Frances Jaffray

Ellon, UK

I was born on 6th October 1943. I have been married to George Jaffray, for 7 years. Between us we have 4 children. Patricia Ann is 27, Morag Ann is 26, Colin George is 26, and Catriona Jane is 25. We also have a granddaughter, Gemma Frances, and another grandchild on the way. I enjoy knitting, making bobbin lace, and listening to Country Western music. I work as a Care Team Leader in a Church of Scotland Home for Elderly. My poetry is usually in the Doric dialect (the language of North East Scotland) as I find I can express myself better that way.


Why Granny Why?

But, why granny why, why did Jesus die?
He died to save the world my dear.
But granny that's not very clear
To save the world from sin you say,
But bad things happen every day.
Killings, fighting, men at war.
Was that what Jesus died for?
He died so that the world might live
His dying wish, "Forgive, forgive."
That's not always an easy word to say,
never an easy role to play.
But we must try and live in peace.
Goodwill to men, all wars must cease.
Else Jesus hanging, wracked with pain,
Will have lived and died in vain,
And generations on, they still will cry,
Why granny, why, why did he die?

At Peace

He is at peace now
He's free from pain now
He's with my mum now
God rest his soul
He struggled long and
He struggled hard and
His lungs gave up and
He reached his goal
He was so tired so
His work is done so
Dad, rest in peace, so
The lord will watch o'er


This Crazy Game o' Golf

Tae pick up a stick an' chase a wee ba'
I jist canna see the sense in it ava'
Hittin' a ba' roond a park full o' holes
ye'd think t'wis a new wey tae kill a ' the moles
But they tell me it's golf - it's the "IN" game the noo
It swackens ye up withoot hae' in tae bou'
Bit if yon's meant tae swacken ye? - Hodgin' aboot
Aff o' ae fit on' till't ither, o' this there's nae doot
Yer banes are mair like tae seize up than tae swacken
Bit golfin' freends say "Fresh air is nae lackin'"
"Jist think o't yer lungs are gettin' a treat"
Bit wi' the win' there is here ye'd be blawn aff yer feet
An faur's the fresh air, faur's the sport faur's the tricks
Fin the rain's poorin oot o' the doup o' yer breeks
An' syne come the winter, it's nae eese ava'
Lookin' for holes amon' sax fit o' snaw
So takkin't a' roond, ye'd be better by far,
Tae stick tae the nineteenth - an' bide in the bar!


All poems Copyright © 1997 Frances Jaffray. All rights reserved.