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Name: Kenneth McLaughlin 10/29/2006
Email: kenneth.mclaughlin@free.fr
Hamepage: 
URL: http://
Airtit bi: Juist comin ower it.
Airt: Grate

Its a boot time we saw some scots oan the net. Whit aboot 
teaching it in Scools.am soary aboot the speeling bit am 
riting phoentically (shoold that be wit a F). The scunners in 
Parlement tolk aboot oor culture bit they think that its a wee 
bit backward to speek in oor oan tongue


Name: jimk47 10/28/2006
Email: jimk47@hotmail.co.uk
Hamepage: 
URL: http://
Airtit bi: A Sairch Ingine.
Airt:

Ah'm a bit disappointed at the ower abundance o doric an 
lallans ah feel that the sots o the cities particlarlie that o the 
west central belt is still seen as less authentic than the ithir 
dialects o the language


Name: Teresa Miksch 10/25/2006
Email: mixfam@gci.net
Hamepage: 
URL: http://
Airtit bi: Juist comin ower it.
Airt: History of English

Our professor, Dr. Jennifer Ritter, asked us to visit your sight 
as part of our homework for our History of English class.  We 
will begin studying Scots on Thursday, October 26, 2006.  
We live in Alaska and attend the University of Alaska 
Anchorage.

Thanks for a wonderful site.


Name: Reet Ernits 10/15/2006
Email: reet.ernits@mail.ee
Hamepage: 
URL: http://
Airtit bi: A Freend.
Airt:

Keep going, fellows, with your auld prood Scots! I love all 
people who are trying to keep auld customs and languages 
alive. My Estonian language is a small language, too,so I 
understand you really. I am a big fan of Scotland;if you do 
well,I´ll be happy.Scots Wha Hae!


Name: Sabrina Feld 9/28/2006
Email: sabrin_fel@ecosse.com
Hamepage: 
URL: http://
Airtit bi: Juist comin ower it.
Airt:

Hello to all of you in bonnie Scotland!
Cannot speak a word of your language, but to say hello I have 
left you a poem.

A Hand at Poker


I’d married a preacher – 
A man of little faith.
Come chapel he’d lay me
down the law prior putting
his blessed hands on me:
his favourite old girl.
But I worshipped him –
this vested god!

Leaving me another morn
no rent for us wicked.
Watered milk down his kids,
washed donnies dried up
on bested drawn blinds.
Curse me the day I’d leave.
Tender to his thrice born,
polly up my grate, even
swear my head in the oven.

Till six – and the homecoming.
Patient with the dinnies.
Thanking of all we’re ‘bout
to receive. Pounding cages,
silent running. Sung aloud as we’d lock arms together – 
stirring up tea stained ambience
permeating our airless room.

Night. Outside the tempest,
inside the heart’s thunder.
Storming, cast over.
Much doing ‘bout nothing.
Future always would have.
Lives a’ready outlived,
instancing of things to come.
Leaving me for another morn,
things dark in our family.

2am. Lying a’rest. Settee
laden with depthless stares
at pink and blue balloons
hogging the lampshade ceiling.
Kids in jamas on the porch
 - son of fits; a girl too
gay to roam the rows ‘n’ bothers.
Cups of piping char
spilled up the blinds.
Storm at the back door –
god in the kitchen.
Red neck rage.

Give the dog a bone.
It just flew across –
living to coalhouse door!
Char fell to floor.
Front door, gaping – knowing!
Three steps beyond,
carting angels past
courtroom houses, hidden neighbours darkening streets.
Eyes rummaging for curtains drawn,
bodies wading through accusing floods.

Scrambling the ivory safe clock tower,
refuge ‘neath war torn worn stone.
My crying angel voicing he’ll
take care of me.
Don’t yo worry me love,
better off without him.
The rows ‘n’ bothers.
Think I’ve killed him this time.

I’d heard tell the sirens came flashing all night-time –
six of ‘em turned outside
- tight-fisted with the coppers.
Carted him off did them.
I’m best shot of him.

Jus’ me ‘n’ the kids now
in powers’ charity home.
No rent for us wicked,
space in which to breathe.
Dog’s in a home.
None more god almighty
pursuing our every move.
Vacuuming the tatty rugs.
Gaming on the Pools.
Our old place is so empty now
- without him.




By Sabrina Kirsty Feld.
Yr 2 The Creative Forum


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