Robert E. Howard in Scots: "The Song of the Bats"

The Sang o’the Bauchens

Screivit by Rabert E. Howard  

The huim wis oan the muntain
An the starns war grim an frail
Whan the bauchens came fleein, fleein
Frae the river an the laich
Tae wheel agin the gloamin
An cruin thair witchy yairn.

“We war kings o’ auld!” thay chaunted,
“Rowlers o’ a waurld enchanted;
“Ivery nation o’ creation
“Awnt oor lairdship owur men.
“Diadems o’ pouer crount us,
“Than ris Solomon tae confoond us,
“Flang his wab o’ magic roon us,
“In the form o’ beasts he boond us,
“Sae oor rowl wis braken than.”

Dirlin, wheelin intae wastwart,
Flew thay in thair phanton flicht;
Wis it but a weeng-bat muisic
Curmurrt throu the starn-gemt nicht?
Or the weengin o’ a ghaist clan
Whisperin o’ forgat micht?

Art by the inimitable* Virgil Finlay, a master in the art of illustrating inimicable horrors, courtesy of Monster Brains. Don't have nightmares this Hallowe'en... 

*Cheers Deuce Richardson!

Robert E. Howard in Scots: "Adventurer"

With Scotland and its future being predominant in my life at this stage, a great deal of that focus has been on Scottish culture and language. In particular, I've been looking deeper into the Scots language itself. I look at all the fine translations of great works into a multitude of languages, and think: why not Scots?

So while I'm absconded from my friends in Cross Plains and the world of Robert E. Howard, I think there's no better way to keep that connection alive than to continue translating Howard into the mither leid.

So, here's the latest. Hoping all my friends in Cross Plains have a wonderful adventure!

Lan' o' Derkness and th' Nicht

110 years ago today, Robert E. Howard was born: as a happy coincidence, it comes only a few days before Burns Night. Like the royal Robert before them both, I find they're never far from my life.

Both the Roberts were self-taught champions of the common man who expressed themselves through poetry, drawing upon the rich history of their lands and telling new tales. Howard had a copy of Harvard Classics' Poems and Songs of Robert Burns, and poems like "Rane of the Sword" clearly show a love for the Scots tongue.

So in that spirit, I thought I'd merge my appreciations for the Twa Rabbies on this day.

Cimmeria

I mynd

Th' derk woods, masking sclent o' oorie braes;

Th' grey cloods’ leaden ayebidin' airch;

Th' duskit burns that flowed wi'oot a sound,

And th' lane wins that whispered doon th' passes.

Sicht on sicht mairching, brae on brae,

Sclent ayont sclent, ilk derk wi' dour trees,

Oor gaunt lan' lay.  So when man speelit up

A rugged peak and leukit, his happit een

Saw but th' endless sicht – brae on brae,

Sclent ayont sclent, ilk hoodit lik its brithers.

It was a dreichit lan' that seemed tae haud

A' wins and cloods and dreams that shun th' sun,

Wi' scud beuchs brattlin' in th' lanely wins,

And th' derk woodlands bruidin' owur a',

Not even lichten by th' rare dim sun

Which made squat shadaes oot o' men; they ca'd it

Cimmeria, lan' of derkness and gey Nicht.

It was so lang syne and hyne awa'

I hae forgot th' verra name men ca'd me.

Th' axe and keezle-stane spear are lik a dream,

And hunts and wars are shadaes.  I mynd

Anely th' stellness o' thon dour lan';

Th' cloods that cloddit ivermair on th' braes,

Th' mirkness o' th' ayebidin' woods.

Cimmeria, lan' o' Derkness and th' Nicht.

Oh, sowel o' mine, born oot o' shadaed braes,

Tae cloods and wins and ghaists that shun th' sun,

How mony deiths shall sair tae brak at lest

This heritage which haps me in th' grey

Brawery o' ghaists?  I sairch my hert and kythe

Cimmeria, lan' o' Derkness and th' Night.

Robert E. Howard in Scots: "Men of the Shadows" (Poem)

Ever since my first post on the subject, I've wanted to try my hand at translating some more Howard into Scots. Of course, the problem with Broad Scots is that it varies so much by region: Doric is distinct from Lallans, Ulster from Orcadian, and so forth. As such, I looked mostly to the writings of Robert Burns, Sir Walter Scott, Robert Fergusson, John MacPherson, John Buchan and Lewis Grassic Gibbon.

I've tried a balance between including as many Scots words as possible, while also not "overdoing" it and making it a pile of gibberish.

Men o' th' Shadaes

Frae th' blee reid daw o' Creation,

Frae th' rouk o' timeless time,

Cam we, th' first gey nation,

First on th' upwart clim.

Savage, untaucht, unkennin,

Glaumin' thro' eildit nicht,

Yet mirkly keppin th' lowin',

Th' hint o' th' comin Licht.

Raikin th' lands untraivelt,

Biggin oor laundmerks o' stane.

Doutitly gresping at glore,

Gaupin ayont oor ken

Dummly th' eildins' lore

Naurin on carse an fen.

See, hou th' Tint Gleed smouders,

We are ane wi' th' eons' maun.

Nations hae trod on oor shouders,

Pauterin us intae th' coum.

We, th' first o' th' rmenyie,

Airtin th' Auld an th' New―

Leuk, whaur th' sea-clood aurie

Blandin wi' ocean-blae.

So we hae blandit wi' eildins,

An th' yird-wind oor eshes steers,

Vainisht are we frae Time's pages,

Oor Myndin? Wind in th' firs.

Stonehenge o' faur-yont glore

Mirksome an lane in th' nicht,

Curmur th' eildit lore

Hou we kinnelt th' first o' th' licht.

Speak, nicht-winds, o' man's creation,

Whisper ower craig an fen,

Th' sang o' th' first gey nation,

Th' lest o' th' Stane Eild men.

Pict (or Caledonian), who lived in northeastern Scotland in Late Iron Age / Early Mediaeval times;William Howitt, John Cassell, John Cassell's Illustrated History of England: From the earliest period to the reign of Edward the Fourth., Editor: John Frederick Smith, Publisher W. Kent and Co., 1857. Page 6