Writing Goes Badly (or, Gits and Geese)

I have had a very bad writing experience. A commission for a big television piece has been entirely rewritten by a director without an ounce of cultural sensibility or integrity. The commissioners and producers don't see it as an issue that he doesn't speak the language the script is written in, which perhaps should have given me a clue as to the likelihood of any support being forthcoming from that quarter. I am in mourning for the characters. They have been in my head and my fingers and on my screen for so long and they have been reduced to poor, stereotyped versions of themselves by this man. My favourite spunky, punky girl has gone and I miss her particularly.

The dialogue is so wrong I can't even begin to describe it.

I have been cheering myself up with a CD of Jim Reid and wishing I had written the Wild Geese:

'Oh tell me fit was on your road
ye roarin norland wind
as ye cam blawin fae the land
that's never frae my mind?
My feet hae trevelled England
but I'm deein for the north.'
'My man, I saw the siller tides
rin up the Firth o Forth'.

'Aye wind, I ken them weel eneuch
and fine they fa and rise
and fain I'd feel the creepin mist
on yonder shore that lies
but tell me, as ye passed them by
whit saw ye on the way?'
'My man, I rocked the rovin gulls
that sail abune the Tay.'

But saw ye naethin, leein wind
afore ye cam tae Fife?
There's muckle lyin yont the Tay
that's mair tae me nor life
'My man, I swept the Angus braes
that ye hinna trod for years.'
'O wind, forgie a hameless loon
that cannae see for tears.'

'And far abune the Angus straths,
I saw the wild geese flee,
A lang, lang skein o beatin wings
wi their heids taeward the sea
and aye their cryin voices trailed
ahint them on the air.'
'O wind, hae mercy, haud yer wheest
for ah daurna listen mair.'

Maybe I should take up Scots.