I came across this poem in an old poetry anthology from college days (Ok that is old!); anyway, I wanted to share it. What you need to know first is (1) the guy who wrote this, Hugh MacDiarmid (C.M. Grieve by birth), dug up a bunch of old Scottish, Gaelic, Sanscrit and Old Norse phrases and words and stuck them in his poetry, and made up a few along the way; (2) he was a communist, which I find interesting in light of this poem and my own Non-communist bent; (3) I have given the modern meanings next to the more difficult words in parentheses...hoping this doesn't break the poem too much; and (4) while this may be a bit long for a blog, its worth a read considering the season.
Also, I am not claiming agreement with the "theology" but don't you love a good think about something in a fresh way? So here it is:
I heard Christ sing quhile roond him danced
The Twal' (twelve) disciples in a ring,
And here's the dance I saw them dance,
And the sang I hard him sing.
Ane, twa, three, and their right feet heich,
Fower, five, six and doon wi' them.
Seeven, aucht, nine, and up wi' the left,
Ten, eleevin, twal', and doon they came.
And Christ he stude i' the middle there,
And was the thirteenth man,
And sang the bonniest sang that e'er
Was sung sin' Time began.
And Christ he was the centrepiece,
Wi' three on ilka side.
My hurt stud still, and the sun stud still,
But still the dancers plied.
O I wot it was a maypole,
As a man micht seek to see,
Wi' the teal' disciples dancing roon',
While Christ sang like a lintie. (Linnet)
The twal' points o' the compass
Made jubilee roon' and roon',
And but for the click-click-clack o' the feet,
Christ's sang was the only soon'.
And there was nae time that could be tauld
Frae a clock who's haun's stud still,
Quhile the figures a' gaed bizzin roon'
__I wot it was God's will.
Wersh is the vinegar,
And the sword is sharp.
Wi' the trembling' sunbeam
Again for my harp,
I sing to Thee.
The spirit of man
Is a bird in a cage,
That beats on the bars
Wi' a goodly rage,
And fain 'ud be free.
Twice-caged it is,
In life and in death,
Yet it claps its wings
Wi' a restless faith,
And sings as it may.
Then fill my mouth
Wi' the needfu' words,
That wall turn its wings
Into whirling' swords
When it hears what I say.
Hearken my cry,
And let me speak,
That when it hears
It wall lift its beak,
And sing as it should.
Sweet is the song
That is lost in its throat,
And fain 'ud I hear
Its openin' note,
As I hang on the rood (cross).
And when I rise
Again from the dead,
Let me, I pray,
Be accompanied
By the spirit of man.
Yes, as I rise
From earth to Heaven,
Fain 'ud I know
That Thou has given
Consent to my plan--
Even as the stars
Sang here at my birth,
Let Heaven hear
The song of the earth
Then, for my sake.
The thorns are black,
And callous the nails.
As a bird its bars
My hand assails
Harpstrings . . . that break!
O I wot they'll lead the warl' (world) a dance.
And I wot the sang wall (will) be,
As a white sword lupin' (leaping) at the hurt
O' a' eternity.
Judas and Christ stud face to face,
And mair (more) I couldna' see,
But I wot he did God's will what made
Siccar (sure) o' Calvary.
(Note: This is from The Norton Anthology of Modern Poetry, ed. by Ellmann, Richard, and O'Clair, Robert. (New York: W. W. Norton & Company, Inc., 1973), 506-508. The original copyright was held in 1948; reissued to family member in 1962; reprinted with permission from the Macmillian Company in this collection.)
It's a bonny poem don't you think...one deserving of a good cup of tea with a bit of Sweet Irish Cream!
Merry Christmas to all! It is the season to be singing!
Also, I am not claiming agreement with the "theology" but don't you love a good think about something in a fresh way? So here it is:
I heard Christ sing quhile roond him danced
The Twal' (twelve) disciples in a ring,
And here's the dance I saw them dance,
And the sang I hard him sing.
Ane, twa, three, and their right feet heich,
Fower, five, six and doon wi' them.
Seeven, aucht, nine, and up wi' the left,
Ten, eleevin, twal', and doon they came.
And Christ he stude i' the middle there,
And was the thirteenth man,
And sang the bonniest sang that e'er
Was sung sin' Time began.
And Christ he was the centrepiece,
Wi' three on ilka side.
My hurt stud still, and the sun stud still,
But still the dancers plied.
O I wot it was a maypole,
As a man micht seek to see,
Wi' the teal' disciples dancing roon',
While Christ sang like a lintie. (Linnet)
The twal' points o' the compass
Made jubilee roon' and roon',
And but for the click-click-clack o' the feet,
Christ's sang was the only soon'.
And there was nae time that could be tauld
Frae a clock who's haun's stud still,
Quhile the figures a' gaed bizzin roon'
__I wot it was God's will.
Wersh is the vinegar,
And the sword is sharp.
Wi' the trembling' sunbeam
Again for my harp,
I sing to Thee.
The spirit of man
Is a bird in a cage,
That beats on the bars
Wi' a goodly rage,
And fain 'ud be free.
Twice-caged it is,
In life and in death,
Yet it claps its wings
Wi' a restless faith,
And sings as it may.
Then fill my mouth
Wi' the needfu' words,
That wall turn its wings
Into whirling' swords
When it hears what I say.
Hearken my cry,
And let me speak,
That when it hears
It wall lift its beak,
And sing as it should.
Sweet is the song
That is lost in its throat,
And fain 'ud I hear
Its openin' note,
As I hang on the rood (cross).
And when I rise
Again from the dead,
Let me, I pray,
Be accompanied
By the spirit of man.
Yes, as I rise
From earth to Heaven,
Fain 'ud I know
That Thou has given
Consent to my plan--
Even as the stars
Sang here at my birth,
Let Heaven hear
The song of the earth
Then, for my sake.
The thorns are black,
And callous the nails.
As a bird its bars
My hand assails
Harpstrings . . . that break!
O I wot they'll lead the warl' (world) a dance.
And I wot the sang wall (will) be,
As a white sword lupin' (leaping) at the hurt
O' a' eternity.
Judas and Christ stud face to face,
And mair (more) I couldna' see,
But I wot he did God's will what made
Siccar (sure) o' Calvary.
(Note: This is from The Norton Anthology of Modern Poetry, ed. by Ellmann, Richard, and O'Clair, Robert. (New York: W. W. Norton & Company, Inc., 1973), 506-508. The original copyright was held in 1948; reissued to family member in 1962; reprinted with permission from the Macmillian Company in this collection.)
It's a bonny poem don't you think...one deserving of a good cup of tea with a bit of Sweet Irish Cream!
Merry Christmas to all! It is the season to be singing!
