WHEN CHARLIE Reynolds moved from his native North Antrim to Coleraine as a child, it was like entering a different world.
"I didn't know any other way of speaking apart from Ulster-Scots," he says. "People laughed at the way I spoke and gradually I lost touch with the language."
Since rediscovering Ulster-Scots decades later, Reynolds has been an active writer of rhymes, thus helping to revive a rural literary tradition that goes back to the Weaver Poets of the 18th and 19th centuries. The poem (left) and its translation are his work.
Although a grammar and dictionary of Ulster-Scots exist, the vernacular has no standardised written form and the spelling of words varies according to regional preference.
"In the past, it was treated as a gutter language," says Reynolds. "Today, people have to be shown that they can be proud of Ulster-Scots."
Up tha rodden is taken from Charlie Reynolds' 2005 collection Mae Granfeyther's Tunge (My Grandfather's Tongue) published by Ullans Press.
Up tha rodden Up the lane into a turf bog
A tuk a wak tha ither deh
Oot ower tha oul moss rodden,
Tae hae a luk at tha wye things ir
Whaur aft mae fit haes trodden
Whun aye wus joost a wee bit wean
Mae Granda's han' I'd tak,
An' doon tha rodden wae wud danner
Tae hes aul bink - an bak
But maun ye widna ken it noo
It's naw lak it wus bak then,
Nae primrose dake tae greet mae een
An' a sa' nae Jinnie Wren
Nae damsel flies birled bye mae heid
In their coats sae bricht an' blue,
Nae snipe zig -zagged oot ower tha ling
A cannae believe its true
Anither thing that wusnae there
In this tha lan' o' peat
Wuz a tha yins wha wrocht sae hard
Tae keep their hoose in hat
An tae think that this hes heppened
In mae ain shoart time doon here,
Wae joost destroy a Nature gies
Withoot ony thocht ir fear
Am gled mae Granda's een ir spared
Frae this place sae deid o' life,
That in hes deh wuz a bissy place
An fowk wur free frae strife
An whun a luk at haes oul peat spaid
It's a priceless thing tae hae,
For it taks mae bak tae better times
Nae odds whit ithers sae
I took a walk the other day
Out over the old bog lane
To have a look at the way things are
Where often my feet have walked
When I was just a little child
My grandfather's hand I would take
And down the bog lane we would wander
To his old turf cutting area and back
But mind you would not know it now
It's not the way it was back then
No primrose bank to greet my eyes
And I saw no Jenny Wren
No damsel flies flew past my head
In their coats so bright and blue,
No snipe zig-zagged out over the bog
I cannot believe it's true
Another thing that was not there
In this the land of turf
Was the ones who worked so hard
To keep their house in heat
And to think that this has happened
In my own short time down here,
We just destroy all Nature gives
Without any thought or fear
I am glad my grandfather's eyes are spared
From this place so dead of life,
That in his day was a busy place
And folk were free from strife
And when I look at his old spade
It's a priceless thing to have,
For it takes me back to better times
Regardless of what others say