Location: A Whilom nimble brain. With 31 million posts.
Age: 73
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Writing Scottish–speak Ach aye the noo
This book wat I rote.
When time permits, I'm still slogging on with me novel.
A new character, a Scottish doctor, has appeared on the scene, and my attempts at making him speak with a broad accent are failing. Can anyone help with Scottish–speak, in the written form of course.
Use of the apostrophe is not as obvious as I had thought either.
I'm not confident that even in McAllen and Edinburg (yep, correct spelling) here in Tx professional editors will give convincing spelling for dialect.
Not sure if the Jockistanis ever developed a written language, but of you preface every sentence with "See me Jimmy" your readers should get the message.
For Irish characters preface dialog with "Beggorah" For Welsh "Look You" For Jewish Peeps,end the sentence with "allready" Scandyhooligans characters , preface with "Yumping Yimminy" For American black characters insert the phrase "Know what I'm saying" betwixt every three words.
For black American Irish Jewish welsh characters, with Scottish blood
"Beggorah! look you! know what I'm saying already, Jimmy"
The "see you see me" idiom is, I'd say, West coast rather than universal, but Dr draper is right: it will give your work something of a Scottish flavour. It will be a spurious flavour, though, as speech in Scotland as in England is an indicator of many things, not just Scottishness.
I once worked in a large Canadian corporation that employed several Polish ex WW2 pilots and others. Many of these chaps were very able. The president wanted to promote one, but his accent and skills in English were just awful. The president consulted another of the Poles, and wondered if remedial English training would help at all. The other fellow laughed and said: "You think he's bad in English! He's ten times worse in Polish!"
So it is with all from the UK. The accent and idioms may locate a person's geographical origins but more surely will tell you a great deal about, forgive me, his "social origins". People at the corporation just mentioned would observe that I was from Scotland and Mactavish was from Scotland, but Mactavish and I spoke very differently. Why so? I would put it down to "location of origin". The truth would have been as with the Polish fellow: I speak middle class Scots, Mactavish had the tones of "ra Gallowgate" (more accurately "Galla'gate")(not the most fashionable address in Glasgow).
As it happens, I have worked, hourly-paid, in factories and on farms in Scotland and I am "multilingual Scots". I can discuss "ra barra'land" with a Glaswegian (if the Barrowland still exists)and "a curran oats" with a Forfar loon, but if I spoke to them as I would at a meeting of PPRuNe, they would know me right away as not one of them.
So it is with your Scottish doctor. Most probably he would speak English. His accent certainly would differ from that of an Englishman, but he would not speak any of the vomit-inducing idioms, "Hoots Toots!", "See you, see me", "Haw Jimmy", "A braw bricht moonlicht nicht", "Ham'n'haddie", Harry Lauderisms that foreign writers of fiction, and evidently you too, would put in his mouth.
In short, a Scottish doctor would be, statistically, quite middle class. If you wished to flag to the reader that your doctor character is English, would you attempt that through his endearing speech pattern: "Oy, Guv! Oi nevvah said nuffink loike that! Strike me! Bloimey! That's a load of cobbler's, squire".
Ah Yes! a typical English physician. I think not. So with a Scottish physician. Aye! Aye! Mmmmphm!
"Help ma Boab" is exactly what I mean. It exists only in the "Sunday Post", as does "Crivvens".
Take any of the advice above, save mine, and your doctor will be as genuine as a three-dollar bill. Trust me on this.
For a genuine insight into a "Scottish eccentric" accent, albeit a bit dated, try "Farewell, Miss Julie Logan" by Sir J M Barrie. I do, though, find Barrie and the whole kailyaird school too (gulp!) "pawky" for my taste, ye .... Ah! ... ken?
Ah the Broons and Wullie, bro and self used to get the annual every christmas,that and the Buffallo Bill Wild West Annual ,with the Character Tom Dick and Harry, hmmm, one wonders if one can still get the Buffalo Bill annual. One's GP for thirty odd years was Doctor Wallace a fine gentlemen of Scottish origin,he had a posh Scottish accent,always had a small cigar in hs mouth or hand, even when he leaned over one's childhood sickbed, the smell of a cigar always reminds me of Doctor Wallace,we had proper GPs in those days ,had to go into Hospital for a operation when I was 8 years old,he came in to see me every day on the ward, can't see this new lot doing that. Another weird thing 99% of engineers at sea seemed to be Scotsmen.
So it was, Dr Draper. The Davaar ancestors came lang syne from Sutherland and found work in a new industry, just then starting up: building "iron ships" on the Clyde. For generations they either built them or sailed in them as engineers. I am thought to "look like" (a Divine gift, like Grace, that may be enjoyed but never earned) my great-grandfather Willie Neill, for years a blue water chief, and latterly chief in Macbrayne's RMS Columba. Of late, the blood has thinned and we push pens.
P.S. ___________________ a guy called Welsh!! ___________________
Which means, oddly enough, Farrell, that he is Irish (or his origins were; amounts to the same thing, of course).
Sailed on eleven ships in me time and worked by a few others, every one had a Scottish Chief Engineer,yer got to know the chiefy well as he was also always the ships barber,want a haircut?,see the Chief Engineer,dunno how this tradition came about,many strange traditions at sea, frinstance the Chief Cook was always addressed as doctor or Doc, yet twas the Chief Stewards job to do any doctoring,although that usualy consisted of a spoonfull of Board Of Trade cough medicine for probs above the belt,and a swig of Board of Trade Stomach mixture for any medical prob below said belt.
"Sair maun ye greet, but hoot awa! There's muckle yet, love isna' a'-- Nae more ye'll see, howe'er ye whine The bonnie breeks of Auld Lang Syne!"
Funny about the Scottish engineers. It might be the Scotch boilers they used to tend. There are plenty of Scottish doctors on ships too. All expatriate Scots seem to go on about how they'll return to auld Scotland some day (tho' it were ten thousand mile...), but they rarely do.
The ship was moored at the Tyneside Docks, along the River Thames, The Captain strode the bridge with pride; the crew were playing games. The coxwain whistled a happy tune, like the warbling of a bird, And below in the hold where the first mate was, his singing could be heard.
The crow was sitting on his nest, atop the mast so high, The binnacles were out of the bin and lying neatly by. The barnacles were stored in the barn, the compass had been wound, The crew had washed the sails that day, and spread them all around.
Aloft on the topmast part of the ship was a cabin, neatly made, Built of Mahogany, Ebon and Pine; covered with Gold and Jade. And when the crew glanced up that way, as they hurried by apace, Framed in the window they could see the Commodore’s placid face.
A tall, stern man was the Commodore, and never known to smile. Through storm and rain and thundering winds, he was placid all the while. His face never mirrored a sign of fear, anxiety or alarm; Whatever the circumstances might be, the Commodore’s face was calm.
The sun was shining bright this day, and the sky was a brilliant blue. The spindrift sparkled in white and green, and a dazzling emerald hue. And as the sun began to sink down into the western sea, The Captain clapped his hands in joy. “We sail tonight!” said he.
The Cook jumped up from his place of rest, the crew left off their games, They began to rush and bustle about with a hundred different aims. The Mates began to roar and curse; the Boatswain swained the boats, And the Cook began to boil a stew of Parsley, Beets and Oats.
The Captain watched the toiling men with happy, piquant eye. They went at their work with a will and a way, to DO, by gosh, or die. The Engineer was the only man who loafed among the crew, For the boat was run by sails alone, and he hadn’t a thing to do.
At last the Mate to the Captain came, politely touching his cap, And remarking that they were ready to sail, he then curled up for a nap. And far above this hue and cry, in a window trimmed with lace, Overlooking this scene of frantic toil was the Commodore’s placid face.
“Ahoy! Ahoy!” the Captain cried. “Avast, my lads! Heave Ho! Snap to it there, and smartly now! Look sharp about! Let’s go!” The Boatswain ran to the Captain’s side as quick as a musket shot.
“We’ll do it, sir,” he said, “if you will only tell us what!”
And then, as the sky above was dimmed by the darkening shades of night, The ship was checked and everything was tied down snub and tight. The Commodore’s placid face stared down on the crew lined up at the rail, As the Captain raised his hand and gave order, “Hoist the Sail!”
The night was dark and all was still; the lookout manned his post, The Captain lounged in his cabin aft, lunching on tea and toast. When suddenly he sprang erect; his face was white with chill, For the night was split by an eerie shriek – sharp, high-pitched, and shrill.
The Captain was astounded; his perplexity was great. He ran around in circles and a backward figure of eight. Then out of the night and into his room the Navigator rushed. His face was white with terror, and his voice was choked and hushed.
“Oh, sir! We’re doomed! We’re lost!” he said. “We all shall perish!” cried he,
“A curse is on us all,” he wailed. “The ship sailed on a Friday.”
“No, no, my lad,” the Captain said, “It’s quite all right, I know.
“We sailed upon a Thursday, ‘cause the calendar said so.”
The Navigator fell to the floor. He wailed and kicked his feet.
“The International Date Line, sir, we crossed last year with the fleet. We gained a day when we crossed the Line, and because of the South Seas trip, While it’s Thursday for all England, it is Friday for the ship!”
The Captain’s face turned white with fear; he jerked and spilled his tea.
“The word will get around,” he said. “The crew will mutiny!” And sure enough, as quick as light, the word went whizzing roun’, That the ship had sailed on Friday and was cursed, and would go down.
Some of the crew were seen to blanch, and some to grit their teeth. Two of the crew raised up the stove and crawled in underneath. The frightened Cook to a lifeboat ran, leaving the stew to burn, When all of a sudden the Watch cried “HO! I see a Thing astern!”
A few of the men ran back to the stern, but most of them ran to the bow. And one man made a slim excuse to crawl to the tip of the prow. The Captain and Mates peered out abaft and faintly could discern A dim, tremendous, threatening Shape, looming far astern.
The Coxwain jittered, and wiggled his nose in whitefaced, trembling fear, While the Third Mate scrooched his mouth around and bit his own left ear. The Cook began to screech and wail, the Boatswain paced the floor, When suddenly the Captain cried, “Be calm! Like the Commodore!”
The racket stopped; the ship was struck by silence, still and soft, While forty eyes turned upward to that cabin far aloft. And there above them, looking down, the men could faintly see, The placid face of the Commodore, as calm as he could be.
“Oh, see how calm,” the Captain said, “The Commodore appears. He weeps not, neither does he wail. He has no childish fears! His placid eye rebukes us all, and seems to say, ‘For shame! You are sailors of the Buttercup; be worthy of the name!’
“Gaze on that noble face, my men, no fear will you detect. He has no craven cowardice, he’s a man of Intellect!” A wave of courage swept the crew that they’d never felt before, And with one accord they gave three cheers! Three cheers for the Commodore!
The men began to laugh and talk, and some began to sing, And one man stuck his tongue out at the dim and misty Thing. The Captain chid them gently, and remarked with impish rue, That they’d better stop and think a bit; and figure what to do.
The First Mate said in a loud, clear voice that, as far as he could see, It seemed to him, that is, if all was what it seemed to be, In case the circumstances changed, there still remained a question. And the Crew was lost in thought a while, considering his suggestion.
When suddenly the Captain cried, “We’re not unarmed, you know! Let’s load the gun and fire it at this Thing to show it so!” With a hearty cheer the men leaped up and rushed to load the gun, Happily shouting that now, by gosh, they’d have a bit of fun.
Powder was brought; the gun was cleaned, the primer hole was fused, The Third Mate chuckled happily, and the Captain was amused. When suddenly a horrible fact was noticed by them all – They had forty pounds of powder, but they didn’t have a ball!
Despair set in; the men all moaned in misery, dark and dismal. But the Engineer shed a ray of light into the night abysmal. A dour Scot, MacWhack by name, the men had always banned him, For he spoke with such an accent, they could hardly understand him.
But now he spoke the sentence that would change his life forever, For the men all changed towards him then, and thought him wise and clever.
“Hoo weel ye ken,” he started in, “A hae na ony worrk, Gin yon vessel has nae engines. But A didnae wush tae shirrrrk,
“Sae A has spint ma worrrrkin’ time preparing ferrrr tha day, When we shud hae an engine – and on this A spint ma pay. A hae a stock o’ engine parrrrts, and gin ye’ll but gang doon, An get them, ye kin load yerrrr gun; they’rrr back abaft aboon.”
With another cheer, the men rushed down, and soon came running back, With buckets full of bolts and parts, and other engine tack. They fetched the keg of powder out and, pulling out the stopper, They dumped it all into the gun, to do the job up proper.
Then they began to fill it up with ratchets, gears and cams, Nuts and valves and boiler plate, with piston rods for rams. They packed it full and rammed it tight, so it wouldn’t spray out loose, And the Captain struck a safety match, and touched it to the fuse.
The men all watched as he lit the fuse, with open admiration, And then they stared at the sizzling fuse, in eerie fascination. The fuse burnt down to the primer’s hold, and then there came a roar, A flash of light and a gout of smoke, like they’d never seen before!
And when the smoke had blown away, the men looked aft and cheered, For the misty, terrifying Thing had completely disappeared. They walked off laughing happily, with many a merry jest, And hied themselves to the Fo’c’s’l, to get some well-earned rest.
But, strange to tell, and sad to say, when came the dim, grey dawn, The Captain peered behind the ship with a face both pale and drawn. The silent men lined up beside in horrified, sickening shock, For they’d never cast the hawsers off, and the ship was tied to the dock!
They’d raised the sails and weighed the anchor perfectly, it’s true, But none had thought to loose the ship, they’d had so much to do. And the dim, great Thing they’d shot at when they thought they were at sea, Was the handsome brownstone building which had housed the Admiralty!
The Captain and Crew all shivered and shook, with a nauseating qualm, But the Commodore, as always, was serene, unruffled, and calm. Upon his changeless face there showed no signs of doubts or fears, For the crew had never noticed, he’d been dead for fourteen years.
