Gaelic pronunciation help

[neloon]

I'm working on Scots/Doric now.

I might be able to help with Doric.
Just to whet your appetite, here is a well-known poem to which I have appended a littoral translation.

BENNYGOAK [The Hill of the Cuckoo]
(Flora Garry)

It wis jist a skelp o the muckle firth,
A sklyter o' roch grun
Fan Granfadder's fadder brak it in
Fae the hedder and the funn.
Granfadder sklatit barn and byre,
Brocht watter tae the closs,
Put fail dykes ben the bare brae face
An a cairt road tull the moss.

Bit wir fadder sotered in the yaird
And skeppit amo' bees
An keepit fancy dyeuks and doos
At warna muckle 'eese.
He bocht aal wizned horse an kye
An scrimpit muck and seed
Syne, clocherin wi a craichly hoast,
He dwine't awa and dee'd.

Midder's growen aal and deen
Dylet an sma-bookit tee
But aye she's maister o' her wark.
My wark, it maisters me.
Och! I'm tyert o' plyterin oot and in
Amo' hens an swine an kye
Kirnin' amo' brookie pots
an yirnin croods and fye.

I look far ower by Ythanside
to Fyvie's laich, lythe laans,
Tae Auchterless and Bennachie
and the mist blue Grampians.
Sair't o' the hull o' Bennygoak
an' scunnert o' the fairm
Gin I but daar't, Gin I but daar't
I'd flit the comin term.

It's ull tae thole on the first Spring day
Fin the black earth lies in clods,
An the teuchat's wallochin' at the ploo
An the sna bree rins on the roads.
O, it's ull tae thole in the still hairst gloam
Fan the lift's a bleeze o' fire;
Ah stan an' glower, the pail in ma haun,
On ma road oot tull the byre.

Bit it's wirst ava aboot Whitsunday
Fan the nichts are quaet an' clear
An the floorin' currant's by in the yaird
An the green corn's in the breer
An the bird at gaed this hull its name
Yon bird ye nivver see
Sits doon in the wid by the waater side
an laachs, laich-in, at me.

'Flit, flit ye feel,' says the unco bird
'There's finer, couthier folk
An kindlier country hine awaa
Fae the Hull o' Bennygoak.'
Bit ma midder's growin aal and deen
An likes her ain fireside.
Twid brak her hairt tae leave the hull:
It's brakkin mine tae bide.


BENNYGOAK [The Hill of the Cuckoo (Beinn na cuthaig)]

It was just a sliver of the great outdoors,
A splinter of rough ground
When Grandfather’s father broke it in
From the heather and the gorse.
Grandfather slated barn and cowshed,
Brought water to the farmyard,
Put turf walls across the bare hill face
And a cart road to the peat-bog..

But our father fiddled about in the yard
And looked after bees
And kept fancy ducks and pigeons
That weren’t much use.
He bought old wizened horses and cattle
And scrimped on manure and seed
Finally, wheezing with a rattling cough,
He faded away and died

Mother’s growing old and done
Wearied and hump-backed too
But still she’s master of her work,
My work, it masters me.
Oh! I’m tired of trudging out and in
Among hens and pigs and cattle
Scraping out the shabby pots
And churning soft cheese and whey.

I look far over by Ythanside
to Fyvie’s low, sheltered lands,
To Auchterless and Bennachie
and the mist blue Grampians.
Sore at the Hill of Bennygoak
And fed up of the farm
If I could dare it, if I could dare it
I’d move house at the next quarter day.

It’s hard to cope on the first Spring day
When the black earth lies in clods,
And the lapwing’s shrieking at the plough
And snow-melt lies on the track
And it’s hard to cope in the quiet harvest dusk
When the sky’s a blaze of fire,
I stand and glare, the pail in my hand,
On my way out to the cowshed.

But it’s worst of all about Whitsunday
When the nights are quiet and clear
And the flowering currant’s there in the yard
And the green corn’s in the brier
And the bird that gave this hill its name
That bird you never see
Sits down in the wood by the water side
And laughs quietly at me.

“Move, move you fool” says the weird bird
'“There are finer friendlier people
And kindlier country, go far away
From the Hill of Bennygoak”
But my mother’s growing old and done
And likes her own fireside
It would break her heart to leave the hill
It’s breaking mine to stay.

Alan