Selected Poems
Ebenezer McIlwham
Published:1975 Edinburgh, Gordon Wright
From the Foreword
by Iain Cuthbertson
In an age when poets have come down from their garrets to become public figures, reading their lines in pubs and clubs and on television, Ebenezer McIlwham remains the classic recluse who clearly believes that the words are the man, the man himself a shadow.
He has never pressed to style himself a poet, and the modern school withholds that title from a writer whose lines have the audacity to rhyme and scan. But whether or not they penetrate to the marrow of the human condition, the McIlwham verses display a proper intoxication with the ring of words. Whatever they mean, and they certainly mean something, they sing. If he takes liberties with the Lowland Scots tongue, and throws in a phrase for the sheer music of it, he is merely demonstrating his besotted love of the language, which goes beyond the semantic burrowing of the new academics.
And unlike Burns and McGonagall, McIlwham does not thirst for the plaudits of respectable society, or the odes to neurotic Edinburgh grass-widows. He is agin. He chooses personal obscurity, because in obscurity a man is not tempted to corruption. Wherever he is, Ebenezer McIlwham, the Bard of Whifflet West, is himself and himself entire.
In an age when poets have come down from their garrets to become public figures, reading their lines in pubs and clubs and on television, Ebenezer McIlwham remains the classic recluse who clearly believes that the words are the man, the man himself a shadow.
He has never pressed to style himself a poet, and the modern school withholds that title from a writer whose lines have the audacity to rhyme and scan. But whether or not they penetrate to the marrow of the human condition, the McIlwham verses display a proper intoxication with the ring of words. Whatever they mean, and they certainly mean something, they sing. If he takes liberties with the Lowland Scots tongue, and throws in a phrase for the sheer music of it, he is merely demonstrating his besotted love of the language, which goes beyond the semantic burrowing of the new academics.
And unlike Burns and McGonagall, McIlwham does not thirst for the plaudits of respectable society, or the odes to neurotic Edinburgh grass-widows. He is agin. He chooses personal obscurity, because in obscurity a man is not tempted to corruption. Wherever he is, Ebenezer McIlwham, the Bard of Whifflet West, is himself and himself entire.
Jist the Wan
Just a perjink rather totty wee drinkA modest sensation, that’s all, jist the wanBut ere ah stert moodgin’ ah’ll cry for a lood yinA man maun be graun when he’s staunin’ his haun Jist the wan an’ then hame, for ah’m toom in the wame;It’s no jist the nicht tae be ha’ein a baurWeel, aiblins a treble tae dook ma wee nebJist the wan, an ah’ll canter awa’ through the glaur Weel, maybe a pail o’ yon gurly broon aleTaE syne out ma wallies an’ hansel ma mou’Jist the wan, don’t be waley, ah’ll swally it haleIt’s doon wi’ the drink an’ it’s ta ta the noo Jist the wan, gin ye chuse, an’m no’ here for tae boozeAh’ve signit yon pledge an’ ah swore tae dae richtIt’s true a quadruple micht mak’ ma banes soupleJist the wan, fill ma can, an’ then oot through the nicht Noo a gill, gin we will, an’ some mair o’ yon yillJist the wan, in ma han’, for ye maun understaunIt’s wastefu’ and’ sinfu’ tae tak’ in a skinfu’A man maun be gaun while he’s able to staun The Wellies o’ Wearie are a’ tapsilteerieA herrin’s your fairin’, sae loup up your cranAh lo’e ma aul’ mither, sae drink up thegitherBut don’t tak’ ower muckle, we’ll hae just the wan Jist the wan, jist the wan, an’ it’s san ferry annThe coo’s in the cranreuch, the soo’s in the branAh’m a Hechabite, Jecobite, Rechabite manWae’s me for puir Cherlie, and gie’s just the wan
Copyright 2025 The Estate of Clifford Hanley