sundays
Saying we’ll go for a walk.

Dad, what am I doing here?
What is it I am doing now?
Are you proud of me?
Going away, I knew
You wanted to tell me something.

You stopped and almost turned back
To say something. My father,
I try to be the best
In you you give me always.

Lying asleep turning
Round in the quay-lit dark
It was my father standing
As real as life. I smelt
The quay’s tar and the ropes.

I think he wanted to speak.
But the dream had no sound.
I think I must have loved him.

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47d

Glasgow, late September and the city I spoke of
in another country (its fierce sandstone
burning, its bombast of finials built on the heads of slaves…

—Gerrie Fellows, “Dream Cities”
published in The Body in Space (Shearsman, 2014)

A poem for World Dream Day

https://www.scottishpoetrylibrary.org.uk/poem/dream-cities/

#Scottish #literature #poem #poetry #Glasgow #NewZealand #dream #dreams #dreaming #WorldDreamDay

Dream Cities
by Gerrie Fellows

I
Glasgow, late September and the city I spoke of
in another country (its fierce sandstone
burning, its bombast of finials built on the heads of slaves
the monumental tower blocks of a later order
catching fire from the west as a plane comes in)
has become in two months
a dream a nostalgia

For it is litter not grandeur
a muddied disturbance in a dirty river
a sullen reflection sliced by concrete
(the monumental pillars
and glorious boulevards of a later order)

Against the vivifying light
of the south the suburban avenues
of a world of space it is rain
rain and old world pallor

and beyond it
on the high points of Aonach Mor and Ben Nevis
(so early a door closing and opening)
the first snows of the winter

II
Early November and the city I parted from
in two months has become a dream technicolour
not quite Auckland or Christchurch
but a dream place of skyscrapers and heady blossom
stern waxy magnolia silk of almond and crab apple
A dream place but Christchurch as it was then
in mid-September Jane driving me to the airport
past gardens reeking with nectar

for there Spring has continued without me

And here I wake no longer at home

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46d

April, the last full fixture of the spring:
“Feet, Scottish, feet!” – they rucked the fear of God
Into Blackheath…

—“London Scottish”, by Mick Imlah (1956–2009) – born #OTD, 26 September
published in THE LOST LEADER (Faber, 2008)

1/5

https://www.scottishpoetrylibrary.org.uk/poem/london-scottish/

#Scottish #literature #poem #poetry #warpoetry #WW1 #rugby #LondonScottish #MickImlah

London Scottish
Mick Imlah

April, the last full fixture of the spring:
‘Feet, Scottish, feet!’ – they rucked the fear of God
Into Blackheath. Their club was everything:
And of the four sides playing that afternoon,
The stars, but also those from the back pitches,
All sixty volunteered for the touring squad,
And swapped their Richmond turf for Belgian ditches.
October: mad for a fight, they broke too soon
On the Ypres Salient, rushing the ridge between
‘Witshit’ and Messines. Three-quarters died.

Of that ill-balanced and fatigued fifteen
The ass selectors favoured to survive,
Just one, Brodie the prop, resumed his post.
The others sometimes drank to ‘The Forty-Five’:
Neither a humorous nor an idle toast.

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18d

My brother is skull and skeleton now
empty of mind behind the brow
in ribs and pelvis empty space
bone-naked without a face…

—William Montgomerie, “Epitaph”
For 2nd Officer James S. Montgomerie of the S.S. Carsbreck, torpedoed off Gibraltar, 24th October 1941

Published in FROM THE LINE: Scottish war Poetry 1914–1945 (ASL, 2014)

https://asls.org.uk/publications/books/volumes/from_the_line/

#Scottish #literature #poem #poetry #warpoetry #WW2

William Montgomerie
Epitaph
For 2nd Officer James S. Montgomerie of the S.S. Carsbreck, torpedoed off Gibraltar, 24th October 1941

My brother is skull and skeleton now
empty of mind behind the brow
in ribs and pelvis empty space
bone-naked without a face

On a draughty beach drifting sand
clawed by a dry skeleton hand
sifts in the hourglass of his head
time useless to bones of the dead

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18d

In front of me a girl with bare feet,
in a beribboned dress, picks white
flowers in a field somewhere near Pompeii…

—Stewart Conn, “Springtime”
published in IN THE KIBBLE PALACE (Bloodaxe, 1987)

Pompeii was destroyed possibly #OTD, 24 Oct, 79CE

“Flora”, from Stabiae, Villa of Ariadne inv. 8834, is held in the frescos collection of the Museo Archaeologico di Napoli

https://www.museoarcheologiconapoli.it/en/portfolio-item/frescoes/

#Scottish #literature #poem #poetry #Roman #archaeology #Pompeii

Stewart Conn
Springtime

In front of me a girl with bare feet,
in a beribboned dress, picks white
flowers in a field somewhere near Pompeii.

Each day I look at her, head straight,
right hand outstretched as she delicately
plucks the stem. Was she there that night

the lava flowed, birds shrivelled in the sky
and lovers turned to ash, where they lay?
If so, what had she done to deserve it?

I wonder, will it ever be
Springtime again, the blood flow freely;
or has man blighted all hope of recovery?

We are on borrowed time, you and I
and have been from the outset.
All that is left, is to live lovingly.

ALT

“Flora”
da Stabiae, Villa di Arianna inv. 8834
www.museoarcheologiconapoli.it

A Roman fresco from Pompeii. Painted on a green background, a young woman, wearing a loose, flowing robe of white and yellow, walks away from the viewer. In her left arm she carries a basket of flowers; her dress slips off her right shoulder as she reaches out to pluck a shoot from a tall flowering plant beside her.

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45d

Back here, the iron line crosses future, past:
Then my father will surely be seen

Trekking the sodden, lonely land,
Weekenders, together –

—Jackie Kay, “Rannoch Loop”
published in BANTAM (Picador, 2017)

https://www.panmacmillan.com/authors/jackie-kay/bantam/9781509887927

#Scottish #literature #poem #poetry #hiking #Rannoch #Rannochmoor #walking #JackieKay

Rannoch Loop
by Jackie Kay

Back here, the iron line crosses future, past:
Then my father will surely be seen

Trekking the sodden, lonely land,
Weekenders, together –

Or trudging through the ancient pine woods,
The musk smell of red deer,

My father, here on the moor,
Years and years after he’s gone,

Held by the land’s callused hands.
Och – big hikes across time, lochs, bogs,

September weekend or Easter, far flung,
Doon by Loch Ericht, on the west side

To the old crofter’s burnt-out croft,
Still a magnificent doss, and he’ll doss there,

(Twelve men to the wee hoose)
And rest, rest, till finally refreshed.

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39d

I want answers, but there are only the wild geese
Calling, high in the almost-dark, bearing south,
And me, stopped short, clutching a bag of groceries
On the doorstep of my not-quite home…

—Susan Mansfield, “Bearing South”
from The Rooftop Busker: New Writing Scotland 33 (ASL, 2015)

#Scottish #literature #poetry #poem #autumn #migration

Susan Mansfield
BEARING SOUTH

I want answers, but there are only the wild geese
Calling, high in the almost-dark, bearing south,
And me, stopped short, clutching a bag of groceries
On the doorstep of my not-quite home.
I feel the calm of their inner compass
And wonder if this is what we mean by certainty,
A deft arrowhead of wingbeats
In tune with the turning wind, the changing light,
A geography in their feathery breasts
Older than the names of continents.
A journey without thought of parting or arrival,
Only the press of forward motion,
The urgency and risk of it all,
A brief touch-down in stubble fields, then on,
The pulse of fellow flyers in the slipstream
And the clear voices calling in the dark:
I am here, I am alive,
I am here, I am alive.

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17d

he was a technician
https://subspacewagon.systems/he-was-a-technician/

Algol, Part III
https://archive.org/details/algol-part-iii-by-richard-j-tilley

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https://www.subspacewagon.io
https://www.poet.garden
https://www.exeunt.me
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@bookstodon

#Poetry #DisabledArtist #PoetryCommunity #Poem #WritingCommunity #literature #art #writing #books #humanities #sociology #amwriting #CreativeWriting #ableism #library #theology #ethics #bookstodon

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17d

He’s no artist.
His taste in clothes is more
dowdy than gaudy…

—Norman MacCaig, “Sparrow”
published in The Many Days: Selected Poems of Norman MacCaig (Polygon, 2010)

https://birlinn.co.uk/product/the-many-days/

#Scottish #literature #poem #poetry #20thcentury #NormanMacCaig #birds #sparrows

Sparrow
by Norman MacCaig

He’s no artist.
His taste in clothes is more
dowdy than gaudy.
And his nest – that blackbird, writing
pretty scrolls on the air with the gold nib of his beak,
would call it a slum.

To stalk solitary on lawns,
to sing solitary in midnight trees,
to glide solitary over gray Atlantics –
not for him: he’d rather
a punch-up in a gutter.

He carries what learning he has
lightly – it is, in fact, based only
on the usefulness whose result
is survival. A proletarian bird.
No scholar.
But when winter soft-shoes in
and these other birds –
ballet dancers, musicians, architects –
die in the snow
and freeze to branches,
watch him happily flying
on the O-levels and A-levels
of the air.

ALT

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16d

In Gránada, in Gránada,
They dumbed the mou o a makar,
In Gránada, in Gránada,
They strak doun Garcia Lorca…

—“In Gránada, in Gránada”, by Sydney Goodsir Smith (1915–1975) – a major figure in the 20th-century Scottish renaissance, born #OTD, 26 Oct

1/4

https://asls.org.uk/publications/books/volumes/a-kist-o-skinlan-things/

#Scottish #literature #poem #poetry #Scots #Scotslanguage #20thcentury #Lorca

Sydney Goodsir Smith
In Gránada, in Gránada
(Llanto por Federico Garcia Lorca)

In Gránada, in Gránada,
They dumbed the mou o a makar,
In Gránada, in Gránada,
They strak doun Garcia Lorca.

Ye bard o the tinks, o gipsy Spain,
Frae Gránada, frae Gránada,
Aa the gangrel folk that scorn chains—
O wae for Garcia Lorca!

At dawin fornent a sunwhite waa
In Gránada, in Gránada,
The rifles reik, O see him faa,
Daith rins at the tyrant’s order.

But they sall pey for that fell deed,
In Gránada, in Gránada,
Franco and his men o bluid,
Their fingers reid wi murder.

Mair nor juist ane enemie
Was kill yon morn in Gránada,
For daith is neer a bundarie
Til the voice o a folk was Lorca.

Ay, he was Spain, anither Burns,
In Gránada, in Gránada,
O wae for thae when the tide turns
That strak doun Garcia Lorca!

And wae for thae in ilka land,
Or Galloway or Gránada,
That thirl the libertie o man
For bards nor daith are stranger.

And aye their leid is Freedom,
In Galloway or Gránada,
Ay, greit for the tinkler’s martyrdom
And the white dumb mou o a makar.

Ay, greit for Lorca, bard o the waifs,
Saw birth and daith in Gránada,
Wae for the sang was stanched yon day
While the sand ran reid wi clangor.

But sing o the victorie was gained,
In Gránada, in Gránada ———!
For aye your bluid sall dirl throu Spain,
Federico Garcia Lorca!

ALT

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12d

Rubbing a glistening circle
on the steamed-up window I framed
a pheasant in a field of mist…

—Edwin Morgan, “Aberdeen Train”
published in CENTENARY SELECTED POEMS (Carcanet, 2020)

https://www.carcanet.co.uk/cgi-bin/indexer?product=9781784109967

#Scottish #literature #poem #poetry #autumn #October #Aberdeen #EdwinMorgan

Edwin Morgan
Aberdeen Train

Rubbing a glistening circle
on the steamed-up window I framed
a pheasant in a field of mist.
The sun was a great red thing somewhere low,
struggling with the milky scene. In the furrows
a piece of glass winked into life,
hypnotized the silly dandy; we
hooted past him with his head cocked,
contemplating a bottle-end,
and this was the last of October,
a Chinese moment in the Mearns.

ALT

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37d

There are many traditions across the globe of using metaphorical poetic language to describe or boast about yourself. Here's a griot-style autobiographical #Poem about me. #Poetry #Oratory
"I am the oak that mocks the gale, born from the dust beside the grinding stone, rooted deep within the clearing of the ancient fortress wall.
My left limb danced a halting measure on the road, yet my swift feet swallowed the red earth, leaving trails of thunder before the sun had learned my name. (1/5)

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11d

Book of Truths

https://www.tilley.blog/book-of-truths/

First Truth

https://subspacewagon.systems/first-truth/

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https://archive.org/details/visions-october-2026-by-richard-j-tilley
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11d

Second Truth

https://subspacewagon.systems/second-truth/

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@writingcommunity
@writingbooks
@bookstodon

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11d

But gin the auld fowks’ tales are richt
An’ ghaists come hame on Hallow nicht,
O freend o’ freends! what wad I gie
To feel ye rax yer hand to me
Atween the dark an’ caun’le-licht?

—Violet Jacob, “Hallowe’en”
published in COUNTRY LIFE, 1920

Jacob’s only son, Harry, was killed at the Somme in 1916. This poem evokes the desperate sadness felt by so many in the aftermath of the First World War.

#Scottish #literature #Scots #Scotslanguage #Halloween #poem #poetry #warpoetry #WW1

Hallowe’en
Violet Jacob

The tattie-liftin’s nearly through,
They’re ploughin’ whaur the barley grew,‍‍
And aifter dark, roond ilka stack,‍‍
Ye’ll see the horsemen stand an’ crack
O Lachlan, but I mind o’ you!

I mind foo often we hae seen
Ten thoosand stars keek doon atween‍‍
The nakit branches, an’ below‍‍
Baith fairm an’ bothie hae their show,
Alowe wi’ lichts o’ Hallowe’en.

There’s bairns wi’ guizards at their tail
Clourin’ the doors wi’ runts o’ kail,‍‍
And fine ye’ll hear the skreichs an’ skirls‍‍
O’ lassies wi’ their droukit curls
Bobbin’ for aipples i’ the pail.

The bothie fire is loupin’ het,
A new heid horseman’s kist is set‍‍
Richts o’ the lum; whaur by the blaze‍‍
The auld ane stude that kept yer claes—
I canna thole to see it yet!

But gin the auld fowks’ tales are richt
An’ ghaists come hame on Hallow nicht,‍‍
O freend o’ freends! what wad I gie‍‍
To feel ye rax yer hand to me
Atween the dark an’ caun’le licht?

Awa in France, across the wave,
The wee lichts burn on ilka grave,‍‍
An’ you an’ me their lowe hae seen—‍‍
Ye’ll mebbe hae yer Hallowe’en
Yont, whaur ye’re lyin’ wi’ the lave.

There’s drink an’ daffin’, sang an’ dance
And ploys and kisses get their chance,‍‍
But Lachlan, man, the place I see‍‍
Is whaur the auld kist used to be
And the lichts o’ Hallowe’en in France!

ALT

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11d

A wife was sitting at her reel ae night;
And aye she sat, and aye she reeled, and aye she wished for company…

Sadie Stein recalls “The Strange Visitor” – an eerie Scots tale. Performed well it should cause “a scream of alarm”

1/2

https://www.theparisreview.org/blog/2013/01/16/the-stranger/

#Scottish #literature #Halloween #19thcentury #folklore #poem #poetry #performance

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11d

A boannie nicht for castin kale:
a fat mön vaegin owre Sannis,
a hale gadderie o laads an lasses…

—Christine De Luca, “Hallowe’en Hansel”
published in WAST WI DA VALKYRIES (Shetland Library, 1997)

Listen to Christine reading her poems online here:

https://www.christinedeluca.co.uk/pages/wast_wi_da_valkyries

#Scottish #literature #Shetland #Shetlandic #Scots #Scotslnguage #Halloween #poem #poetry

A dark-blue postcard. In the top-left corner is a spider's web; in the bottom right there's a bubbling cauldron. The postcard has the following poem in white text:

Hallowe'en hansel
bi Christine De Luca

A boannie nicht for castin kale:
a fat mön vaegin owre Sannis,
a hale gadderie o laads an lasses.

A spree i der blöd,
laads loupit dykes
purled kale-stocks
iggit een anidder on
ripe da rigs
hunse fur hens
whit a stramash
an dan da dash
tae a porch door
lift da sneck
ball in da booty
rin like da mellishon
dunna look back.

But dee an me
pooskered wi da bassel
fell ahint ta draa breath,
taste wir first smoorikin.
But aa I can mind is da mön
gaffin at me in mi cöttikins
wis ahint a uncan barn
an dy blate hansel
anunder a kendlin o starns.

ALT

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11d

The speedy gleams the darkness swallow’d;
Loud, deep, & lang the thunder bellow’d:
That night, a child might understand,
The Deil had business on his hand…

—Robert Burns’s “Tam o’ Shanter”, read by Hamish MacDonald; illustrations by Gary Welsh

Happy Halloween!

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GAqVwCa_x5o

#Scottish #literature #poem #poetry #RobertBurns #18thcentury #TamOShanter #Scots #Scotslanguage