Transcribing your accent

[thescot]

My understanding has alwas been that Scots was a dialect of English, heavily influenced in some places by Scots Gaelic. When I used to travel to Scotland on business, I would sometimes have to get a Scots-to-Englsih translation if the brogue was too thick, but for the most part I could understand anything said. One young lass with whom I worked (and avery attractive ad charming lass she was) said of one fellow on the team, "I can't understand him half the time either."

Public televion did an excellent History of the Language series years ago which included a segment called, "The Guid Scots Tonge." Their take was that it is a dialect of English as well.

I think of how we in the South (US) speak our own form of English dialect, and I have noted how some "foreigners" (folks from the North) have trouble understanding us when we are engaged in our own local converstion. I think it's the same. We have a lot of words and rhythms that are heavily influence by Gaelic due to the Scots and Scots-Irish migrations, and we also have other words that just aren't used elsewhere. Southerners are big on similes.

It took my brother-in-law years to get where he could understand us in a crowd.

But we still speak English, just not the Queen's English. But as a comedian once said, the queen doesn't run the South.

One example: some very rural folks still say something that sounds like " I hope him get his hay in." The word that sounds like hope is actually is actually a variant of a very old conjugation of help, i.e., holp which is a past tense of help. I would say "I helped him get his hay in."

But then, that assumes that I was still capable of walking through the fields picking up bales and stacking them on the trailer behind the hay baler, a possiblity which is questionable at best! I would have trouble getting all the hay out of my kilt!

[beloitpiper]

I think of how we in the South (US) speak our own form of English dialect, and I have noted how some "foreigners" (folks from the North) have trouble understanding us when we are engaged in our own local converstion. I think it's the same. We have a lot of words and rhythms that are heavily influence by Gaelic due to the Scots and Scots-Irish migrations, and we also have other words that just aren't used elsewhere. Southerners are big on similes.

Like Boomhauer on "King Of The Hill"

[Garry Oak]

A few weeks ago, I re-read my copy of The First Hundred Thousand by John Hay Beith, who wrote it during the First World War under the pen name "Ian Hay." In it, he recounts the story of a regiment of the Argyll and Sutherland Highlanders, beginning just after the enlistement of new men in the autumn of 1914 ("Kitchener's Army"), and continuing through the Battle of Loos in September of 1915. The author first published the chapters of the book in Blackwood's Magazine while on active service.

Captain Beith writes at the beginning of the book, "The characters are entirely fictitious, but the incidents described all actually occurred." It's a good read, to say the least. If you will forgive a rather long excerpt, here's a glimpse of an afternoon in training under Lieutenant Bobby Little.

"What for is the wee felly gaun' tae show us puctures?"

Thus Private Mucklewame. A pundit in the rear rank answers him.

"Yon's Gairmany."

"Gairmany ma auntie!" retorts Mucklewame. "There's no chumney-stalks in Gairmany."

"Maybe no; but there's wundmulls. See the wundmull there--on yon wee knowe!"

"There a pit-heid!" exclaims another voice. This homely spectacle is received with an affectionate sigh. Until two months ago more than half the platoon had never been out of sight of at least half a dozen.

"See the kirk, in ablow the brae!" says some one else, in a pleased voice. "It has a nock in the steeple."

"I hear they Gairmans send signals wi' their kirk-nocks," remarks Private M'Micking, who, as one of the Battalion signallers--or "buzzers," as the vernacular has it, in imitation of the buzzing of the Morse instrument--regards himself as a sort of junior Staff Officer. "They jist semaphore with the haunds of the nock--"

"I wonder," remarks the dreamy voice of Private M'Leary, the humorist of the platoon, "did ever a Gairman buzzer pit the ba' through his ain goal in a fitba' match?"

This irrelevant reference to a regrettable incident of the previous Saturday afternoon is greeted with so much laughter that Bobby Little, who has at length fixed his picture in position, whips round.

"Less talking there!" he announces severely, "or I shall have to stand you all at attention!"

There is immediate silence--there is nothing the matter with Bobby's discipline--and the outraged M'Micking has to content himself with a homicidal glare in the direction of M'Leary, who is now hanging virtuously upon his officer's lips.

"This," proceeds Bobby Little, "is what is known as a landscape target."

He indicates the picture, which, apparently overcome by so much public notice, promptly falls flat upon its face. A fatigue party under the sergeant hurries to its assistance.

"It is intended," resumes Bobby presently, "to teach you--us--to become familiar with various kinds of country, and to get into the habit of picking out conspicuous features of the landscape, and getting them by heart, and--er--so on."

{...}

"Now," he begins, "what conspicuous objects do we notice on this target? In the foreground I can see a low knoll. To the left I see a windmill. In the distance is a tall chimney. Half-right is a church. How would that church be marked on a map?"

No reply.

"Well," explains Bobby, anxious to parade a piece of knowledge which he only acquired himself a day or two ago, "churches are denoted in maps by a cross, mounted on a square or circle, according as the church has a square tower or a steeple. What has this church got?"

"A nock!" bellow the platoon, with stunning enthusiasm. (All but Private M'Micking, that is.)

"A clock, sir," translates the sergeant, _sotto voce_.

"A clock? All right: but what I wanted was a steeple. Then, farther away, we can see a mine, a winding brook, and a house, with a wall in front of it. Who can see them?"

To judge by the collective expression of the audience, no one does. Bobby ploughs on.

"Upon the skyline we notice--Squad, '_shun!_"

Captain Wagstaffe has strolled up. He is second in command of A Company. Bobby explains to him modestly what he has been trying to do.

"Yes, I heard you," says Wagstaffe. "You take a breather, while I carry on for a bit. Squad, stand easy, and tell me what you can see on that target. Lance-Corporal Ness, show me a pit-head."

Lance-Corporal Ness steps briskly forward and lays a grubby forefinger on Bobby's "mine."

"Private Mucklewame, show me a burn."

The brook is at once identified.

"Private M'Leary, shut your eyes and tell me what there is just to the right of the windmill."

"A wee knowe, sirr," replies M'Leary at once. Bobby recognises his "low knoll"--also the fact that it is no use endeavouring to instruct the unlettered until you have learned their language.

Especially with Armistice Day approaching, some of you might find this book and its sequel to be worthwhile reading material. Both (and other marvelous books) are available at Project Gutenberg. For the few who haven't heard of Project Gutenberg, it is the home of a vast and growing collection of works which are now in the public domain. You may download books, completely free of charge, in any of several formats. Here are links:

The First Hundred Thousand

All In It: K(1) Carries On--A Continuation of The First Hundred Thousand

The Ian Hay entry at Project Gutenberg; it's easy to navigate around from the top of that page.

[thescot]

Like Boomhauer on "King Of The Hill"

Well, that's not exactly what I had in mind. but it does demonstrate how a particulat local dialect may be hard to understand by the untutored.

However, I have known a couple of guys who sounded a lot like Boomhauer. He reminds me of the guys I graduated with in New Orleans who had that very strong New Orleanian accent that is remiscent of Brooklynese, believe it or not.