The Scutchers Tale           

Wile things heppin’tin’ the war boys, but I’m still leevin tae tell this tale 
O’ hoo heroes come an heroes go whun the bullets fly lake hail,
Hoo thoor made, an’ they dee unnoticed, naw a wurd on the page o’ fame,
But at Gabriel's blast, whun this hale things past ivr’y yin wull hear his name 

Thoor divil the glory in war boys, wae thon shrapnel scungin by
Whiles I wanted joost tae shut mae een, naw tae see nae mair men die,
Naw, I’ll tell you o’ yin wee soger an the wye he face’t the call
Hoo he gane tae his daith lake an Antrim man as if it wus nathin at all

Aye rugh an ready wus his wye, County Antrim through an through,
A rough diamond;aye  ye cud say that, wae a past mair  black than blue,
Joost an Antrim hero, aye plenty o them here
Lake’t his drink, an lake’t his smoke, Aw gochins he cud sweer.

Geen mae wurds can paint a picter o’ the hero in mae tale ,
He wud go pull aboot wae a Woodbine or gee a tramp the half o’ his male,
Nathin speyshul aboot him, wae his rugh oul country way,
An he hae’s a wee white cross in a far aff lan, yin o’ monny I 
hear ye say.

Aye!  yin o’ monny richt enuch, aye!  Heroes tae a man,
But oor wee man stud oot for me, I’ll tell ye geen I can,
The fechtin wus hellish bad thon day, an we loast a pile o’ men,
Ivery time we clear’t a bit they come at is yince again.

We wur scatter’t, deid an deein, al’ order had been loast ,
Oor heid yins coontin leevin men, Daith the Reaper coont’t loast,
Wander’t in the gloamin’ oor man sa’ a wee oul shade,
Nae roof an reekin’ rafters,   harly yer forest glade.

But oul stane wa’s wus shelter on his groof he crep’ roon by,
Weel “hell roast that” oor wee man said, whun the flare lit up the sky,
They betae catch a movement, an the bullets hiss’t an sput 
They clipp’t wee skelfs aff the oul stane wa’ as he cooragh’t alang it’s rut,

But he made it in whut wus yince a doar an bae the licht o’ anither shell,
He sa’ hurkle’t up in a corner    a sojer lake hissel,
A frichen’t face, a weechels face, wha wus sure his time wus come,
Dinny be feart it’s the Scutcher, an I’ll naw sell ye son.

Them boys sa’ me creepin in but they dinnae know aboot you,
This is your wee hoose an welcome, so I’ll bid ye a fond adieu,
Then oot he run an the Maxim sput, he niver stud a chance,
An he gasp’t his last in a Hell lang past in a hole in a feil in France.

He wus knowed tae al as the Scutcher, for he wrocht in the dust an stoor,
But he showed is a’ what courage wus, aye! war he’s finest ‘oor,
An why was the Scutcher different, weel its joost lake this ye see,
Thon frichen’t face, thon weechils face, is an oul face noo, 
it’s me

Charlie Gillen

This recording was funded by the Ulster-Scots Broadcast Fund

Charlie Gillen - The Scutcher’s Tale

But springtim wull land agin.

Noo greet tha returnin’ sun.

Lift yer heed tae tha’ apen sky.

Mak yersel readie tae sïng. 

This recording was funded by the Ulster-Scots Broadcast Fund.

Anne McMaster - Spring Song

Ah wait on ye here

shinin’ bricht as a new-foun’ light,

catched by joy o’ye

*

Ah bring ye this day

hoult in goold, iverie minit new.

Blossom hir an’ growe. 

This recording was funded by the Ulster-Scots Broadcast Fund.

Anne McMaster - Greeting The Morning As My Love - A Sedoka

It iz a blessin’ tae houl wi’in ma hairt

this fresh new day

this raisin’ sun.

this stoon o’ light

this niver-endin’ tholing blue. 

This recording was funded by the Ulster-Scots Broadcast Fund.

Anne McMaster - A Blessing On A Summer Morning

Ma feither caa’d Wee Tam’s Tha Muin

fur tha eyefu frae tha gutter o thon Deil’s Den,

tha mair, tae a weefla, Iniquity, a stern kirk-wurd,

glamour’t thaim coup’t Deil’s Ain.

Yit, canny, A luk’t up tae Him, tha Lord

That wrocht tha stars, tha muin.

But thon ither god, tha Yankee wan, riz then.

A lairnt new words – “Trajectory”, “Jettison”

And I sloughed off my pleghmy, chagrining “ain” −

Fiftie year on, wised-up, A’m bak tae yirth agane. 

This recording was funded by the Ulster-Scots Broadcast Fund.

Charlie Gillen - The Scutcher’s Tale

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