( from Macbeth )
They’re advertised as sisters o’ the blood
that hae the second sight: ah dinna ken
if they are blood-related, or just share
a lust to bathe their arms in steaming blood
up to their sweaty oxters. If our Mam
has killed a pig, there’s barely blood enough
for uz to make our puddings syne the eldest
has taen her bucketsful — Mal’s a scrounge
for tripes and chitterlings and liver scraps
for her and for her ither self, the cat,
spitting Greymalkin. Jings, the greedy quine!
The tale is tellt she stole a wifey’s chestnuts:
angered there were sae few, she blew the husband,
master o’ the Tiger, oot tae sea
where he nigh sterved for cold and griping hunger.
Oot o’ the three, Mam’s the professional
at magicking: me and my wee brethers
appear and vanish in a smither of smoke.
Sometimes, it’s like a play: she gies us croons
and kingly robes and that, and lerns us words
to drone in ghosty voices in the dark
to frighten folk, and then they’re put to flight
in a hell of jumping fireworks. That is braw!
Sister three, though, she’s the real weirdo.
She pickles fingers, leathers lips and noses,
bottles at gibbets felons’ sweaty terror.
A tiger’s umbles hang beside the hams
(though Mammy says tis nothing of the kind).
Folk clype her the Dafty: me and the weans
cry her a curster title, oot o’ fear.
She’s Beardy Bogle far as we’re concerned.
I wish ma mither would not sort with Aunty,
but mebbe she’s as feared of her as uz.
The wee lad boasts that when he is a man
he’ll kill the Bogle! Hauld your wheesht ma bairn,
gainst she overhears and witches you
faster than Mam and Puddock can unloose.