My dad was a great speaker of Lallans Scots. Some of his words reminded me of the German I was taught at school: dochter (tochter) for daughter; kirk (kirche) for church, and so on. Other words I've come to realize were more Scandinavian: flit (move house) and braw (great) and bairn (child) similar to the Swedish flytta, bra and barn, for example.
Still other words he used were maybe pure Lallans: bow-hough'd (bow-legged), and slew-e'en (squint-eyed) were favourites of his I never heard used by anyone else.
And so too, dirl: to vibrate, or tingle, and listed in the dictionary as being used in Scotland and the north of England. The sonnet below records, I guess, the last time I remember him using it.
When we broke up the patio, that last good summer,
you tried to hide your smile as I swung my pick
and the earth kicked back. Dirling, you called it:
arms pranged, handle made so illogically hot
I had to drop it. Later, you used the same word
for treatments turning hands and feet opaque:
after you'd lost bulk, grown wings in back, absurd
hollows at neck, face. That day you surveyed
the patio's brute rectangle, took a brush and swept
dust to its edges. I joked at the housekeeping:
Stoor absorbs shock, you said. I swept, in the end.
You wedged, undermined with sticks too thin.
Tap it there, you said. And the solid concrete split
like dropped chalk. In an hour, a field of rubble.
Published in Magma 53.
My novel The Last of us was published by The Borough Press in April 2016.