The Banff and Buchan Collection

close window to return to index

Tape 1995.001 transcription

Word Search page:
      PC Control+F
Mac Command+F

[General background chatter.]

[John Sorrie] Well good evening ladies and gentlemen and welcome to oor Burns supper. It's nice to see you here, a better night than it was last night. We were fine pleased to see a nice turnout. To get the evening underway, we'll have the Selkirk Grace from the Reverend Charles Birnie.

[CB] Some hae maet and canna ate, and some wid ate that want it
But we hae maet and we can ate, sae let the Lord be thanket.


[JS] We'll now proceed to the haggis itself. And I'd like you to be upstanding for the haggis and it will be piped in by Miss Nicola Park.

[Pipe music. 'Scotland the Brave.']

[Keith Maclean] 'Address to a Haggis'

Fair fa' your honest, sonsie face,
Great chieftain o' the pudding-race!
Aboon them a' ye tak your place,
Painch, tripe, or thairm:
Weel are ye wordy o'a grace
As lang's my arm.

The groaning trencher there ye fill,
Your hurdies just like a distant hill,
Your pin wid dae tae mend a mill
In time o'need,
While thro' your pores the dews distil
Like amber bead.

His knife see rustic Labour dicht,
An' cut you up wi ready sleight,
Trenching your gushing entrails bricht,
Like ony ditch;
And then, O what a glorious sight,
Warm-reekin', rich!

Then, horn for horn, they stretch an' strive:
Deil tak the hindmost! on they drive,
Till a' their weel-swall'd kytes belyve
Are bent like drums;
Then auld Guidman, maist like to rive,
Bethankit! hums.

Is there that ower his French ragout
Or olio that wad staw a sow,
Or fricassee wad gar her spew
A perfect sconner,
Looks down wi sneering, scornfu' view
On sic a dinner?

Peer devil! see him erhis trash,
As feckles as wither'd rash,
His spindle shank, a guid whip-lash;
His nieve a nit;
Thro' blody flood or field to dash,
O how unfit!

But mark the rustic, haggis-fed,
The trembling earth resounds his tread.
Clap in his walie nieve a blade,
He'll mak it whissle;
An' legs an' arms, an' heids will sned,
Like taps o' trissle.

Ye Pow'rs, wha mak mankind your care,
And dish them out their bill o' fare,
Auld Scotland wants nae skinking ware
That jaups in luggies;
But, if ye want her gratefu' prayer
Gie her a haggis!


[Pipe music. 'Scotland the Brave.']


[JS] Well done Mr Maclean, well done.

We'll now continue with our evening, and we'll have the immortal memory from Dr Crockett from New Pitsligo.

[Steve Crockett] Mr Sorrie, ladies and gentlemen. 'Holy Willie's Prayer'

Yet I am here a chosen sample,
To show thy grace is great and ample;
I'm here a pillar of Thy temple,
Strong as a rock,
A guide, a buckler, and example,
To a' Thy flock.

But yet, O Lord! confess I must,
At times I'm fash'd wi fleshly lust:
An' sometimes, too, in wardly trust,
Vile self gets in
But Thou remembers we are dust,
Defil'd wi sin.

O Lord! yestreen, Thou kens, wi Meg--
Thy pardon I sincerely beg,
O! may't ne'er be a livin plague
To my dishonour,
An' I'll never lift a lawless leg
Again upon her.

Besides, I farther maun allow,
Wi Leezie's lass, eh, three times I trow--
But Lord, that Friday I was fou,
When I cam near her;
Or else, Thou kens Thy servant true
Wad never steer her.

Maybe Thou lets this fleshly thorn
Buffet Thy servant e'en and morn,
Lest ower proud and high shou'd turn,
That he's sae gifted:
If sae, Thy hand maun e'er be borne,
Until Thou lift it.

That's a small example of Holy Willie's Prayer. And it's one of my favourite poems by any poet, and it's just to sort of create a Burns-ey atmosphere.[laughs] One January, some years ago I was doing some home visits, at home in the village of New Pitsligo. And I called in to an old couple. I found them sitting there, they were dressed up to the nines. He was in his blue suit wi a white hankie, she had a brown coat wi a fur collar and she was wearing a bonnet. The air was heavy wi the smell o mothballs. [laughs]. They were waiting for a car to take them to the Senior Citizens Burns Supper. Now I'd spoken at that event the previous year and I was quite interested to know who was speaking. 'Naebody's spikkin!' they said, 'we're gan there tae enjoy wirselves' [laughs]
     Now I've started spikking, so I'll continue. But I guarantee your suffering will be reasonably short. We've a spotty dog, it's a Dalmatian. And the last thing I did tonight before I left home was to walk him down the village. Now I was dressed like this. And there was a chap with a Mintlaw sweatshirt and he momentarily left off spraying rude words in the bus shelter and he said 'are you a piper?'. He looked, the dog and I, up and down and he said 'what's the difference between a dalmation and a Mighty White sliced loaf?' Now I was sure I'd heard this before, but I was momentarily nonplussed, 'they're a different kinda breed athegither.' [laughs]
     Now in my book, the true Burns supper enthusiast is a totally different kinda breed. With memories of how ill he was at Hogmanay just beginning to fade, he's been getting into training to worship the spirit of the Bard. Be it, Glenmorangie, Macallan, Dewar's, Bells or in extreme circumstances even Guinness. The true enthusiast is male. Not for him enjoyable social occasions like this in charming company. No, no. He digs out his kilt, his hairy sporran, his white socks, his skean dhu, his black jacket and his bow-tie and looking remarkably like a cross between a penguin and a parrot he orders a taxi to the scene of the affray with an option on an ambulance to get home [laughs]. I once sat at a top table, with my glass of fizzy water waiting to speak, and I watched in total amazement eight grown men sink six bottles of fine malt whisky and one of them had his own bottle of vodka. And for most of the time one of them wasn't drinking. He probably couldn't reach his glass from where he lay under the table. [laughs] Now all this is more to do with Highland Games, ceilidhs and Wolfstone concerts than a Burns celebration. Because Burns was a lowland poet, and he little contact with breekless highlanders and he found their tartans just as incomprehensible as their Gaelic. 'What though unhomely fare we dine, we're hungry and a that, gie fools their silk and knaves their wine, a man's a man for a that'. The very 'hodden grey' that I was to wear tonight before I chickened out and put on ma kilt, well I have a kilt, I dinna have a hodden. He talks of homely fare, and in his day the fare was certainly very homely. But I suppose it was a lot healthier than the junk food that we eat now. And it seems to me quite ironic that haggis should be the annual delicacy eaten in his honour. Because the poem as we heard tonight was written in a style of high spirited mockery. Burns mocked a lot. He was an archetypal Scot, with a total disrespect for mindless authority, and a very nice way of putting it. You find people like that all over Scotland, sadly most of them don't have the poetic genius. And mainly the Burns types come from the Southwest. There's a famous Scottish footballer, and this is a true story, and he was playing in a Scotland England international match and the referee was having an absolutely abysmal game. Some of his decisions had baffled everybody and after one such, the famous Scottish footballer approached him and said      'Hey Jimmy! What would you say if I called you a stupid bastard.'
     And he said 'I'm sorry, I'd have no choice, I'd have to red card you.'
     'What would you say if I just thought you were a stupid bastard?'
     'Well there's absolutely no crime in thinking, there's absolutely nothing I could do.'
     'Well I think you're a stupid bastard!'. [laughs]

I find Robert Burns a very enigmatic figure both in his life and in his writing and it's not helped by the slants and the prejudices of his various biographers. He had the reputation of being a drunkard, and one his first biographers, The Reverend Dr James Currie, gave us gospel the liquid legend of Robert Burns the alcoholic. 'Perpetually stimulated by alcohol in one of its various forms' he said. But then the Reverend Dr was a rabid teetotaller. But Burns himself didn't help. He said frequently he wrote his best poetry when he was drunk: 'Oh whisky soul o plays and pranks, accept a bardie's grateful thanks, when wantin thee what tameless cranks are my poor verses, thou comes they rattle in their ranks and tae their airses!' [laughs]
It has always bothered me that the Welsh accept Dylan Thomas for his poetry as do the Americans with John Betjeman, and they were both drunks. And there are a lot of odd poets about. But we Scots, and I suppose with shades of cold-religion, strict Presbyterianism, and total abstinence don't judge the man and his writings at all but raise huge moral issues about his life. That he loved woman is not in any doubt: 'Their tricks and crafts hiv put me daft, they've taen me in and a that, but clear yer decks and here's the six, I love the jauds for a that'.
     His works abound with poignant love songs. He had from eleven to fifteen children depending on who you believe. Nine were definitely in lawful wedlock, but to him they were all his children: 'Welcome my bonnie sweet wee dauchter, though you came here a wee unsaucht for, I'll nivver rue the trouble wi ye, nor cost the shame o it, but be a loving father to thee, and brag the name o it.' The Child Support Agency would have had a field day. [laughs]
      James Barr another of the biographers, wallowed in all of this, but I feel you've got to allow something for changing thoughts and changing times. Life was much more basic then, much more basic than even John Major wants to get back to. There was no television, there was no aids, sex was not a spectator sport. I feel that we judge historical events and other cultures by our own contemporary standards and our personal points of view. Burns was a man of his age. He was for a time an exciseman, and to him VAT was what the whisky was fermented in. What would he have made of cybernetics or state of the art technology. What would he have thought of biological engineering or the test tube baby situation. They called the baby 'Pyrex' after it's father. Robert Burns was writing long before the language was corrupted by mass communications, plastics and pre-packed opinions. When Atomic was a male Irish pussy cat, and Mastrich implied that mother was a disciplinarian. And what would he have made of condoms? Probably a sizeable profit for Ye Olde Londonium Rubber Company [laughs]. Could he have written 'My love is like a red, red rose that's newly sprung in June, my love is like a melody' to a pruned haired white-face nymphete, with more rings in her ears and studs in her nose than a prize Suffolk tup! [laughs]
      Burns wrote most of his poetry in Scots, the language that the Buchan Heritage is pledged to protect. In his case it was the Doric of the south-west. Now tonight is one of my Scots bashing nights, for here's another complaint: Why are we so apologetic about our language? The Basques and the French Canadians have dual street signs, the Catalans their own newspapers, the Norwegians made a huge issue of their dialect when they declared independence in the 1920's. We I think in Scotland are infected by the British society. Class. It is not good class to speak Scots. It's aricht in the bothy or the neep park, but not in the church, the school or the doctor's surgery. To name but three!. But how would your ladies react if your doctor greeted you with (broad accent) 'Come awa wifie! Noo jist get aff yer knickers and climbie up on the beddie ower ere!'. [laughs] And why do all our Scottish nationalists speak standard English. Back in the days when we had railways up here, before a certain English doctor Beecham took them away. There was an English official up on business at Maud. He went to get the train back to Aberdeen, but sitting in the station it was completely empty. Now a helpful guard suggested that he might go for a 'wee walk' as it was 'mart day', and 'estimated time of departure might be a wee bittie ahin'. He placed his copy of The Times and briefcase on a seat and he set off to view the delights of that jewel of central Buchan. On returning he found that the train was absolutely packed. He sought out the compartment where he had left his things and politely asked if anyone had seen them. 'Aye' he was told, 'they're in the rack'. 'In my part of the country', he said, 'when one places one's Times and one's briefcase on a seat, one considers that that seat is booked'. 'Oh aye, weel, but ye see, up here in Buchan it's airses that coont'. [laughs]
      The English official had been carrying out a survey and when he was in one of the hotels in Strichen the innkeeper had pointed out the oldest inhabitant of the village, who was sitting quietly minding his own business and drinking in a corner. He walked across and said 'pleased to meet you my good man. Have you lived here all your life?'. 'Nae yet'. [laughs]
      To celebrate other Scottish poets, first a Doric poem about the effects of working in potato field.

'The Tatties'

Fair fou'nered. Gait naickit.
Ticht aboot the queets.
Fumble fingered. Sma backit
God I canna pint ma beets

And secondly a verse on a poem from on Glasgow from Scotland's alternative national bard, William McGonagall.

'There's a statue of Robert Burns in George square
And the treatment he received was very unfair
Now when he's dead, Scotland's sons do for him mourn
But alas to them he never can return.'

Robert Burns was a universal poet of rare sensitivity. He was a poet of the people and it is from his writings that we should judge the man. Read through yourself, sometime, the whole of that biting satire of Holy Willie's Prayer and just think of the story line and the wonderful language of Tam o' Shanter when Charles Birnie gives it later and just pick up all the eminently quotable quotes. Melt the heart of your nearest and dearest with 'when in my arms with a thy charms I clasp my countless treasure, I seek nae mair o heaven tae share than seek a moment's pleasure'. Stand up and shout 'A man's a man for a that!' And join hands with the whole human race for Auld Lang Syne. We Scots are rightly proud of Robert Burns for the poetry, for the humanity and for collecting, refurbishing and preserving hundreds of old Scots songs which would otherwise have been lost. We should celebrate of him so far, whether the wholesale slaughter of so many innocent haggises. [End of side A.]

[Steve Crockett, cont.] ….I don't know. But I'd ask you to stand, raise your glasses, and whatever is in them, join me in the toast 'Robert Burns, the national and international poet.'

[All] Rabbie Burns. [Applause.]

[John Sorrie] Thank you very much Dr Crockett. We will now indeed go on to Charles Birnie, and we'll have 'Tam o' Shanter'.

[CB] Ah, I think as a precaution, I'll give Isabel the book. I learned this first when I was seventeen and I'm still tryin tae say it noo that I'm near seventy! [laughs]. She winna get ony thanks for ye quine for promptin, it's like fan we're drivin ye ken in Aiberdeen. She says, 'at wis reed!', and I says 'well we're throw noo!'. [laughs] Well anyway, it's there somewhere Isabel. Right, em.. (walks about).

[?] Excuse the top table while we turn wir back on abody. [Sounds of chairs being moved.]

[CB] 'Tam o' Shanter'

Fin chapman billies leave the street,
And drouthy neighbours, neighbours, meet;
As market days are wearing late,
And folk begin to tak the gate,
While we sit bousing at the nappy,
An' getting fou and unco happy,
We think na on the lang Scots miles,
The mosses, waters, slaps and stiles,
That lie between us and our hame,
Where sits wir sulky, sullen dame,
Gathering her brows like gathering storm,
Nursing her wrath to keep it warm.

This truth fand honest Tam o' Shanter,
As he frae Ayr ae night did canter:
Auld Ayr, wham ne'er a town surpasses,
For honest men and bonnie lasses.

Tam! had'st thou but been sae wise,
As taen thy ain wife Kate's advice!
She tauld thee weel thou was a skellum,
A blethering, blustering, drunken blellum;
That frae November till October,
Ae market-day thou was na sober;
That ilka melder wi the Miller,
Thou sat as lang as thou had siller;
That ev'ry naig was ca'd a shoe on
The Smith and thee gat roarin' fou on;
That at the Lord's house, ev'n on Sunday,
Thou drank wi Kirkton Jean till Monday,
She prophesied that late or soon,
Thou wad be found, deep drown'd in Doon,
Or catch'd wi warlocks in the mirk,
By Alloway's auld, haunted kirk.

Ah, gentle dames! it gars me greet,
To think how mony counsels sweet,
How mony lengthen'd, sage advices,
The husband frae the wife despises!

But to our tale: Ae market night,
Tam had got planted unco right,
Fast by an ingle, bleezing finely,
Wi reaming swats, that drank divinely;
And at his elbow, Souter Johnnie,
His ancient, trusty, drougthy crony:
Tam lo'ed him like a very brither;
They had been fou for weeks the gither.
The night drave on wi sangs an' clatter;
And aye the ale was growing better:
The Landlady and Tam grew gracious,
Wi favours secret, sweet, and precious:
The Soutar tauld his queerest stories;
The Landlord's laugh was ready chorus:
The storm without might rair and rustle,
Tam did na mind the storm a whistle.

Care, mad to see a man sae happy,
E'en drown'd himsel amang the nappy.
As bees flee hame wi lades o treasure,
The minutes wing'd their way wi pleasure:
Kings may be blest, but Tam was glorious,
o'er a' the ills o' life victorious!

But pleasures are like poppies spread,
You seize the flow'r, its bloom is shed;
Or like the snow falls in the river,
A moment white-then melts for ever;
Or like the Borealis race,
That flit ere you can point their place;
Or like the Rainbow's lovely form
Evanishing amid the storm. -
Nae man can tether Time nor Tide,
The hour approaches Tam maun ride;
And sic a night he taks the road in,
As ne'er poor sinner was abroad in.

The wind blew as 'twad blawn its last;
The rattling showers rose on the blast;
The speedy gleams the darkness swallow'd;
Loud, deep, and lang, the thunder bellow'd:
That night, a child might understand,
The deil had business on his hand.

Weel-mounted on his grey mare, Meg,
A better never lifted leg,
Tam skelpit on thro' dub and mire,
Despising wind, and rain, and fire;
Whiles holding fast his gude blue bonnet,
Whiles crooning o'er some auld Scots sonnet,
Whiles glow'rin round wi prudent cares,
Lest bogles catch him unawares;
Kirk-Alloway was drawing nigh,
Where ghaists and houlets nightly cry.

By this time he was cross the ford,
Where in the snaw the chapman smoor'd;
And near the thorn, aboon the well,
Where Mungo's mither hang'd hersel'.
Before him Doon pours all his floods,
The doubling storm roars thro' the woods,
The lightnings flash from pole to pole,
Near and more near the thunders roll,
When, glimmering thro' the groaning trees,
Kirk-Alloway seem'd in a bleeze,
Thro' ilka bore the beams were glancing,
And loud resounded mirth and dancing.

Inspiring bold John Barleycorn!
What dangers thou canst make us scorn!
Wi tippenny, we fear nae evil;
Wi usquabae, we'll face the devil!
The swats sae ream'd in Tammie's noddle,
Fair play, he car'd na deils a boddle,
But Maggie stood, right sair astonish'd,
Till, by the heel and hand admonish'd,
She ventur'd forward on the light;
And, wow! Tam saw an unco sight!

Warlocks and witches in a dance:
Nae cotillon, brent new frae France,
But hornpipes, jigs, strathspeys, and reels,
Put life and mettle in their heels.
A winnock-bunker in the east,
There sat auld Nick, in shape o' beast;
A towzie tyke, black, grim, and large,
To gie them music was his charge:
He screw'd the pipes and gart them skirl,
Till roof and rafters a' did dirl. -
Coffins stood round, like open presses,
That shaw'd the Dead in their last dresses;
And by some devilish cantraip sleight
Each in its cauld hand held a light.
By which heroic Tam was able
To note upon the haly table,
A murderer's banes, in gibbet-airns;
Twa span-lang, wee, unchristened bairns;
A garter which a babe had strangled:
A knife, a father's throat had mangled.
Whom his ain son of life bereft,
The grey-hairs yet stack to the heft;
Wi mair of horrible and awfu',
Which even to name wad be unlawfu'.

As Tammie glowr'd, amaz'd, and curious,
The mirth and fun grew fast and furious;
The Piper loud and louder blew,
The dancers quick and quicker flew,
The reel'd, they set, they cross'd, they cleekit,
Till ilka carlin swat and reekit,
And coost her duddies to the wark,
And linkit at it in her sark!

Now Tam, O Tam! had they been queans,
A' plump and strapping in their teens!
Their sarks, instead o' creeshie flainen,
Been snaw-white seventeen hunder linen!-
Thir breeks o' mine, my only pair,
That ance were plush o' guid blue hair,
I wad hae gien them off my hurdies,
For ae blink o' the bonie burdies!
But wither'd beldams, auld and droll,
Rigwoodie hags wad spean a foal,
Louping an' flinging on a crummock.
I wonder did na turn thy stomach.

But Tam kent what was what fu' brawlie:
There was ae winsome wench and waulie
That night enlisted in the core,
Lang after ken'd on Carrick shore;
For mony a beast to dead she shot,
And perish'd mony a bonie boat,
And shook baith meikle corn and bear,
And kept the country-side in fear;
Her cutty sark, o' Paisley harn,
That while a lassie she had worn,
In longitude tho' sorely scanty,
It was her best, and she was vauntie.
Ah! little ken'd thy reverend grannie,
That sark she coft for her wee Nannie,
Wi twa pund Scots 'twas a' her riches,
Wad ever grac'd a dance of witches!

But here my Muse her wing maun cour,
Sic flights are far beyond her power;
To sing how Nannie lap and flang,
A souple jade she was and strang,
And how Tam stood, like ane bewitch'd,
And thought his very een enrich'd:
Even Satan glowr'd, and fidg'd fu' fain,
And hotch'd and blew wi might and main:
Till first ae caper, syne anither,
Tam tint his reason a thegither,
And roars out, "Weel done, Cutty-sark!"
And in an instant all was dark:
And scarcely had he Maggie rallied.
When out the hellish legion sallied.

As bees bizz out wi angry fyke,
When plundering herds assail their byke;
As open pussie's mortal foes,
When, pop! she starts before their nose;
As eager runs the market-crowd,
When "Catch the thief!" resounds aloud;
So Maggie runs, the witches follow,
Wi mony an eldritch skreich and hollow.

Ah, Tam! Ah, Tam! thou'll get thy fairin!
In hell, they'll roast thee like a herrin!
In vain thy Kate awaits thy comin!
Kate soon will be a woefu' woman!
Now, do thy speedy-utmost, Meg,
And win the key-stone o' the brig;
There, at them thou thy tail may toss,
A running stream they dare na cross.
But ere the keystane she could make,
The fient a tail she had to shake!
For Nannie, far before the rest,
Hard upon noble Maggie prest,
And flew at Tam wi furious ettle;
But little wist she Maggie's mettle!
Ae spring brought off her master hale,
But left behind her ain grey tail:
The carlin claught her by the rump,
And left poor Maggie scarce a stump.

Now, wha this tale o' truth shall read,
Ilk man and mother's son, take heed:
Whene'er to drink you are inclin'd,
Or Cutty-sarks rin in your mind,
Think ye may buy the joys o'er dear;
Remember Tam o' Shanter's mare.

[Applause; break in tape.]

…watch the salmon leap again, here in bonnie Scotland,
Hear the piper far away, playing at the close of day,
Come again he seems to say, back to bonnie Scotland.

Hear the piper far away, playing at the close of day,
Come again he seems to say, back to bonnie Scotland,
Come again he seems to say, back to bonnie Scotland.


[Dod] Thank you. I jist eh, reminded me a story when Mr Birnie wis spikkin aboot gan through the reid light. I wis in this taxi one day and we were gan alang the street, come to a red light and he jist went right through. And I says, just a minute, shoulda stopped ere. Oh no, he says, at's just a bit o nonsense. I says, fa learned you to drive? Ma brither. He comes the red lights and a. So the next red light he gaed flying through it sure enough, and the next een we came till, just turned to green, he jammed on the brakes. I says, fit's up noo. He says, ma brither's mebbe comin doon the ither wey! [laughs]
Another wee tune this time and this is called the 'Jim Watson Two Step'

[?] And this one, ladies and gentlemen was composed by Dod himsel.



Thank you. This wee fella said to his dad, is it true dad that we come from dust and when we die we return to dust. Aye son, that would be right, his dad says. He says, would ye hae a look aneth my bed, there's somebody either comin or goin.

And a wee song from Alan now, and this is a Burns song, 'My Love is Like a Red, Red Rose.'

O my Love is like a red, red rose,
That's newly sprung in June,
O my Love is like the melody,
That's sweetly played in tune.

As fair thou art, my bonnie lass,
So deep in love am I,
And I will love thee still, my dear,
Till a' the seas gang dry.

Till a the seas gang dry, my dear,
And the rocks melt wi the sun,
And I will love thee still, my dear,
While the sands o' life shall run.

And fare-thee-weel, my only love!
And fare-thee-weel, a while!
And I will come again, my love,
Though twere ten thousand mile!

And fare-thee-weel, my only love!
And fare-thee-weel, a while!
And I will come again, my love,
Though it were ten thousand mile!

Though it were ten thousand mile!
Though it were ten thousand mile!
And I will come again, my love,
Though it were ten thousand mile!


Thank you.

This time's a wee song by wir old friend, Charlie Allan, 'The Old Folks on the Wa.'

I have gey near hyowed the hail dreel, and grazed the lang park noo.,
My bairnies they are scattered and idle stands my ploo,
I am left here wi my memories, scythe, tapner, swingletree,
And my hoosie's wa's are harled wi the things that used tae be.

I hiv picters, aye in dizzens, though they bear nae fancy names;
There's some hings in the parlour aa done up in gilded frames.
But there's een that hings among them, it's my favourite o them aa,
Jist a douce auld-fashioned photo, o the auld folks on the wa.

There's a paintin o Loch Lomond. and Burns at the ploo,
Some Red Deer on the hillside, and the Greys at Waterloo.
There's a moonrise in the gloamin ower some auld historic ha,
But somehow my ee aye wanders tae the auld folks on the wa.

I can see the Clydesdales swingin as they clatter up the close,
The single men wi bonnets aff come in tae get their brose.
There's a lonely curlew skirlin by tae the muir. [End of Side B.]


back to top