About people from Skares

DEID AND AWA

When I scan thro your letters I see noo an then

Some life long acquaintance has passed frae oor ken

Like the ice on the river in a gentle spring thaw

They slid frae their moorings an drifted awa

There’s auld Rabbie Dykes “Hail fellow well met”

He laid past his gairth and gaed aff tae his rest

His big hearty laugh will be missed frae the raw

Syne Dykie depairted an slippit awa

The fech o’ the Shirkies – Ned, Rabbie and Mick

Wullie an Stuart hae laid doon their picks

Rode the last tow, ta’en their pin frae the wa’

Blew oot their Glennies and slippit awa

Then wee Jimmy Donald and auld Davie Brown

Hae ta’en their last ride frae Skares tae the toon

Auld Mungo Duncan, Tam Phillips an a’

Hae gaen the same gait an slippit awa

Jimmy Holland, Wull Torbett an auld Baldy Hodge

Wee Johnny Morrison, Joe Rutherford, the belles

Michael, Jim Johnstone, Tam Campbell an Graw

Wull an Jim Kelly, a’ deid an awa

The douce Aggie Shirkie, sae patient an kind

Jeannie Lochead ta’en awa in her prime

Wee Maggie Rutherford sae brisk an braw

Like the flooers o’ the forest are a’ deid an awa

It was posted through the door just after Tottie died and the minister read out at his funeral

WEE TOTTIE

Nellie Shirkie and Geordie too

There never was a finer two

For whit you did for wee Sam

Wis for beyond the wit o’ man

You took him into your humble hame

No for money no for gain

It wis for love and nae ither

Could have been a finer mither.

I use to meet him in the street

He’d look down at his nate wee feet

A tear wid fau fae oot his eye

Aye Nellie Shirkie’s guid tae me

Tae the kirk maybe you seldom went

But better Christians ne’er were Kent

Aye Christian folk are no the tattie

They cannie make a body happy

On Sunday morning they are in the pew

One day God will ask what did you do?

No one of them could ever say

took wee Tottie for a day

And now that he has gone to rest

You did for him your very best

Your name will go in his Hall of Fame

Aye NELLIE SHIRKIE is your name.

The Poacher King (thanks to Jean Walker for typing). George Hawkie Graham 

In a miners raw, up in the mairs

in a little village, the name o’ Skares

There lived a chap o’ weel kent fame

His cronies caud him ‘Hawkie Graham’

oOo

In his young days poor folk were driven,

to beg and slave, just to make a livin

Cheap claes, bad food and seldom meat

Whiles frozen cauld, wi’ nought to eat

oOo

When greed and grasp for power existed,

Nae kindness to the poor existed,

The country’s wealth sae ill divided,

The pair folk – for the rich provided

oOo

The maisters treatment o’ the slaves

Drove countless souls to early graves,

Tae this man Hawkie, God was guid,

He gifted hm wi poachers bluid

0Oo

An lang before he left the schuil,

he helped to fit the grocers bill,

At catchin pheasants, rabbits, hares

Of knitting nets and settin snares

oOo

His equal ne’er wis gaun aboot,

He was the Poacher King, nae doot,

An mony a a hungry mooth he’d fill,

A tribute to his unborn skill.

OOo

At any form or type o’ poachin

He never needed any coachin

For sauntrin thru the fields and glens,

He’s kicked the hares richt oot their dens

0Oo

While mony a pheasant he did choke,

and mony a rabbit’s neck he broke,

His famous caurry haun an fit

Tae fill the pot hae din their bit

oOo

Frae Mill O’Fleck tae Target Hole,

His trademarks always there,

Doon thru the rocks, weel past Slatehole,

Wi forked sticks everywhere

 

Along the brae’s o Ballochmyle

Tae the runnin’ streams o Ayr

He’s plodded mony a weary mile

His feet both tired and sair.

 

oOo

O’er heather hills and rugged glens,

Wi scenery saw braw,

The Don the Tay the Dee the Spey

He’s visited them ‘a’

oOo

He’s netted many rivers frae

Their sources tae the sea,

In broad daylicht or pitch black nicht,

Sae dark ye’ couldnae see

oOo

A fine exponent o’ the craft

Nae better could ye get,

An money a salmon, grilse or troot,

He’s fankled in his net

oOo

When’er the Lugar came in spate,

Oot on the dyke he ran,

The water spraying oot his pate,

He seldom missed his man

oOo

His skill made other cleekers hate him

They hid’na got the speed to bate him,

And any yin that wid be master,

Unsually ended wae disaster.

OOo

Wae a neat wee shove, and well aimed bit,

They rummilt tummilt, tae the fit

At fishing wae the smiddy flee,

Set line or bead an a’

There’s mony and angler envied him

As master o’ them a’

oOo

Nivh after nicht, they’ve plodded hame,

Scunnert thru and thru

Whilst in their baskets there wis nane,

His wis reemin foo.

Ooo

And tho mony a pheasant, rabbit, hare,

Has ended up as roast,

Accordin tae statistics known

The fish did suffer most

oOo

For not content wi killin’ them

He made them cannibals as well,

Wi feedin them big chunks o’ bead,

He made them eat theirsel

oOo

The police and Judges honoured him,

In their own respective ways,

Wi’ money or their holiday camp

Ten bob or thirty days.

OOo

And yince or twice thru oot the year,

When he, went oan a spree,

He’d spend a nicht or twa wi’them

His Bed and Breakfast free

oOo

Wi’ the fishin season nearly gone,

The king had business in his haun,

He donned a pair o’ his auldest breeks,

The picked the sherpest o’ his cleeks,

oOo

Off he set wi a’ his pith,

Tae the upper reaches o’ the Nith,

Where torchligh scenes on thos occasions,

Looked mair like Blackpool illuminations.

OoO

Fillin his poke wi’ salmon bellies,

He made a B line straight for Nellies,

 Oan his way hame he checked his snares,

Finally arrivin back at Skares

oOo

Spendin his time the next few days,

Spreadin his bead tae dry on trays,

Tho’ he preserved it a’ his sell,

His secret cure he wid’na tell,

oOo

Then a month before the season started

A procession fromSkares departed,

They caud at Proberts for a dram,

Then through the fields tae Ochiltree dam.

oOo

Where mony a happy hoor was spent,

At this poachers big event,

The Poacher King wis there hissel’

Wi Ned an Rab an Bulk as well,

oOo

Fat Dye, big Wull an a’ that creed,

A’ professionals wae the bead,

They booked their stances in their turn

Fae Burnock mooth tae Tilework burn.

OOo

They kennelt fires wi’ piles o wid,

Tae bile their drums and heat their bluid,

The king then took an auld payslip,

Oot frae the pocket o’ his hip

oOo

He held it up, an then began,

To read the rules tae every man,

Noo Gentlemen dae we a’ agree,

Tae bar – the minnow, worm and flea.

OOo

An ony yin caught fishin fair,

His punishment will be severe,

Its written here and clearly stated,

That a’ his bead is confiscated

oOo

As each man put on his lead,

He issued them wi’ jars o bead,

At every cast you heard the plump,

As it struck the watter wi’ a thump,

 

oOo

Then thy a’ sat doon beneath the trees,

Tae reekit tea an scone an cheese,

Their scarves tied up aroon their lugs,

They ate their piece and watched for chugs,

An’ every noo an then a batter,

As rod tips dipped below the water,

oOo

But time goes on’and dark mus fa,

Twas time to pack and make awa,

As each man emptied oot his catch,

They piled it up in yin big batch

oOo

Then up throug Penny tae the Skares,

Where a’ folk got their equal shares,

Most birds o’ prey that were his freen,

Congregated near the scene

oOo

The Buuzards, hawks and hoodie craws,

Came glidin doo in yins and twa’s,

Wi polished beaks and sherped claws

Their breakfast laid aboot the raws,

oOo

Every year frae far and near,

The fermers held their binges,

They hooched and swung and leapt and sprung

Till doors fell aff their hinges,

oOo

As fiddles groaned and squeaked and squealed,

And dancers jumped and jigged and reeled,

Till it looked just like the Derby field,

Bumpin and borin bawling and roarin,

 

OoO

John Barleycorn wis doing his stuff

As they began tae blaw and puff,

Things were getting’ kinda rough,

And whiles quite ootrageous,

That ony lass that ventured near,

Wis really quite courageous,

oOo

They wet their thumbs, pulled up their breeches,

Grabbed their partner an’clung like leeches,

Then geein some loups and lettin oot screeches,

Frichted the wits oot o Alloway witches,

oOo

As the dance raged on weel through the nicht,

They hooched and swung wi’ a’ their micht,

Their big spley feet scythed left an’ richt,

Tae ony tune at a’

While dung flew aff their ootsized bits,

and plastert evey wa’

oOo

At last the MC caud a halt,

And bade them a’ sit doon,

Twas time tae hae an interval,

Cos tea wis comin’ roon,

oOo

They a’ went quiet oot thru the hall,

As they recognised the soons,

For every time they held a ball,

The poacher did nis roons,

oOo

But Barleycorn now held their sway,

So they drank his health and a’,

And hoped they wid ne’er see the day,

He should gang awa’,

oOo

For though he stretched a neck or twa,

Werever he had been,

They saved tenfold in hay and straw,

And their grass grew longer green.

OOo

Noo poachers are human like the rest,

They like a nicht oot, donned up in their best,

So a’ gether fur the ball,

Held in the local village hall.

OOo

The king as usual took the chair,

An welcomed everybody there,

He hoped they’d a’ enjoy their fling,

Get oan their shanks and dance and sing

 

 

oOo

Wi tables set most everthing,

A banquet fitted for a king,

He bade thema’ tae take their fill,

Cause at the end there was nae bill,

oOo

Chicken broth and bugler soup,

Taken from the Marquis’s coop,

Roasted partridge, rabbit pie,

An loads o’ snicesters there forbye,

Tatties, carrots and turnip tae,

Howked fae the field the previous day.

OOo

Salmon smoked and pickled troot,

The net marks still aroon their snoot,

Whisky, gin and beer galore,

Missing frae the pub next door,

And legs o’ lamb locally reared,

Wha frae their flocks had disappeard.

oOo

But before the start o, operations,

the king read oot the presentations,

First prize went tae big Wull Reid,

A hame made gaff, twa jaros o bead,

Second and third tae Ned and Rabby,

A case of beer tae keep them happy,

oOo

The special for the heaviest troot,

Wis held back tae some dispute,

Wee Bulk got up and solmenly swore,

That his wis caugh the nicht before

oOo

The speeches bye, they start the doo,

They eat and drink till their a’ foo

As music echoes through the hall,

They raise their glass and toast tae him,

The man who catered for the Ball,

:Hawkie Graham: The Poacher King,

oOo

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Tee Cee is Thomas Cockburn  

He was a bus driver at the time/

Tee Cee is Thomas Cockburn

by Thomas Cockburn

THE CUMNOCK BOYS
Theres’s an auld thacket hoose for lang years has stood,
We’el sheltered at the end o’ a big fir wood
Through the wood a wee lade winds its way doon,
Tae the auld mill dam where the whins whiles get broon,
Noo, Johnnie Gibson lang stayed in that hoose,
Wi three sons a dochter and a wife kind and douce,
In my youth, many happy ‘oors I did spend
Playing and roving, wi’ the boys of Woodend.
There was’na a hoose roon the hale countryside,
Where ony man lieved in and took sic a pride
The hoose was we’el thacket, a straw ne’er was seen
On the we’el soopet close that aye looket clean
A we’el keepit gairden wi fluers looket braw
Big, black and red currants grew thick on the wa’
The branches wi apples and plums they did bend
on the trees at the auld thacket hoose o Woodend.
The Glaisnock wee burnie gangs rinnin close by
When us boys got tired by its side we wid lie
For minnows and beardies we’d guddle the burn
We kent every stane in’t, we kent every turn
There was scarcely a nest ere built on the trees
But we kent as we’el as the wasps and the bees
Gie often big holes in o’or troosers we’d rend
Wi climbing the trees wi the boys o Woodend.
Ah noo whit a change has come ower the place
It wad maist mak the tears tae rin doon your face
Auld Johnnie, his guid wife sons and dochters at rest
In the land o their faithers where they are blest,
The Gibsons are oot, newcomers are there
The place is neglected an’ a things look bare
On a richt guid welcome yin aye could depend
In lang bye gone days in the hoose at Woodend

Hugh Anderson Cameron

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From The Herald Magazine

Ayrshire poet Rab Wilson introduces today’s choice. “Johnny Stariski was in charge of the powder magazine (supply of explosives for blasting purposes underground) at the Barony Colliery, Auchinleck, in the mid/late 1970s early 80s, when I worked there. His family emigrated to Scotland before the First World War, when there was a huge influx of Poles to Scotland. His family had been boot and shoemakers.

Johnny was of short stature – but possessed of a marvellous physique. In the 1960s he had followed the famous Charles Atlas body building course and was also a champion high-board diver. These attributes no doubt played a part when Johnny did his famous handstand on the top girder of the Barony Colliery ‘A’ Frame at Auchinleck (now a monument to the Ayrshire coal-mining industry).

Johnny in 2017 photo by Laura McMeekin for CHG

I have a filmed conversation with Johnny where he tells his story of this remarkable happening. It is this actual event that is celebrated in my poem, The Great Stariski.

The Great Stariski

(A legend o the Barony Colliery)

The Great Stariski maks his entrance bow,

Poised oan the Cross-beam o the vast ‘A’ Frame;

He aiblins sees imaginary crowds,

Gawpin at his daith-defyin stunts.

Mair’s a hunner feet up in the air,

Nae spider’s wab o safety-net is strung,

Tae sauf him frae unsocht oblivion.

The Great Stariski luiks tae aa the airts,

Sic magick tricks depend upon their ritual,

An curtly bobs tae each pynt o the compass;

Tae the north, Ben Lomond’s silhouette,

Tae the west, Goat Fell oan Arran’s isle,

Tae the east, ayont Muirkirk, Cairn Table,

Tae the sooth, Sweet Afton’s bonny glen.

The Great Stariski birls an pirouettes,

Then, tae admirin glances frae ablow,

Syne gangs tapselteerie, heelstergoudie,

Stauns oan his haunds, disdainfu o the risks,

An lauchs oot lood in life-affirmin joy

At aa thae wee black specks doun oan the grunn.

The Great Stariski, balanced oan his girder,

Seems tentless o his parlous circumstance;

Up here he’s free, can rax an touch the heivins,

An feel the wuin an rain upon his face.

The Great Stariski leeves athin the moment,

Taks in his queer inversion o the warld,

Syne wi some skeelie dancer’s gracefu mien,

Lichtlies doun as saft as thistledown;

Dichts doun his stoorie, creashy overalls,

Sets at a jaunty sklent his auld pit helmet,

Recoups his yirdlie equilibrium,

Descends the ledder – an’s mortal aince agane.

Rab Wilson

Alexander Barrowman 1842-1913 on Cumnock Connections

The Stevensons were tenants of Avisyard in 1891 and 1901 censuses.

Reproduced in the Cumnock Chronicle in 1931, photographed by Bobby Grierson

Oor Madgie’s family

Tho I’m far away frae Scotland

Tho I’m far across the sea

I’ve memories o Cumnock

As I backward cast an e’e

And among the folk in Cumnock

That in memory I scan

There is a happy family

Led by Madgie and her man

An I enjoyed each moment

To be dull there’s no excuse

For there’s always fun and laughter

In our Madgie’s house

The eldest yin is Annie

She’s small and trim and light

An she’s just like her granny

For her name is Annie White

Next to her is Nessie

She’s also away wee

In character and appearance

I think she’s just like me

Then there’s Madgie’s eldest boy

I’m awfie prood o him

A credit to the family

Is Oor Madgie’s Jim

I’ve great pride in the second boy

And Douglas is his name

And every time I see him

My faither lives again

I’ll no forget another yin

An aw his carry on

A loveable wee rascal

Is oor Madgie’s John

Then there’s Bobby and there’s Ian

The youngest of them a’

They are so fu’ o fitba

They break the Sunday law

But playing on a Sunday

Is no crime I can see

For as long as they enjoy themselves

That’s all that counts by me

With many thanks I write these line

For every kindness shown

By a’ oor Madgie’s family

Tae their Uncle John

Written about 1925 when the Council had plans to move the cross

To the Cumnock Cross

Auld Cumnock Cross! We ken ye fine,
Your steps are worn by Faither Time;
Wi’ you oor freenship we aye seal,
Nae maitter though the cauld we feel:
On Hogmanay at twal o’clock
We staun below the Auld Kirk nock,
An’ wi’ a hottle in oor haun
We drink tae freenship ower the laun.

It’s no sae very long ago
Oor Bailies said that you maun go;
Since motors no the Kirk go roon,
They couldna hae you in oor toon:
An’ made tae shift you oot your place
As if you had been in disgrace.
They thocht that they couldna be seen,
And clean forgot aboot McQueen.

Oor Doctor, whae we ca’ McQueen –
Nae better doctor could be seen –
He heard the Cross was in a plight;
Says he, “By jings. for you I’ll fight;
Though Bailie’s heids are made o’ wid,
I’ll tak’ frae them a pint o’ bluid;
Tho’ a’ the Bailies should start greetin’,
O’ toonsfolk I will ca’ a meetin’.”

I met him on the meetin’ nicht,
He left his rooms, took tae the richt,
An’ up Munn’s Brae he went wi’ speed,
The sweat was drappin’ aff in beads.
Whaur he was gaun he ne’er let on,
A big, thick stick was in his haun,
His lips were movin’ awfu’ quick
As on the wa’ he tried his stick.

The Toon Hall could haud nae mair
The time the Doctor took the chair;
The Bailies on the platform shook,
They meant McQueen’s big stick tae jouk:
For noo he met them face to face,
An’ saw each ane kept in their place,
An’ telt them that they a’ kent fine
The Cross was built wi’ Benston lime.

He made them leave the Cross alane,
An’ daured them touch a single stane;
He swore that motors must steer clear,
Or else frae him they sune would hear;
An’ sent the Bailies tremblin’ hame –
He daured ony ane tae try again;
The “vandals” were very gled tae get oot,
They thocht McQueen meant bluid, nae doot.

We gie the Doctor a’ oor thanks
For cuttin’ short the Bailie’s pranks;
It didna tak’ him long tae settle
They wadna mak’ the Cross road metal.
An’ may he aye hae time tae spare
Tae view the Auld Cross in the Square;
For though it noo is auld an’ worn,
Tae save the Cross the Doctor’s sworn.

My town, is a green town (but no a “Fuck the Queen” town),

It’s a tree in every scene town, wae gairdens freshly dug.

That’s green that pours from every crack, through pavements, viaducts, fitba parks,

 where men who suffer heart attacks, go walks wae three legged dugs.

My town, is a blue town a “who the fuck are you” town,

what school did you go to town and are you one of us?

That’s blue that seeps through doors and walls,

from pubs and bookies, village halls,

where men would guard old Derry’s walls, instead o’ guardin us.

My town was once a red town, another miner dead town,

a men who fought and bled town, wae brave and stalwart wives.

That’s red that came from meeting rooms, from folk that worked the pumps and looms,

when borough bands played different tunes, and marched – for better lives.

But now my town’s a grey town, a fifty mils a day town,

a watch life slip away town, a tunnel wae nae light.

That’s grey that weeps from dying eyes, bewildered parents, children’s cries, wae skinny erms and stick like thighs, and nae strength left – tae fight!

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