Pittendrigh MacGillivray

James Pittendrigh Macgillivray wis ain of Scotland's maist important sculpters bit, anaa, he scrievit poems thit are o affa rare significance tae the Nor-East an tae the Doric.

James Pittendrigh Macgillivray (1856-1938) wis ain of Scotland's foremaist sculpters. He wis a member o the Royal Scottish Academy an, in 1921, wis appintit Sculpter-in-Ordinary tae His Majesty the King. He wis also a makar, pinter, print-maker and photographer.

MacGillivray wis born in Inverurie tae a femily connekit wi Old Rayne, Clatt and Forgue and his fowk are spaken aboot in Helen Beaton's buik 'At the back o Benachie'. His granfadder wis a weel-kent vet in nineteenth hunnereers Aiberdeenshire.

He servit his time wi a sculpter in Embra an efter got lairnt be John Mossman in Glesgae. He wis the ainly sculpter tae be pairt o the Glesgae Boys skweel o airtists. In the 1890s he wint back tae bide in Embra - in Murrayfield Road - far he bed the rest o his days.

MacGillivray's public warks are weel-kent, like his statue o Rabbie Burns in Irvine, an his famous statue o John Knox in St Giles and the Gladstone memorial it Coates Crescent Gardens.

He scrievit birkie poetry in his native Doric an taen oot twa volumes, Pro Patria in 1915 and Bog Myrtle and Peat Reek in 1922. Baith volumes are richt bonnie fir their printing, typography an layoot.
Hugh MacDiarmid hid a pucklie o MacGillivray's warks in his anthology Northern Numbers.

THE NORLAN FIDDLE

MacGillivray's The Norlan Fiddle is ain o the maist profoond suppies o varse aboot the mither toung an aboot the heirskip o the nor-east. He gits yokit we the greetin and aften spaken o coronach aboot the heirskip deein oot.

They say our fiddle's auld an' deen…

An then he gings on tae quo:

But, na! I'll nae believe't just yet

BARDS HAE VRUTTEN GRACIOUS LINES

He gings on tae spik aboot mony o the maist weel-kent scrievers in Doric.

But Bards I wat we've had sin' syne
Hae vrutten mony a gracious line.

He spiks aboot William Thom, the Inverurie makar, William Alexander, Charles Murray "Hamewith", Mary Symon an Violet Jacob.

Whar Urie winds to meet the Don
And Bennachie towers up ayon,
There poet Thom his pity won;

There's wheedlin', sleekit Charlie Murray....

At Pittyvaich the distaff side
Essays the strings wi' native pride..

An' och, we're near eneuch to claim
Yon pawky lass wi' he'rt aflame,
That sings the Mearns; we needna shame

BAIRN TIME WORDS BIDE GREEN

Bit he feenishes we his love the wirds he wis brocht up we an foo they bide lang in the hert.

Nae farrer back, tho' in atween
The snaws o' fifty year I've seen;
But aye the bairn-time words bide green
At he'rt o's a';
And Buchan braid or Garioch keen,
They hamewith dra'.

They say our fiddle's auld an' deen,
Or neen o's now that kens the teen
O' Lallans Scots or Aiberdeen
To kittle up
And prink the thing as ticht an' keen
As crack o' fup.

But, na! I'll nae believe't just yet,
That a' oor loons hae tint the wit
To stent the strings in tune to fit
Our native Muse--
Tho' she's a mark that's ill to hit,
Ye may jalouse.

Our genius o' Strathspeys an' Reels
Has nae a peer for lichtsome heels;
And nyod, her e'en are just twa deils
At sklintin' throu'
The tricks and shifts that men an' feels
Wad gar ye trow.

The sleeest pawky queyn is she,
Wi' merry glints, but nae owre free:
Aye slow to fecht, but dour's can be
When teeth are set:
And neen I ken mair trig to see
That taks the gate.

The first to string our Norlan' fiddle,
An' bowin fore an' aft the middle,
Gars grave an' gay play jink and diddle
Wi' variorum,
Was he that did our moods unriddle
In 'Tullochgorum.'

Whar Nor-East win's sae bitter bla',
An' Nature bids to stan' or fa',
He set a creed o' worth for's a'
In that ae lyric
That Rhymer Rab vowed "best o' a'"
For panegyric.

But Bards I wat we've had sin' syne
Hae vrutten mony a gracious line
In honour o' the Sacred Nine;
And for our Muse
There's aye been lads to deck the shrine
And fill her cruse.

Whar Urie winds to meet the Don
And Bennachie towers up ayon,
There poet Thom his pity won;
And not in vain
The string that thrill't sall aye thrill on
In tender pain.

And Alexander--be't in prose;
Our fiddle's gamut shrewdly knows;
In native humours, quips and woes
He's farest ben,
And by some wizard gift he shows
The fouk we ken.

There's wheedlin' sleekit Charlie Murray,
He tigs the strings wi' funny hurry
Till kittlan rhymes flee roun' and scurry
Wi' cantrip words
That jouk an' jink an' baffle worry,
Wi' lauchin dirds.

At Pittyvaich the distaff side
Essays the strings wi' native pride,
And ardent moods the chords fling wide
To vaunt the fame
O' loons that bled on field and tide
In Scotland's name.

An' Och, we're near eneuch to claim
Yon pawky lass wi' he'rt aflame,
That sings the Mearns; we needna shame
For twa sic e'en
To twyn yon "horseman" o' the game
He has na seen.

But hoot!--I'm nae to name them a'
That screw the pins an' lilt awa'
On our auld Strad--fouk mauna bla'
An' reese their ain--
Gin they be fechtin' cocks they'll cra'
Abeen disdain.

Na fy!--our fiddle's nae gaen deen,
Nor hae we lost our native teen;
Nae farrer back than gin the streen
Was said and sung--
Or Mem'ry doited chaets me clean--
The Mither Tongue.

Nae farrer back, tho' in atween
The snaws o' fifty year I've seen;
But aye the bairn-time words bide green
At he'rt o's a';
And Buchan braid or Garioch keen,
They hamewith dra'.

A WOMAN IN THE STREET

Ain o MacGillivray's maist striking poems.

O bonnie lad wi’ the kilt sae braw
An’ tossel’t sporran swingin’ –
Wi’ dirk at the hip, an’ ribbons rid;
Ye set my hert a-singin’.

What are ye like that’s brave an’ fine! –
The Muir-cock or the Eagle?
Your bonnet sets just like a comb,
Your pride is like the deevil!

Och! Sair I grudge ye to the trenches, lad:
Few flesh an’ bane are like ye;
Your knees are hard, your e’en are clean –
For you I’d fecht – God strike me!

Ye wanton rogue! but I love your swing,
An’ weel I guess your fettle!
For a swatch o’ you I’d face my bit –
Proud to beget sic metal.

But there he goes; wi’ never a glance:
To that damned hell in Flanders.
My gift is nocht – his seed gangs waste –
Curse on the cause that squanders!

Squanders the wealth of Scotland’s kind,
In their high day and flower,
While we wha hae the grace to save
Stand Kirk-denied Love’s dower.

Fir Macgillivray foo his buiks o varse lookit wis jist as important than the wirds themsels. Baith Pro Patria and Bog Myrtle and Peat Reek were producet tae the heichmaist aesthetic standarts. He bathert himsel aboot the kyne o the paper, the typeface, the layoot, the capitals, aa tae mak warks o the rarest quaality.

A heidmaist thing fit Gweed Wirds his deen is tae digitis Bog Myrtle and Peat Reek be Pittendrigh MacGillivray. Syne, es buik wis only iver publisht privately an wisna caaed aboot braidly. Baith the poems an the buik itsel are worthy of bein mair kent.