Thursday 30 May 2024

Butter Pyramid at Kupfter


Visions of MacConglinne

A vision that appeared to me, 

An apparition wonderful I tell to all:

A lardy coracle all of lard

Within a port of New-milk 

Loch, Up on the World's smooth sea.

We went into the man-of-war,

Twas warrior-like to take the road

O'er ocean's heaving waves.

Our oar-strokes then we pulled

Across the level sea,

Throwing the sea's harvest up,

Like honey, the sea-soil.

The fort we reached was beautiful, 

With works of custards thick,

Beyond the loch.

New butter was the bridge in front, 

The rubble dyke was wheaten white,

Bacon the palisade.

Stately, pleasantly it sat,

A compact house and strong.

Then I went in:

The door of it was dry meat, 

The threshold was bare bread,

Cheese curds the sides.

Smooth pillars of old cheese, 

And sappy bacon props

Alternate ranged;

Fine beams of mellow cream, 

White rafters- real curds,

Kept up the house.

Behind was a wine well, 

Beer and bragget in streams,

Each full pool to the taste.

Malt in smooth wavy sea, 

Over a lard-spring's brink

Flowed through the floor.

A loch of pottage fat

Under a cream of oozy lard

Lay 'tween it and the sea.

Hedges of butter fenced it round, 

Under a blossom of white-mantling lard,

Around the wall outside.

A row of fragrant apple-trees, 

An orchard in its pink-tipped bloom,

Between it and the hill.

A forest tall of real leeks, 

Of onions and of carrots, stood

Behind the house.

Within, a household generous, 

A welcome of red, firm-fed men,

Around the fire.


Wheatlet, son of Milk-let

Son of Juicy Bacon, 

Is mine own name. 

Honeyed Butter roll

Is the man’s name

That bears my bag.

Haunch of Mutton 

Is my Dog’s name, 

Of lovely leaps. 

Lard, my wife

Sweetly smiles

Across the kale-top

Cheese-curds, my daughter, 

Goes around the spit, 

Fair is her fame. 

Corned Beef, my son 

Whose mantle shines

Over a big tail. 

Savour of Savours 

Is the name of my wife’s maid:


Across New-Milk Lake she went. 

Beef-Lard, my steed, 

An excellent stallion

That increases studs, 

A guard against toil 

Is the saddle of cheese 

On his back. 

When a cheese-steed is sent after him

Rapid his course, 

Fat…is on his ribs, 

exceeding all shapes. 

A large necklace of delicious 

Cheese curds

Around his back, 

His halter and his traces all

Of fresh butter. 

His bridle with its reins of fat

In every place. 

The horse cloth of tripe with its

sausage, Tripes are in its Hooves. 

Egg-horn is my bridle boy

Before going to a meeting with death

My pottage tunic around myself


of tripe with its smell 

of uncooked food.