Often on Antimoon people discuss how this or that word is pronounced in dozens of different ways depending on the country, or even the province within the same Anglphone country. For example in Scotland people speak quite a different English than in southern England. So this leads me to wonder how can an English speaker read a poetry book and still find that words rime if the author of that book speaks a different variety of English . Of course the aesthetics of a poetry book is not only given by rime, but still this is an important part of it, me thinks.
Is English a good language for poetry?
If you listen to members of the Fab Four they all speak in scouse accents. Yet there songs are easily understood.
If you listen to members of the Fab Four they all speak in scouse accents. Yet their songs are easily understood.
http://www.thebeatles.com/#/
Elton John used to write his lyrics with an American audience in mind.
There has been a lot of discussion about 'formal and informal registers' and 'academic' and 'non-academic' language. Any book or poem that is written in a local dialect is going to have a limited readership.
'A Scots Quair' Lewis Grassic Gibbons
Poems by Rabbie Burns in Scots and English.
http://www.thebeatles.com/#/
Elton John used to write his lyrics with an American audience in mind.
There has been a lot of discussion about 'formal and informal registers' and 'academic' and 'non-academic' language. Any book or poem that is written in a local dialect is going to have a limited readership.
'A Scots Quair' Lewis Grassic Gibbons
Poems by Rabbie Burns in Scots and English.
Index of Robert Burns' Poems with English translations.
www.worldburnsclub.com/poems/translations/index.htm
Karen Dunbar Tam o' Shanter
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=a1TpgoqHWbE
Scots and English are not totally dissimilar from each other. So although I cannot understand every word, I can get the general gist of this poem, particularly if I am looking at an English translation at the same time.
A Tale of Brownies (fairies) and of Ghosts
When peddler fellows leave the street,
And thirsty neighbours neighbours meet,
As market-days are wearing late,
And people begin to take the gate (leave);
While we sit drinking at the ale,
And getting full (drunk) and mighty happy,
We think not on the long Scots miles,
The bogs, pools, breaches and stiles,
That lie between us and our home,
Where sits our sulky, sullen wife,
Gathering her forehead like a gathering storm,
Nursing her anger to keep it warm.
This truth found honest Tam O Shanter,
As he from Ayr one night did canter:
(Old Ayr, where never a town surpasses,
For honest men and lovely girls.)
O Tam, had you but been so wise,
As taken your own wife Kate's advice!
She told you well you was a good-for-nothing,
A chattering, blustering, drunken babbler;
That from November till October,
Each market-day you were not sober;
That each meal-grinding with the miller,
You sat as long as you had silver (money);
That every horse was shod a shoe on,
The smith and you got roaring drunk on;
That at the Lord's house, even on Sunday,
You drank with Kirkton Jean till Monday.
She prophesied, that, late or soon,
You would be found deep drowned in Doon,
Or caught with warlocks (male witches) in the dark
By Alloway's old haunted church.
Ah! gentle ladies, it makes me weep,
To think how many counsels sweet,
How many lengthened, sage advises
The husband from the wife despises.
But to our tale:- One market-night,
Tam had got planted uncommonly right,
Fast by a fireplace blazing finely,
With foaming new ale, that drank divinely;
And at his elbow, Cobbler Johnie,
His ancient, trusty, thirsty crony:
Tam loved him like a very brother;
They had been drunk for weeks to-gether;
The night drove on with songs and noise;
And always the ale was growing better:
The landlady and Tam grew gracious
With secret favours, sweet and precious:
The Cobbler told his queerest stories;
The landlord's laugh was ready chorus:
The storm outside might roar and rustle,
Tam did not mind the storm a whistle.
Care, mad to see a man so happy,
Even drowned himself among the ale.
As bees fly home with lodes of treasure,
The minutes winged their way with pleasure:
Kings may be blest but Tam was glorious,
Over all the ills of life victorious!
But pleasures are like poppies spread:
You seize the flower, it's bloom is shed;
Or like the snow falls in the river,
A moment white-then melts for ever;
Or like the Borealis (Northern Lights), race,
That flit before you can point their place;
Or like the rainbow's lovely form
Vanishing amid the storm.
No man can tether time or tide;
The hour approaches Tam must ride:
That hour, of night's black arch the key-stone
That dreary hour Tam mounts his beast in;
And such a night he takes the road in,
As never poor sinner was abroad in.
The wind blew as it would have blown its last;
The rattling showers rose on the blast;
The speedy gleams the darkness swallowed;
Loud, deep, and long the thunder bellowed:
That night, a child might understand,
The Devil had business on his hand.
Well mounted on his grey mare Meg,
A better never lifted leg,
Tam spanked on through puddle and mire,
Despising wind, and rain, and fire;
Now holding fast his good blue bonnet,
Now crooning over some old Scots sonnet,
Now glowering round with prudent cares,
Lest ghosts catch him unawares:
Church-Alloway was drawing near,
Where ghosts and owls nightly cry.
By this time he was across the ford,
Where in the snow the peddler smothered;
And past the birches (trees) and big stone,
Where drunken Charlie broke his neck-bone;
And through the gorse, and by the pile of stones,
Where hunters found the murdered child;
And near the thorn, above the well,
Where Mungo's mother hanged herself.
Before him the river Doon pours all his floods;
The doubling storm roars through the woods;
The lightnings flash from pole to pole;
Near and more near the thunders role:
When, glimmering through the groaning trees,
Church-Alloway seemed in a blaze,
Through every crack the beams were glancing,
And loud resounding mirth and dancing.
Inspiring, bold John Barleycorn (whisky)!
What dangers you can make us scorn!
With ale, we fear no evil;
With whisky, we will face the Devil!
The ale so foamed in Tammie's head,
Fair play, he cared no devils a farthing (coin).
But Maggie stood, right sore astonished,
Untill, by the heel and hand admonished,
She ventured forward on the light;
And, wow! Tam saw a wondrous sight!
Wizards and witches in a dance:
No cotillion, brand new from France,
But hornpipes, jigs, strathspeys, and reels,
Put life and mettle in their heels.
A window seat in the east,
There sat the Old Devil, in shape of beast;
A shaggy dog, black, grim, and large,
To give them music was his charge:
He screwed the bagpipes and made them squeal,
Till roof and rafters all did ring.
Coffins stood around, like open cupboards,
That showed the dead in their last dresses;
And, by some devilish magic device,
Each in its cold hand held a light:
By which heroic Tam was able
To note upon the holy table,
A murderer's bones, in gallows-irons;
Two span-long, little, unchristened children;
A thief new-cut from a gallows rope-
With his last gasp his mouth did gape (open);
Five tomahawks with blood red-rusted;
Five scimitars with murder crusted;
A garter which a babe had strangled;
A knife a father's throat had mangled-
Whom his own son of life bereft-
The grey hairs still stuck to the heft;
With more of horrible and awful,
Which even to name would be unlawful.
Three lawyers' tongues, turned inside out,
With lies seamed like a beggar's cloth;
Three Priests' hearts, rotten, black as muck (wet earth),
Lay stinking , vile, in every corner.
As Tammie glowered, amazed, and curious,
The mirth and fun grew fast and furious;
The piper loud and louder blew,
The dancers quick and quicker flew,
They reeled, they set, they crossed, they grasped hand
Till every old woman sweated and steamed,
And cast her rags to the work,
And tripped at it in her under-shirt!
Now Tam, O Tam! had they been young women,
All plump and strapping in their teens!
Their under-shirts, instead of greasy flannel,
Been snow-white seventeen hundred linen!-
These trousers of mine, my only pair,
That once were plush, of good blue hair,
I would have given them off my buttocks
For one amorous look of the lovely maidens!
But withered woman, old and wizened,
Ancient hags would wean a foal,
Leaping and flinging on a cudgel (walking stick),
I wonder did not turn thy stomach!
But Tam knew what was what full well:
There was one comely wench and choice,
That night enlisted in the company,
Long after known on Carrick shore
(For many an animal to death she shot,
And perished many a lovely boat,
And drank both much whisky and beer,
And kept the country-side in fear.)
Her short shift, of Paisley course cloth,
That as a young girl she had worn,
In length though very scanty (short),
It was her best, and she was proud.
Ah! little knew your reverend grandmother,
That under-vest she bought for her little Nannie,
With two pound Scots (it was all her riches),
Would ever (have) graced a dance of witches!
But here my Musing her winging must stop,
Such flights as far beyond her power:
To sing how Nannie leaped and kicked
(A supple old horse she was and strong);
And how Tam stood like one bewitched,
And thought his very eyes enriched;
Even Satan glowered, and fidgeted full fondly,
And jerked and blew with might and main;
Till first ane caper, then another,
Tam lost his reason all together,
And roars out: 'Well done, short-shift!'
And in an instant all was dark;
And scarcely had he Maggie rallied,
When out the hellish legion sallied.
As bees buzz out with angry fret,
When plundering hoards assail their hive;
As open hare's mortal foes,
When, pop! she starts before their nose;
As eager runs the market crowd,
When 'Catch the thief!' resounds aloud:
So Maggie runs, the witches follow,
With many an unearthly screech and cry.
Ah, Tam! Ah, Tam! you will get thy rights!
In hell they will roast thee like a herring!
In vain your Kate awaits your coming!
Kate soon will be a woeful woman!
Now, do your speedy utmost, Meg,
And win the key-stone of the brig;
There, at them you your tail may toss,
A running stream they dare not cross!
But before the key-stone she could make,
The fiend a tail she had to shake;
For Nannie, far before the rest,
Hard upon noble Maggie pressed,
And flew at Tam with furious aim;
But little was she Maggie's mettle!
One spring brought off her master whole,
But left behind her own grey tail:
The old woman clutched her by the rump,
And left poor Maggie scarce a stump.
Now, who this tale of truth shall read,
Every man, and mother's son, take heed:
Whenever to drink you are inclined,
Or short shifts run in your mind,
Think! you may buy the joys over (too) dear:
Remember Tam O Shanter's mare.
www.worldburnsclub.com/poems/translations/index.htm
Karen Dunbar Tam o' Shanter
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=a1TpgoqHWbE
Scots and English are not totally dissimilar from each other. So although I cannot understand every word, I can get the general gist of this poem, particularly if I am looking at an English translation at the same time.
A Tale of Brownies (fairies) and of Ghosts
When peddler fellows leave the street,
And thirsty neighbours neighbours meet,
As market-days are wearing late,
And people begin to take the gate (leave);
While we sit drinking at the ale,
And getting full (drunk) and mighty happy,
We think not on the long Scots miles,
The bogs, pools, breaches and stiles,
That lie between us and our home,
Where sits our sulky, sullen wife,
Gathering her forehead like a gathering storm,
Nursing her anger to keep it warm.
This truth found honest Tam O Shanter,
As he from Ayr one night did canter:
(Old Ayr, where never a town surpasses,
For honest men and lovely girls.)
O Tam, had you but been so wise,
As taken your own wife Kate's advice!
She told you well you was a good-for-nothing,
A chattering, blustering, drunken babbler;
That from November till October,
Each market-day you were not sober;
That each meal-grinding with the miller,
You sat as long as you had silver (money);
That every horse was shod a shoe on,
The smith and you got roaring drunk on;
That at the Lord's house, even on Sunday,
You drank with Kirkton Jean till Monday.
She prophesied, that, late or soon,
You would be found deep drowned in Doon,
Or caught with warlocks (male witches) in the dark
By Alloway's old haunted church.
Ah! gentle ladies, it makes me weep,
To think how many counsels sweet,
How many lengthened, sage advises
The husband from the wife despises.
But to our tale:- One market-night,
Tam had got planted uncommonly right,
Fast by a fireplace blazing finely,
With foaming new ale, that drank divinely;
And at his elbow, Cobbler Johnie,
His ancient, trusty, thirsty crony:
Tam loved him like a very brother;
They had been drunk for weeks to-gether;
The night drove on with songs and noise;
And always the ale was growing better:
The landlady and Tam grew gracious
With secret favours, sweet and precious:
The Cobbler told his queerest stories;
The landlord's laugh was ready chorus:
The storm outside might roar and rustle,
Tam did not mind the storm a whistle.
Care, mad to see a man so happy,
Even drowned himself among the ale.
As bees fly home with lodes of treasure,
The minutes winged their way with pleasure:
Kings may be blest but Tam was glorious,
Over all the ills of life victorious!
But pleasures are like poppies spread:
You seize the flower, it's bloom is shed;
Or like the snow falls in the river,
A moment white-then melts for ever;
Or like the Borealis (Northern Lights), race,
That flit before you can point their place;
Or like the rainbow's lovely form
Vanishing amid the storm.
No man can tether time or tide;
The hour approaches Tam must ride:
That hour, of night's black arch the key-stone
That dreary hour Tam mounts his beast in;
And such a night he takes the road in,
As never poor sinner was abroad in.
The wind blew as it would have blown its last;
The rattling showers rose on the blast;
The speedy gleams the darkness swallowed;
Loud, deep, and long the thunder bellowed:
That night, a child might understand,
The Devil had business on his hand.
Well mounted on his grey mare Meg,
A better never lifted leg,
Tam spanked on through puddle and mire,
Despising wind, and rain, and fire;
Now holding fast his good blue bonnet,
Now crooning over some old Scots sonnet,
Now glowering round with prudent cares,
Lest ghosts catch him unawares:
Church-Alloway was drawing near,
Where ghosts and owls nightly cry.
By this time he was across the ford,
Where in the snow the peddler smothered;
And past the birches (trees) and big stone,
Where drunken Charlie broke his neck-bone;
And through the gorse, and by the pile of stones,
Where hunters found the murdered child;
And near the thorn, above the well,
Where Mungo's mother hanged herself.
Before him the river Doon pours all his floods;
The doubling storm roars through the woods;
The lightnings flash from pole to pole;
Near and more near the thunders role:
When, glimmering through the groaning trees,
Church-Alloway seemed in a blaze,
Through every crack the beams were glancing,
And loud resounding mirth and dancing.
Inspiring, bold John Barleycorn (whisky)!
What dangers you can make us scorn!
With ale, we fear no evil;
With whisky, we will face the Devil!
The ale so foamed in Tammie's head,
Fair play, he cared no devils a farthing (coin).
But Maggie stood, right sore astonished,
Untill, by the heel and hand admonished,
She ventured forward on the light;
And, wow! Tam saw a wondrous sight!
Wizards and witches in a dance:
No cotillion, brand new from France,
But hornpipes, jigs, strathspeys, and reels,
Put life and mettle in their heels.
A window seat in the east,
There sat the Old Devil, in shape of beast;
A shaggy dog, black, grim, and large,
To give them music was his charge:
He screwed the bagpipes and made them squeal,
Till roof and rafters all did ring.
Coffins stood around, like open cupboards,
That showed the dead in their last dresses;
And, by some devilish magic device,
Each in its cold hand held a light:
By which heroic Tam was able
To note upon the holy table,
A murderer's bones, in gallows-irons;
Two span-long, little, unchristened children;
A thief new-cut from a gallows rope-
With his last gasp his mouth did gape (open);
Five tomahawks with blood red-rusted;
Five scimitars with murder crusted;
A garter which a babe had strangled;
A knife a father's throat had mangled-
Whom his own son of life bereft-
The grey hairs still stuck to the heft;
With more of horrible and awful,
Which even to name would be unlawful.
Three lawyers' tongues, turned inside out,
With lies seamed like a beggar's cloth;
Three Priests' hearts, rotten, black as muck (wet earth),
Lay stinking , vile, in every corner.
As Tammie glowered, amazed, and curious,
The mirth and fun grew fast and furious;
The piper loud and louder blew,
The dancers quick and quicker flew,
They reeled, they set, they crossed, they grasped hand
Till every old woman sweated and steamed,
And cast her rags to the work,
And tripped at it in her under-shirt!
Now Tam, O Tam! had they been young women,
All plump and strapping in their teens!
Their under-shirts, instead of greasy flannel,
Been snow-white seventeen hundred linen!-
These trousers of mine, my only pair,
That once were plush, of good blue hair,
I would have given them off my buttocks
For one amorous look of the lovely maidens!
But withered woman, old and wizened,
Ancient hags would wean a foal,
Leaping and flinging on a cudgel (walking stick),
I wonder did not turn thy stomach!
But Tam knew what was what full well:
There was one comely wench and choice,
That night enlisted in the company,
Long after known on Carrick shore
(For many an animal to death she shot,
And perished many a lovely boat,
And drank both much whisky and beer,
And kept the country-side in fear.)
Her short shift, of Paisley course cloth,
That as a young girl she had worn,
In length though very scanty (short),
It was her best, and she was proud.
Ah! little knew your reverend grandmother,
That under-vest she bought for her little Nannie,
With two pound Scots (it was all her riches),
Would ever (have) graced a dance of witches!
But here my Musing her winging must stop,
Such flights as far beyond her power:
To sing how Nannie leaped and kicked
(A supple old horse she was and strong);
And how Tam stood like one bewitched,
And thought his very eyes enriched;
Even Satan glowered, and fidgeted full fondly,
And jerked and blew with might and main;
Till first ane caper, then another,
Tam lost his reason all together,
And roars out: 'Well done, short-shift!'
And in an instant all was dark;
And scarcely had he Maggie rallied,
When out the hellish legion sallied.
As bees buzz out with angry fret,
When plundering hoards assail their hive;
As open hare's mortal foes,
When, pop! she starts before their nose;
As eager runs the market crowd,
When 'Catch the thief!' resounds aloud:
So Maggie runs, the witches follow,
With many an unearthly screech and cry.
Ah, Tam! Ah, Tam! you will get thy rights!
In hell they will roast thee like a herring!
In vain your Kate awaits your coming!
Kate soon will be a woeful woman!
Now, do your speedy utmost, Meg,
And win the key-stone of the brig;
There, at them you your tail may toss,
A running stream they dare not cross!
But before the key-stone she could make,
The fiend a tail she had to shake;
For Nannie, far before the rest,
Hard upon noble Maggie pressed,
And flew at Tam with furious aim;
But little was she Maggie's mettle!
One spring brought off her master whole,
But left behind her own grey tail:
The old woman clutched her by the rump,
And left poor Maggie scarce a stump.
Now, who this tale of truth shall read,
Every man, and mother's son, take heed:
Whenever to drink you are inclined,
Or short shifts run in your mind,
Think! you may buy the joys over (too) dear:
Remember Tam O Shanter's mare.
This is the story of the 'Cutty Sark' spoken in English for children.
Tam O'Shanter and the Cutty Sark
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Du-wYund4xM
Her short shift, of Paisley course cloth,
That as a young girl she had worn,
In length though very scanty (short),
It was her best, and she was proud.
Ah! little knew your reverend grandmother,
That under-vest she bought for her little Nannie,
With two pound Scots (it was all her riches),
Would ever (have) graced a dance of witches!
shift: chemise, shimmy, shift, slip, teddies, teddy
a woman's sleeveless undergarment
Paisley cloth: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Paisley_(design)
scant:
1 dialect a : excessively frugal
2 a : barely or scarcely sufficient; especially : not quite coming up to a stated measure
3 : having a small or insufficient supply <he's fat, and scant of breath — Shakespeare>
Tam O'Shanter and the Cutty Sark
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Du-wYund4xM
Her short shift, of Paisley course cloth,
That as a young girl she had worn,
In length though very scanty (short),
It was her best, and she was proud.
Ah! little knew your reverend grandmother,
That under-vest she bought for her little Nannie,
With two pound Scots (it was all her riches),
Would ever (have) graced a dance of witches!
shift: chemise, shimmy, shift, slip, teddies, teddy
a woman's sleeveless undergarment
Paisley cloth: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Paisley_(design)
scant:
1 dialect a : excessively frugal
2 a : barely or scarcely sufficient; especially : not quite coming up to a stated measure
3 : having a small or insufficient supply <he's fat, and scant of breath — Shakespeare>