Makkin a Run Fur Hit

by James Sinclair

Me neb preenks an preens
fedders wi boot polish sheen
da neb dat’ll takk dee een

We waakened i da moarnin ta clear waater aa roond,
free fae da grip o ice. Da skipper shouted his orders.
We unfurled ivery inch o canvas as we med guid speed
ta da Suderd, sailin herd afore a Norderly breeze.
We covered mile apo mile, dodgin ta port an dan ta starboard
roond aboot icy-blue bergs an snowy-white flats.

Lookin on past  da boo da ice wis gadderin  fast afore wis..
Da order wis geen  ta licht da boiler. We clambered below
an owsed da last o da coal shivel by shivel in trowe da boiler door.
Bricht yallow lowe jimpit an sparkit afore wir een.
In nae time avaa we wir cled itil wir bare backs, swaet an coal dust
runnin doon da valley o wir riggy bane ta da crack o wir erses.
An whin da coal cam finished wi balled in
shappit up aers an new sawed spars.

Pistons shot back an fore, drivin a muckle flywheel
roond an roond an roond. Da shaft below wir feet
spun in a blur as hit forced da blades o da propellor
roond an roond an roond. Wir faces glowed redd
i da glöd o da fire. I’d niver felt dis haet in aa me days.

An whin we did hit da ice, I towt da Diana wid spleet in twa.
Astarn we guid at graet pace, dan cam ahead at full speed
duntin wis clean aff wir feet. Back an fore we guid
joost ee muckle batterin ram, tryin da hammer wir wey trowe.

Da mate cam doon da trap his face trippin him
an telt wis aa ta whet. We wir stuck fur da winter.
He left wis  ta sit, wir heids in wir haands an tak
in da last haet as da embers brunt doon ta ess.