photo credit: hans s via photopin cc

My last post was extremely heavy-handed, so today I’ll give you a fun poem about how Scots would like church to be. I’d like to go on record as agreeing with them completely. Silly Wizard recorded this song some time ago and it’s available on iTunes as well as findable on youtube.

The American English translation is below the originall. The only problem is with the phrase “fuddled the bell”. I’d love to ask any Scottish readers for help on this. Technically it means “Got the bell drunk”, which doesn’t make perfect sense. The people in this parish have apparently had it with being dragged from their beds and houses to drag themselves to church for a miserable sermon. To us, “befuddled” means confused to the point of not being able to think, or talk. Are the terms perhaps related?

O, what a parish, a terrible parish,
O, what a parish is that o’ Dunkel’,
They hangit their minister, droon’d their precentor
Dang doun the steeple, and fuddled the bell.
The steeple was doun, but the Kirk was still staunin’,
They biggit a lum whaur the bell used to hang,
A stellpat they gat and they brewed Hieland whisky,
On Sundays they drank it, and ranted and sang.
O, had you but seen how graceful it lookit
To see the cramm’d pews sae socially join
Macdonald the piper stuck up in the poopit
He made the pipes skirl out music divine.
Wi’ whisky and beer, they’d curse and they’d swear
They’d argy and fecht what ye daurna weel tell
‘Bout Geordie and Cherlie they bothered fu’ rarely
Wi’ whisky they’re worse than the devil himsel’.
When the heart-cheerin’ spirit had mounted their garret
To a ball on the green they a’ did adjourn
Maids wi’ coats kilted, they steppit and liltit
When tired they shook hands, and then hame did return.
If the kirks a’owre Scotland held like social meetin’s
Nae warning’ ye’d need from a far-tinklin’ bell
For a true love and friendship wad draw ye thegither
Far better than roarin’ the horrors o’ hell.

Translation

Oh, what a parish, a terrible parish,
Oh, what a parish is that of Dunkeld,
They hanged their minister, drowned their cantor,
Damned down the steeple, and got drunk the bell.
The steeple was down, but the church was still standing,
They built a chimney where the bell used to hang,
A stillpot they got and they brewed Highland whiskey, (like for distilling)
On Sundays they drank it and ranted and sang.
Oh, had you but seen how graceful it looked,
To see the crammed pews so socially joined,
Macdonald the piper struck up in the pulpit,
He made the pipes wail out music divine.
With whiskey and beer, they’d curse and they’d swear,
They’d argue and fight what you dare not well tell.
About Geordie and Charlie? They bothered folk rarely,
With whiskey they’re worse than the devil himself.
When the heart-cheering spirit had reach a high point,
To a ball on the green they did all adjourn,
Maids with coats kilted, the stepped and lilted,
When tired they shook hands and home did return.
If the churches all over Scotland held like social meetings,
No calling you’d need from a far-tinkling bell
For a true love and friendship would draw you together,
Far better than roaring the horrors of hell.