Fladdabister By Rhoda Bulter

The sights, sounds and smells of the working year in a crofting township, lovingly described by Rhoda Bulter.

FLADDABISTER

Whin da sun clims higher idda sky,
An da hidmist fans trow da ditches lie,
Dan comes da time I feel dat I
Man geng an see
Da place, whaar nedder kith nor kin
O mine is ever bidden in,
Yit every time A’m dere I fin
Dearer ta me.

Whin idder laand is lyin weet,
Dere da aert is springin aneath me feet,
An da laverick’s singin, fit ta spleet,
High up abün.
An whin fok ir delled whaat dey hae ta dell,
An da aerly lambs can maet demsel,
Hit’s dan you can fin da mayflooers’ smell,
Laet efternün.

Dey kline da knowes an banks an rigs,
An roond da kiln whaar da blackbird bigs,
An sproot fae da sides o da burn brigs
Fornenst da green.
An laek peerie bairns sayin dir graces,
Da kockiloories lift dir faces,
An growe far bigger dere dan in idder places
Whaar A’m been.

Bit da time I tink I laek da maest
Is whin da maa’in girse is tae me waist,
An dir aye a rabbit or twa ta shaest
Up ower da braes.
Da scent o hay, an da smell o waar,
Da swish o da sye o da busy maa’er,
Fat bees dat flit fae swaar ta swaar,
Waarm, simmer haze.

Dan whin hairst is hintin idda air,
Da coarn head’s heavy an ready ta shaer,
Shun rigs o stubble, aert dow’d an bare
Whaar simmer blissed er.
Boats ir draa’n up ta da head o da noost
Whaar da dockens staand laek bolts o roost.
Noo da aert can sleep, for da hairst is coosed
At Fladdabister.