Great Uncle's Doggerel and Twaddle

Yesterday I was clearing out my mother's books and came upon a little hand written book of nonsense rhymes  and other verses by my Great Uncle Roy Bishop which he had copied out for his sister, my grandmother.   (So that's where the doggerel comes from, I thought.)  He had had  some of them published in the Morning Post apparently, but it sounds as though it wasn't very lucrative.

This is what he had written in the flyleaf.

People who live by writing verse
Often end in a paupers hearse:
For it has been wisely said
"the poet is born, but never paid."
Rich fat bankers in the City
Don't read verses, (mores the pity):
These things I won't con or sift
So here's this book as an Xmas gift!

To Romer, from Roy
Xmas 1925.

The Laird of Northfield - Celebrating Finlay Lockie's 50th birthday two or three years ago

The Laird of Northfield

The Laird of Northfield was a young strawberry blonde

Who of playing and singing was awfully fond,

He wanted a lassie his braw hoose tae share

And maybe one fine day, to gie him an heir.

Oh the hoose it was splendid, if chilly and damp,

He’d restored it himsel’ wi’ his own lairdly stamp

With its auld painted celilings and turrets sae round

He was sure the right lassie would shortly be found.

Across the Atlantic a ladie did dwell

At his tablehead he thought she’d look well

She was pretty and clever and not at all auld

And northern enough tae survive in the cauld.

With trews, no’ too garish, and colourfu’ tie

He wooed her wi’ charm and a glint in his eye

And multiple talents and fine erudition-

His plan to entrap her soon came tae fruition.

But back at Northfield  the years hurried by

For frantic activity made the time fly

The growing o’ vegetables, apples and floors

And the selling o’ crisps in the weekdays for hours.

There were parties a-plenty and whisky and wine

The chatter was witty, the banter was fine

The music melodious, the food it was good

It had practically all that a lairdly house should.

But at last the time came to make new festive plans

And to summon his friends back to auld Prestonpans

When at last a young Lockie was well on the way

We were celebrating the laird’s fiftieth birthday!

The Time Travelling Widow (For Fi Martynoga's 60th birthday - a year ago or so)

The Time Travelling Widow

There once was a widow

Who went back in time

To try out the food

And to sample the wine

She said, “In the past

Food was perfectly good,”

They said, “You just try it.”

She said that she would.

She lived in a hovel

And read by rushlight

And shared her boxbed

With some fleas in the night.

She grew her own food

And she made her own clothes

(She couldn’t have bought them,

It’s lucky she sews.)

In a mobcap and petticoats

She looked a fine sight

But gave passing workmen

One hell of a fright.

She returned to the present

And wrote a great book

Which will teach you to garden

And also to cook

If you find yourself stuck

In the seventeen nineties

And fancy some broth

Or some bannocks and dainties.

Or you need to wash clothes

In a washtub, or sheets

By kilting your skirt up

And using your feet.

She cooked bannocks in bookshops,

Campaigned against waste

And polythene bags

And food with no taste.

With her  time travelling skills -

And sense of humour – quite naughty

When she got to be sixty

She could have been forty.

Limerick for Adam's birthday

We have a fine son called Adam,
He isn't called Samir or Saddam
Or Julian or Jaspar
Or Caspian or Caspar
Or Crispin or Quentin, just Adam.

Ring of Truth?

At the check-out, when you check me out,

I like to think I leave you in no doubt,

I hope you read my silent signal like a shout

my eyebrow flash– my nose twitch – and my pout.

Beneath my shadowed lids I steal a glance

while on the floor just by the door

my feet enact a little dance.

You want my number? Will give a ting?

At home I sit and will my phone to ring.

You phone from work – your boss comes in

you’ll get me back in just a min.

I wait and listen while my heart strings sing

How long’s a min? How long is string?

I wonder should I ting you back?

and then what next? perhaps a text?

We make a date – I plan to turn up just a little late.

I dress with daring. What am I wearing?

more to the point what am I not? what am I baring?

Random letch, I’m not your bitch

Stop that staring – that ugly leering

There’s something weird about the way your wear that earring

Eyes off my front –lay off your peering

Its not for you – but him – look – he’s just appearing!

What am I hearing? you like the way I look

and what I’m wearing – this old thing!

I have to say I like your bearing

your air of daring

there’s just a hint of something – is it of sea-faring?

A salty freshness in your air

Yes – just keep staring –

your dark tanned skin makes me look paler

every nice girl loves a sailor.

There’s something missing

until we’re kissing

You like my skirt – you don’t think it makes me look

Too like a flirt?

My skin is burning – my stomach’s churning

My heart is haring, something deep within me’s stirring

My pulse is racing. Am I chasing you too hard?

I’m imploring – are you ignoring me?

what are you searching for? do you find me boring?

No? I am inspiring and endearing?

Are you quite sure? There was I fearing

You’d think me crass and cheap -

you think I’m deep?!

I long for bed. What is this thing?

What did you bring? Oh not a ring?!

You brought a ring? Oh dear! What should I do?

I thought it was completely clear

I thought you knew

From the beginning – that this thing

would only ever be a little fling.

 By the way readers - this is not autobiographical. I am much too old!

Tentative Beginning

I have a bit of a tendency to write in rhyme - and sometimes even quite strict metre. Not very fashionable but a difficult habit to kick.  Sometimes the results are quite entertaining.  Here is one I made recently.  Let me know what you think.  If you like it I might post some more:

LEAVING SCOTLAND

England’s smaller, fiercer brother

Jam and scones baked by your mother–

A land that bare-foot bairns have trod on

Invented everything that’s modern

Telephone and television

Head and shoulders of Great Britain

Rabbie Burns, McGonagal,

Hume and Adam Smith and all

Pie and chips – a smell to savour

Watch your step – I kent yer faither

Enterprising sons and daughters

Emigrated over waters

Endless scattering diaspora

Return for Eck’s homecoming fiasco

Decked from top to toe in tartan

A sight to horrify or hearten?

Religion – divided - sabbatarian

Now it’s football that’s sectarian

Grouse moors, ghillies, class division

Land of banks and socialism

Financiers gambling on a hunch

Bonuses and  credit crunch.

Gaelic songs and lamentations

An NHS run for the patients

Cuts through self destructive habits

Death deferred by pills and tablets

The smokers and the alcoholics

Ceilidhs, dances, reels and frolics

Love affair with rocks and heather

Ae fond kiss and then we sever.

Louise Ramsay