Robert E. Howard in Scots: "A Song of the Race"

A Sang o’ the Ilk

Screivit by Rabert E. Howard

Heich oan his throne sat Bran Mak Morn
Whan the sun-god sank an the wast wis reid;
He waggit a girl wi’ his wauchtin-horn,
An, "Sing me a sang o’ the ilk," he said.

Her een waur as derk as the seas o’ nicht,
Her lips waur as reid as the settin sun,
As a duskit rose in the dwynin licht,
She let her fingers dreamily rin

Owur the gowden-whispert strings,
Seekin the sowel o’ her auncient lyre;
Bran sate still oan the throne o’ kings,
Bronze face limnit in the dayset's fire

"First o’ the ilk o’ men," she sang,
"Far frae an unco laund we cam,
Frae the rim o’ the waurld whaur muntains hing
An the seas burn reid wi’ the dayset flam."

"First an the lest o’ the ilk are we,
Gane is the auld waurld's gilt an pride,
Mu is a stoil o’ the wastern sea,
Throu haws o’ Atlantis the white shairks glide."

An eemage o’ bronze, the king sate still,
Javelings o’ cramasie shot the wast,
She brushit the strings an curmurt thrill
Soopit up the chords tae the heichest creest.

"Hear ye the yairn that the auncients tell,
Hechtit o’ yore by the god o’ the muin,
Chuckit oan the shuir a deep sea shell,
Cairvit oan the surface a meestic rune:"

" ' As ye war first in the meestic past
Oot o’ the smochs o’ the blee o’ Time,
Sae sall the men o’ yer ilk be lest
Whan the waurld sall crummle,' sae ran the rhyme."

" ' A maun o’ yer ilk, oan kips that clash,
Sall leuk oan the reelin waurld ablo;
Tae spewing smeuk sall he see it crash,
A fleetin smoch o’ the winds that blaw.' "

" 'Starn-dust fawin for aye throu space.
Dirlin aboot in the winds that birl;
Ye that waur first, be the lest-most ilk,
For ane o’ yer men sall be the lest o’ men.' "

Intae the seelence her vyse trailit aff,
Yet it echaed athort the huim,
Owur the heather the nicht-wind saft
Buir the scent o’ the forest's moust.

Reid lips liftit, an derk een dreamit,
Bauchens cam wheelin oan theftie weengs;
But the muin ris gowd an the far starns glimmit,
An the king still sate oan the throne o’ kings.

Robert E. Howard in Scots: Aye Comes Antrum

A small tribute to my eternal inspiration Robert E. Howard, and to an auld freen, who shared his birthday. I am glad to have met and talked with him in person. We had great fun at the poetry slams outside Howard's house. This translation covered some of the themes we talked about the last time we met. No Empire lasts forever.

"Aye Comes Antrum"

Screivit by Rabert E. Howard

Ridin doon the road at antrum wi’ the starns or steed an shoon

I hae haurd an auld maun singin underneth a copper muin;

"God, wha gemmit wi’ cairngorm gloamins, opal portals o’ the day,

"Oan oor amaranthine muntains, why mak human sowels o’ clay?

"For I rade the muin-mare's horses in the glore o’ ma yowth,

"Wrastlit wi’ the braes at dayset— till I met bress-tinterit Trowth.

"Till I saw the temples tottle, till I saw the eedols reel,

"Till ma brain had turnit tae airn, an ma hert had turnit tae steel.

"Sautie, Sautie, brither Sautie, fill ma sowel wi’ frozen fire;

"Feed wi’ herts o’ rose-white wummen ashes o’ ma deid desire.

"For ma road rins oot in thistles an ma dreams hae turnit tae dust.

"An ma pinions fade an faltar tae the corbin weengs o’ rust.

"Trowth has smitten me wi’ airras an her haun is in ma hair—

"Yowth, she hides in thonder muntains — gang an see her, if ye daur!

"Wark yer gramarie, brither Sautie, fill ma brain wi’ fiery spells.

"Sautie, Sautie, brither Sautie, I hiv kent yer faircest Hells."

Ridin doon the road at evening whan the wind wis oan the sea,

I hae heard an auld maun singin, an he sang maist dowiely,

Streenge tae hear, whan derk loch shimmer tae the greetin o’ the loun,

Amatist Oisin singin unner antrum copper muin.

Robert E. Howard in Scots: "The Ride o' Falume" (Poem)

"The Ride o' Falume"

Screivit by Rabert E. Howard  

Robert E. Howard in Scots: Echoes from an Anvil

Echaes frae a Stiddie

Screivit by Rabert E. Howard 

I leave tae pegral makars

The tabor an the lute;

I sing in drums an tom-toms

The bleck bysmal bruit –

Ma vyse is o’ the people,

Thon etin wild an mout.

Wi’ bluid o’ aw the ages

His braken nails are bleck,

The hale waurld wechts an burdens

His birsie beastial back;

He shammles doon ivermair

A blin an fankelt track.

I bring nae sneithit diamants,

Nae gems frae Lunnon toun;

Nae culturt wheem or teevock

Ma rochle varses croun;

You find here nocht but pouer

That braks a ceety doun.

I spill nae wirds o’ beauty,

Cuinyies frae a siller purse,

Ma hauns are built o’ airn,

An airn is in ma varse.

I bring nae luve but fury,

Nae blissin but a curse.

Ma law-fung brou is slentit,

Ma een are burnin reid,

Wi’ fairce bleck primal veesions

That thunner in ma heid;

Ahint ma hert the rivers

An aw the jungles spreid.

I sclaved in starn-girt Babel

An lauboured at the wa’;

I watchit the birth o’ pavies

Aneath ma clourin mell –

An in a frenzied dawin

I saw her tours faw.

I toiled in Tuscan vinyairds,

I brak the beaten laim,

I streend agin the haimer

That drave the clourer haim;

I sweitit in the gaileys

That brak the road tae Roum.

Och, Khan an keeng an pharaoh!

In cauld an drouth an heat

I bled tae build yer glore,

An eemock aneath yer feet –

But aye ris a mornin

Whan bluid ran in the street.

The waurld upon ma shouders

Knee deep in muck an silt,

Ma haun aneath ma tatters

Still grips the hidden hilt –

Wha fed the auncient rivers

Wi’ bluid rebellions spilt?

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

Robert E. Howard in Scots

After seeing the fantastic work done by many folk translating REH into French, Spanish, Portuguese, German, Swedish and many more, and having also seen many classic authors' work translated into Scots, I'm sorely tempted to translate some REH into my people's language. There are quite a few poems that I think would sound grand in Scots: obviously the ones involving a Scot like "The Rover". Maybe even some stories starring Scots.

Certainly Howard quite liked the Scots language, and he's even written a poem in the tongue.

(The following first appeared in my REHupa 'zine, "Elephants, Figs, & Lobsters With Wigs")