The Banff and Buchan Collection

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[Pipe music]

[Pipe music]

[John Sorrie] Ladies and gentlemen our pipers were Bill Henderson and Pamela Smith. [applause].

[JS] Ladies and gentlemen welcome to the 6th Strichen Festival. Will you please welcome our guest artists, under James Alexander, the Fochabers Fiddlers.


[JS] Thank you ladies and gentlemen. I'd now like to introduce your compere for tonight and there's a wee poem made up about it.

There is a man that you all know,
Wis sent to Balnagask wi a flymo,
He fell because the grass wis weet,
And that is why he broke his qweet.

On crutches, fae Tor-na-Dee, Torphins, please welcome Geordie Smith.

[GS] Good evening ladies and gentlemen, we jist canna miss the Strichen Festival. But he's richt eneuch aboot the golf course! But afore I broke is qweet, I wis rakin bankers ye see and there wis a lad wi an affa black face come roon, and he teed aff - I didnae ken onything aboot tees and greens and things until I land ere, but it disnae matter is mannie teed aff. He kent the wey tae fit aboot and then they let fly - that's a practice shot. An en the next een, well they're lucky if they hit it [laughs]. So this lad he set the ba', and he took a great big black brush oot a bag at his back, he lewd smack at the thing land richt across and land in the bunker far I wis workin. He come ower and he just rached ower and he anither rod and he screwed it intae the last een, stood on the edge o the bunker and loot fly and he got a hole in one. I said, at's great golfin. Oh aye he said, good aye. I said, eh by the look o yer face are you a chimney sweep? He says I am. I says fit's yer handicap? Oh he says, it's electric fires and radiators. (Laughs, applause). We've already started the concert with guests, but this is the competition winners and we start at the very bottom it seems tae be, with a little lassie a the wey fae Fraserburgh, it's in the class 8 years and under for the Doric verse. And the winner wis Jenna Culey, she's aged 7. So a big hand for Jenna [applause].

[JC] Twa Likin Mice by J. K. Annand

Ma mither says, that we hiv mice,
At open air ??,
…. Biscuits and cakes and sic like things,
Nae doot it is an affa shame that mice should tak the blame.

Silly me, far ?? the tins fan she left me alane at hame,
But jings I fair get hungered, and biscuits taste sae nice,
But dinna tell ma mither, for she thinks it is the mice.


[GS] Well at didnae tak lang! [laughs].

So we get up a wee bittie, the Junior Ballads and Bothy Ballads, both sections were won by the same young man here, so please welcome Scott Gardiner from Forfar [applause]. Scott's gan tae sing 'Bandy's Roup.'

Auld Bandy, he wis roupin oot,
His fairmin days wir deen,
He'd bocht a wee bit hoosie
In the toon o Aiberdeen,
Sin a his stock an implements,
Wir a gaun up for sale,
He'd even sell the moose-trap
An the auld slop pail.

The foreman an the second-lad,
Wir sent tae wash the cairts,
And pent them up a green an reed,
An ile the different pairts.
The baillie pentit a the ploos,
The harras an the grubber;
The halflin he raid up the kye,
Wi dandy, kame an scrubber.

Sin, on the mornin o the roup,
A thing wis spic an span.
There wis a barrel fu a beer ,
An plenty beef an ham.
For some had came jist no tae buy,
But for tae get their fill,
Auld Bandy kent the dreel fu weel,
He'd daen the same himsel.

Fan eens the roup hid started,
And a crood hid gaithered roon,
The auctioneer cried oot for bids,
Ye couldna hear a soun.
At laist he got them in the mood,
By crying oot, 'Noo, Dixon,
This horse'll dee the work o twa
An help oot in the kitchen!'

The fairmer fae the Mill o Lyne ,
Wis set on buyin some on stots;
Fin he saw Bandy's Bell gang by,
He set aff at the trot.
Noo Bell said, 'Aye my little man,
I'd like tae ken yer game;'
Says he tae Bell, 'Fine dae ye ken,
My game it's aye the same.'

Weel, nae maitter fit his game wis,
Bell must hae liked it fine;
For noo she is the fairmer's wife,
Doon at the Mill o Lyne.
But aft he'll sit an mutter,
As he thinks whiles tae himsel,
He should hae stuck the buyin stots,
An nae chased Bandy's Belle!

Weel of coorse, the weemin fowk wir there,
Tae hae a wee bit splash;
Afore the aifternoon wis by,
They'd bocht up a the trash.
A sma bit deem fae Pitney's,
Fair keen on daen some bidden;
She got on the dyke tae get some heicht,
But fell back in the midden.

Well the Doctor fair enjoyed himsel,
He'd drunk some muckle beer;
His wife made up a lame excuse,
She couldna staun the steer.
He waved his haun tae let her ken
He'd be wi her the noo,
But afore he kent, he'd gien an bocht,
Auld Bandy's breedin soo!

Then eens the roup wis feenished
An the last chiel left the scene,
Well Auld Bandy he'd a last look roon,
A tear come tae his een;
When doon the road he wandered,
Faur he'd played fin jist a loon,
But I'm sure his hert wis heavy,
As he set aff tae the toun.


[Fiddles play]


[GS] We seem tae hae moved oot o amon the juniors. Oh who would hae guessed. We've got that man fae Kirriemuir again [applause]. Joe Aitken. Joe's a fruit farmer, arable farmer, come fireman a the wey fae Kirriemuir. I've kent him for a lang time, we meet at festivals. He says he's still got one ambition yet, it's tae attend the Ball o Kirriemuir. Joe is the winner of the Senior Ballad and Bothy Ballad, so give him a big hand [applause].

[JA] Right here's een ye can really get stuck intae. It's got a great goin chorus, raise the roof. It's aricht, it's a good night.

Twa recruitin sergeants came fae the Black Watch,
At markets and fairs some recruits for to catch,
But a' that they listed was forty and twa,
So list my bonnie laddie, and come awa.

And it's over the mountain and over the main,
Through Gibraltar tae France and Spain,
Wi a feather to yer bonnet, and a kilt abeen your knee,
And list my bonnie laddie and come awa wi me.

Its oot o the barn and intae the byre,
This auld fairmer thinks ye'll never tire,
It's a slavery job of low degree,
So list my bonnie laddie and come awa wi me.

And it's over the mountain and over the main,
Through Gibraltar tae France and Spain,
Wi a feather to yer bonnet, and a kilt abeen your knee,
And list my bonnie laddie and come awa wi me.

Laddie you dinna ken the danger that you're in,
If your horses was to fleg or your owsen was to rin,
This greedy auld farmer winna pay your fee,
So list bonny laddie come awa wi me.

And it's over the mountain and over the main,
Through Gibraltar tae France and Spain,
Wi a feather to yer bonnet, and a kilt abeen your knee,
And list my bonnie laddie and come awa wi me.

Wi yer tattie pu'ins and yer ill-brewed ale,
Yer soor sowin sourins and yer meal an kale,
Wi yer buttermilk and whey and breid for yer dra,
And list bonny laddie and come awa.

And it's over the mountain and over the main,
Through Gibraltar tae France and Spain,
Wi a feather to yer bonnet, and a kilt abeen your knee,
And list my bonnie laddie and come awa wi me.

Noo laddie, if ye hae a sweetheart and bairn,
You'll easy get rid of that ill-spun yarn,
Twa rattles o the drum and that'll pay for a',
So list my bonnie laddie come awa.

And it's over the mountain and over the main,
Through Gibraltar tae France and Spain,
Wi a feather to yer bonnet, and a kilt abeen your knee,
And list my bonnie laddie and come awa wi me.


[GS] Nae festival would be complete wi'oot Joe [applause]. I doot if the twa recruitin sergeants come near me I'll hae tae say pass [laughs]. I did say he wis a fireman, did ye hear aboot the Irish lad, Irish Fire Brigade and there wis a man standing admiring their new fire engine. And he says, what are you going to do with the old one? Sure Paddy says, we're going to keep it for the false alarms [applause].

Now, it's the second time Alison Elphinstone from Mintla has won the Intermediate Doric verse, I think. And she's going to recite the 'Twa Young Inspectors.' Dressed for the part.

[AE] 'Twa Young Inspectors' by J. C. Milne.

Till Fiersday last, as far's I min,
I thocht my skweel wis daein fine.
Till Fiersday last, fin, dyod, there cam,
Twa Inspectors straucht fae Cam.

They spak o body, mind and soul,
And speirt fut wis my aim and goal,
Says I, 'Och aye, its aye the same,
Nine te fower, syne hame sweet hame.'

They speirt gin I'd a gweed degree,
Says I, ' Fae twixt the Don and Dee,'
Says t'ane tae t'ither, 'Och aye, ochone,'
Cam's sweeter far than Dee or Don.

They speirt fut time I rang the bell,
Says I, 'Och aye, I please mysel.'
Says t'ane te t'ither, 'Imph, nae doot,
The skweel's nae in afore it's oot.'

They speirt fu mony on the roll,
Fu mony mair my skweel could thole,
Says I, 'My lads, I widna ken.'
Says t'ane tae t'ither, 'Lat's dauner ben.'

They dauner'd here, they dauner'd there,
They dauner'd up and doon the stair,
They yammert oot and nyattert in,
The skweel wis steerin wi their din.

They measured ilka desk and cheer,
Says t'ane tae t'ither, 'Dyod, tis clear,
The haill clamjamfry's oot o date,
And a the bairns byordnar blate.'

Their Buchan dialect--Gweed be here,
Their accent--dyod, twid gar ye sweir,
Their middlin mainners--sure as death,
Thinks I, the gweed Lord stap yer breath.

Wi that I gied them baith a glower,
Wid gart aul Nick the Deevil cower,
Says t'ane tae t'ither, 'Dyod, tis plain,
We'd better board the Buchan train.'

Wi that they fuffert aff the fleer,
And ower the threshold and doon the Meer,
Past Rathen Kirk and Cortach[?] dam,
Gaed twa Inspectors straucht fae Cam


[GS] Now this is the intermediate accordion champion, a the wey fae Huntly. Welcome Lynn Christie. [Applause.]


[GS] Now we've got the Junior Doric Verse, 12 and under. And we've got Jackie Birnie fae Greeness. Come on Jackie [Applause.]

[JB] The Picnic, by David Rorie.
Ech, sic language! Onybody hearin ye will hae a bonnie tale tae tell,
An you, a jined member o the kirk, think black burnin shame o yersel,
Wi yer moo foo o sandwich, it's a wonder it disnae choke ye!
Ye ill-tongued stirk. And a this turvy ower a drappie o bilin watter on yer face,
?? me. Dinna provoke ye. Did onybody ever hear the like o it in a yer livin days!
Ye hae a guid neck, wi twa mile a sand tae put yer muckle feet on,
What gart ye stick een o them aneath the stroop o the kettle,
And what sorra else did ye expect!

You and yer fit, they're a perfect scunner, baith the pair o them.
Aye, and his been ever seen I ken ye. A decent woman canna get moved in her ane ??
And sma winner, foo aften hiv I telt ye that I couldnae get an ??
Aye, wallop and they davit ???
A whiles wish it widden legs, it widnae be such danger, and they'd match yer heid better,
Aye would they, fegs. And they saved ye happin aboot the noo, like a cra' wi a sair inside.
Sit doon man, see a the folk will think yer foo! He's yer cuppie o tea. Oho, yer nae gan tae bide,
Ye've had a the tea yer wintin! And yer no seeking ony mair o my platter.
Well awa and take a big pail tae yersel. Gan ye maun be gallivantin, try the watter,
The sea'll mebbe cool yer temper and yer taes as well. But mind ye this o't.
I've taen yer measure my bonnie man, eens and for a, and this is the hindmost time,
I'm oot for a day's pleasure wi you. Aye is it. For I'll staun nae mair o yer ja,
Ach, you and yer fit.


[GS] Now than, we'd ging up the scale a wee bittie, that is in years. And we've got the Senior Open Melodeon, Bill Stewart and he comes fae my pairt o the country, he comes a the wey fae Leochel Cushnie, so give Bill a big hand [applause].


[GS] Now I've got the Intermediate Fiddle Group. The Mary Milne Players from Banchory, can we hae the Mary Milne Players? [applause].



[GS] And the Intermediate Piano, Keith Anderson from Westhill [applause].

[Plays; End of Side A.]

[Fiddles play]

[GS] Gan back among the Doric again. The Kilgower Trophy for Doric Verse, at's a local competition and it's won by Kay Morrison from Mintla [applause]. Come in Kay.

[KM] Second Day Soup by Christina Middleton

Mother, can I hae a suppie mair soup?
I'd bang ma speen on the table.
Who should rage me for ma ill mainners,
And threaten me wi the ladle!

She'd ca me an impudent deal o loon,
But mair in amusement than in scorn,
And say, na laddie, we maun gyaded,
For it his tae dae the morn.

Weel the black pot wis heated up the next day,
And I cam tae the table jist mangin,
For it tasted better than ivver,
Made worthwhile be the langin.

Fan I wis a bairn, siller wis scarce,
And ma mither hid her ane wey o rationin,
And as I grew up I foond oot for masel,
For my taste buds she wis fashionin.

I smile fan I see some French chef,
Kiss his fingers in rapture and say,
Tres bons! Ower some watery consomme!
If ye keep it anither day.

How often dae ye see 'Soup o the Day'
On a meenu weel splattered and torn;
Noo, if at wis me, I'd snagger them,
And advertise 'Soup o the Morn'

I've suppied soup ower a the globe,
Sharks fin, kangaroo tail, bird's nest,
But mak nae mistak aboot it,
Ma mither's wis far the best.

I eens tasted vichysoise,
Efter some guid liver pate,
Spik aboot being over-rated,
Nae a patch on ma mither's tattie.

There's soup and there's soup,
Baith thick and thin,
In tins or in a packet,
I suppose they're a richt in times o haste,
But the genuine canna be whackit.

It's soonds pompous, but I'm nae mean judge,
For the standard I set is pure,
For fen it comes to the question o a plate o soup,
I would rank as a connoisseur.

Aye, I've sampled funcy balls and plates,
Or fit the cockney's ca 'loop the loop,'
But better the day efter makin,
That hairt warmin second day soup.


[GS] And at wis Doric. Second day soup, at's jist anither name for yavelled broth isn't it? The winner o the Intermediate Fiddle Competition wis Keith Anderson again from Westhill, at's the same lad that played the piana. It's a brother and sister kinda competition this time. Keith's going to play the fiddle and his gan tae be accompanied by his sister Sarah on the piana [appplause]. There micht be some tunin up tae dae. I wis gan tae tell ye. Keith and Sarah is a nephew and niece o that great hammer thrower, Bill Anderson at's world famous [applause]. I wis going tae tell ye aboot the olympic games. Did ye see that haimmer thrower at the games. They'd a this competition goin ye see and there wis a great big burly lad fae Russia come in and he swung the haimmer roon his heid and he set up a new record. And the reporter mannie gaed up and he says 'that was an amazing feat, that's a new record, how can you do that?'. Well, he says, my father was a miner, my grandfather was a miner and I am a miner, and he says I've got great muscles and that's how I did it'. Another burly lad fae the States gaed on and he put it a puckle metres far'er. Up the reporter comes again, my word he says, what a feat of strength. What hammer throwing, how can you do that? Well, he says, my father was a blacksmith, and I'm a blacksmith and my grandfather was a blacksmith, and we've got great muscles you see, that's how we do it. There wis a little mannie oot ae fae Glasgae [laughs], and he furreled roon aboot a file wi the chain and the haimmer and he sent her oot jist a puckle meters far'er. We spik aboot meters nooadays. And the reporter comes up, my goodness he says, you've surprised everybody here today, compared with your size he said, you've set up a new record, how can you do it? Well he says, my father was unemployed, I'm unemployed and my grandfather was unemployed, and I was always telt if onybody put a haimmer in my hand throw it as far awa as possible [laughs, applause].



[GS] The Ladies Bothy Ballad competition and it was won again by Jean Duguid.

Afore that I be tyrannised, as I this file hae been,
I'd raither run fae here tae Birse wi peas in baith ma sheen,
I'd raither dee for wint o breath than pine for wint o love,
And it's a' because McFarlane mairried Susie.

Susie's cankered faither where mine would ne'er agree,
But aye when I'd gang ower that gate he'd set his dog at me,
So I sent ma freen McFarlane doon tae see whit he could dae,
McFarlane o the Sprots o Burnieboozie.

I dinna like McFarlane, I'm safe eneuch tae state,
His lugs wid cast a shada ower a sax fit gate;
He's saft as ony gorblin and slithery as a skate,
McFarlane o the Sprots o Burnieboozie.

McFarlane spak nae word for me, but plenty for himsel,
He reesed the lassie's barley scones, her kibbuck and her kale,
Till her faither cried oot Sprottie man, ye can try yer luck yersel,
McFarlane o the Sprots o Burnieboozie.

He said that he wis able baith tae play at cowp the ladle,
Wi a laidder ower a treacle cask and ca the churn forbye,
Anither o his winners wis that sawdust mixed wi cinders,
Wis the spice for feedin hens at Burnieboozie.

I dinna like McFarlane, I tell ye it's a fact,
His nose for splittin halesteens and a humphy back,
His legs like gutta-percha ilkae step his knees gang knick knack,
McFarlane o the Sprots o Burnieboozie.

An educated ostrich fae the wilds o Timbuktu,
He hid for scrattin up his neeps and hidnae them tae pu;
I nivver heard the like o that come oot o ony moo,
But McFarlane o the Sprots o Burnieboozie.

Oh a dirl o the teethache is nae particularly sweet,
But love's the only pain on earth that ever gart me greet;
It's like kittlie chilblains roon yer hairt instead a roon yer feet,
An aggravated wi the sicht o Susie.

Noo friens and kind philosophers ye've heard what me befell,
Nivver lippin till the middle man, but dae yer work yersel,
Or I'll bet ma Sunday sark at he'll be a day ahint the market,
As fin I sent Jock McFarlane roon tae Susie.

I dinna like McFarlane, I'm fairly aff a Jock,
I dinna like McFarlane or McFarlane's folk,
Though Susie be no turtle, may she come doon wi the spirtle,
Doon ower the heid o Jock o Burnieboozie.


[GS] Great talent in Strichen, ye see they can do a lot different things here.

Now we go onto the Senior Verse and for the second year in succession it was won by Alison Massie, a the wey fae Kinlochbervie. But there is a connection with Strichen. It's her father's poem that she's recitin and her father is Peter Buchan [applause]. This een's entitled the 'Kistie o Gold.' Nivver heard o sic a thing.

[AM] As Geordie said, is poem's ca'd the 'Kistie o Gold,' it's by Peter Buchan and the moral o the tale is, it's nae jist Julius Caesar that his tae min the Ides o March.

The ear at crippled Kirstie died, there come a fearsome breeze,
Sooth-east, near haun a month it blew, ye nivver sa' sic seas;
The hied o Buchan haven pier wis oot o sicht for day,
And froth lay foamin five fit deep alang the giddle braes;
The sheep in Johnnie Mathis parks wis maistly smore't wi sna,
Sin' on the fourteenth day o Mairch, the wither eased awa.

This mornin, twa fine strappin chiels set oot alang the saun,
Tae see fit micht be lyin there, fit providence his haun,
For famine's breath wis on the pane, and want was at the day,
Aye chappin lowd, aye, lowder than he'd ever daen afore.
They waided ower the watter moo', sin' oot alang the saun,
The bits o broken timmer there, the only sign o man,
Like Crusoe in a bygone day, they viewed a desert beach,
Wi tunnel piled on tunnel heap as far as sicht could reach,
Abeen their heads their tarrocks skirled, their ilkae note a greet,
And a the time the surly sea wis swirling roon their feet.

They ripet ilkae hole and bore, aboot Craigallan's braes,
Far the bairnies gaithered caisies on the bonnie summer days,
But nithin ere, save orra stuff amon the wishin stanes,
A broken oar, a box or twa, and twa, three bits o beans,
That had been in some distant day the timmers o a whale.

A figureheid, a shivered spar, a strip o tattered sail,
So, north a bit, and further, and along by Jennie's burn,
And ilkae heap o raiveled var got aye an owerturn,
For twa, three days afore a ship had struck on Scotstoon heid,
A mile or twa or fully mair, richt north o Peterheid.
Her crew, aye current foreigners fae sooth o Aiberdeen,
Hid perished in the fearful gale, for neen wis ever seen,
But there on Scotstown's shore and Kirkton's bonny sands,
There spread the bounty fae the wreck.

Twa pair o willin hauns began tae pick and chise and lay aside the best o't a',
The legs a ham, the casks o rum, and linen fitest sna,
A forten, aye! A forten, lying there amon the rocks,
And then, half happit by the wa, they spied a bonnie box,
A half a fathom lang it wis and made o foreign wid,
Wi lock and hinges made o brass and carvin on the lid.

They left the ham, they left the rum, on aye cask they hid yokit,
They took the bonnie widden kist, and wi a stane they broke it;
Then twa fine chiels, sair taen aback, stood petrified wi shock,
For there, afore their very een, their poverty tae mock,
A proper pirate's moggin lay tae human view laid bare,
A mint o bonnie sovereigns. Twa hunner weight and mair.

Oh, says David, when his breath came back,
We'd better leave the ham, and surely aye guid cask wid dae,
Tae gie's a untrin dram,
But is grite heap o sillers in a kist wi'oot a name,
So we'll haver it through the middle,
Could we eens but get it hame.

Says Jock tae carry't ower the saun wid racks a body's hairt,
We'd better tak it tae the road, and pit it on a cairt;
Ah, but mains is sure tae winner if we cairry't through his park,
So we might be best tae plunk it and come back for't when it's dark.

Na, na, says David, nivver een hid dark. I'll nae be here,
For darkness brings the ghosties oot and ither things sae queer;
A nicht's as dark as yer oxter pooch, there roam the bints and howes,
I've heard the fearsome skirls they gave, Jock they're just nae mowes.

We'll tak the kistie up the brae and bury it oot o sicht,
Sin' come for't wi John Baird's cairt as seen as it grows light.

So they rugget it and tugget it and got it up the brae,
The happit it and clappit it and there the kistie lay,
Wi twa three full o knotted girse tae mark the secret spot,
And twa fine hams went hame instead to fill the hungry pot.

At brak o sky they yokit, and although they rakit sair,
Their nestie hid been hairried an the kistie wisnae there,
Twas efter dark o clock afore their wimmen heard them come,
Their cairtie load wi wabs o claith and hams and casks o rum,
The pairtin took a filie, sin' the pair o them gaed hame,
But efter at their freenliness wis nivver jist the same.

Noo tell me this, if tell ye can, though tell ye mebbe winna,
Fit wey his David's folk been blessed when Jock's puir folk jist hinna,
Ye ken at David's wife wis claid in silks and bonnie tartans,
Fan Jock's puir lass wis wearin rags and dinin high on partins.

In course of time tae David came baith boats and gear an a',
When Jock, puir sowel, wis glad tae get a jobbie shufflin sna,
And so it's been doon throw the years. Atween the generations,
There grows a gulf ere wider, just like the difference in their stations.

The scripture says, to him that hath, it shall again be given,
Fa got the kist?
Ye'd like tae ken. Ye micht be telt. In heaven.


[GS] Well, what a tremendous memory. If I'd been daein that I woulda cut it shorter wi the bits I forgot.

Now for the intermediate Tin Whistle. It was won by Scott Milton from Fraserburgh. I needna say that. Everybody kens Scott in Buchan. So a big hand for Scott. He's tae be accompanied by that woman at's sittin doon there, keepin me richt, and she's got some job I'm telling you! It's Evelyn Mundie. [Applause.]


[GS] We'll push on and we have the Senior Fiddle Competition and it was won by Paul Anderson from Tarland. Another young man making his mark. [applause].



I'm thinking tonight o the old rustic brig,
That bends ower the clear winding burn;
Twas there last New Year wi ma belly fu o beer,
I crashed where the road taks the turn.

I'd been to a party a glorious affair,
And I drank a glorious fill;
I got on me bike and I sailed ower the dyke,
At the auld rustic bridge by the mill.

Beneath me the front wheel did buckle,
It sure wis a terrible spill;
I barkit me shins on the bottles and tins,
At the auld rustic bridge by the mill.

I am thinking tonight o that auld rusty bike,
It cairried mony a mile,
Noo she's a reed wi rust and the front wheel is burst,
To mend it is not worth my while.

She once was a beauty wi back pedal brakes,
And gears I could change on a hill,
But noo I maun hike since I struck the dyke,
At the auld rustic bridge by the mill.

Beneath me the front wheel did buckle,
It sure was a terrible spill,
My heid in the segs, and the bike roon me legs,
At the auld rustic bridge by the mill.

I am thinking tonight of the last harvest home,
Wi the Fochabers Fiddlers for a band;
They would play with great power till lately the hour,
At the dance in the hall it would be grand.

But I got me ticket, a drap in me pooch,
Then I had a terrible spill;
I near broke me neck ower an Aylesbury drake,
At the auld rustic bridge by the mill.

Beneath me the front wheel did buckle,
The drake, oh I swear at him still,
Wi his heid threw me wheels, ca'd me heid ower heels,
At the auld rustic bridge by the mill.


[Fiddles and piano play]

[Whistle, mandolin, piano and fiddles play]


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