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| Berryhill (With apologies to Sir Patrick Spens , Tamlane & S.T.Coleridge) The Cooncil sits in Gordon Hoose Drinkin the peat-broon tea "O, fitna ferlie can wi big Ti tryst tourists ti Bennachie? "For the Garioch is a bonnie lan, As far as the e’e can see, The acres wide a’ ben Donside At the Fit o’ Bennachie. "Bit there’s nae wealth in wir acres Since the wird o’ BSE Tourism noo is the crap ti grou At the Fit o’ Bennachie." Then up an spak a Cooncillor wise, Sat at the Chairman’s knee, "Oor ancient stanes are the ae best thing Ti tryst tourists ti Bennachie!" The Cooncil his written a braid letter An sealed it wi their han Ti seek fa can design a place Ti keep ancient ferlies in. "Faar will we get a bonnie firm That will wirk for meat an fee An big ti his a stately dome At the Fit o’ Bennachie?" " O, here are we, a bonnie firm That will wirk for meat an fee We will big ti you a stately dome At the Fit o’ Bennachie! "We’ll cover’t wi the smooth green grass The greenest grass ye’ll ever see So nane will ken there’s a man-made dome At the Fit o’ Bennachie. "An in it Stannin Stanes will rise An scenes o ancient legends fa’ Fae state o’ th’art technology Onti ilka concrete wa’. "An on the slope a hoose will stan’ Thacket wi the heather fine Wi the lost airt fowk eest ti hae In lang syne Neolithic time." Then up an spake an eldern knicht Bade in Strathbogie toon, "Oh, faar will ye get the siller fae Ti big this stately dome?" "O, we will get that siller Faar ye will ne’er get nane, For we’ll get that very siller Fae Brussels ower the fame." At Berryhill did Cullanain A stately pleasure dome decree Faar coontless costly contracts ran Throu fundin fathomless to man At the Fit o’ Bennachie "Faar did ye get five million poun At the Fit o’ Bennachie Fin Huntly fowk can nae get funds Ti sort a place ti pee?" "O, we did get that siller Faar there is nane for you, For local piddlin problems Dinna fash the great EU." At Berryhill did Cuillanain A futuristic dome decree Faar wa’s o’ virgin concrete ran Throu alcoves measureless to man At the Fit o’ Bennachie. They hidna howkit a week, a week, A week bit barely three, Fin the eldern knicht he beat his breast An grat at Bennachie. "Ye’re spennin a’ wir Cooncil’s goud An a’ wir Cooncillors’ fee A’ for the sake o’ a glaurie hole It’s nae eese ti you or me!" Lang, lang a ladye looket Oot ower her kailyard wa An sair upon the dubbie foons She sa the rain doonfa. An deep an deeper grew the peel, It looket like the sea. "Abody here will seen be drooned At the Fit o’ Bennachie!" There wis nae mair funds ti reef the dome Nor drain the dubbie bree. There wis be naething bit a glaury soss At the Fit o’ Bennachie. The Cooncil his gaithered solemnly An sent for SQE An mony war the weary wirds At the Fit o’ Bennachie. O I forewarn ye, Cooncillors a’ That sit in the Trustees’ chair, Them that gings ti Berryhill Comes solvent hame nae mair O mony wis the sleepless nichts O mony a sad Trustee, Fin aye they thocht on the dubbie soss At the Fit o Bennachie "An fit aboot thon bonnie firm That wid wirk for meat an fee An big ti his a stately dome At the Fit o’ Bennachie! "They promised his the best IT That ever ye laid hans upon Bit fin it cam hame ti Berryhill It wis forever brakkin doon. "The stannin stanes they widna rise, The computer programs widna rin, For a’ it we cwid click an clunk They widna wirk at openin time. "An on the hill there beasts did roam, Beasts sic like’s there aye will be, That ate a’thing they shouldna aet At the Fit o’ Bennachie. "An on the slope a hoose did stan Half-thacket wi the heather fine. They cudna get mair heather poo’ed For the rain forever dingin on. "The girse wis slippin aff the Dome, The car park wis a glaurie hole, The North-wast view ti Dunnideer Wis connached bi a hydro pole." Syne up an spak a ladye fair*, Weel read in ancient lore wis she, "We’ll hae ti gyang an seek the help O’ Jock o’ Bennachie. "Noo Jock aneth Craig Shannoch sleeps An lang syne tint his been the key, But if ye speak the ancient wirds He’s bound ti grant ye favours three. "The nicht it is Mid Simmers E’en, The morn Mid Simmer’s Day, An gin ye dare yer Dome ti save, It’s time ye war away. "First ging by the black rock, An syne ging by the broon. Bit fin ye come ti the fite quarz stane It’s there ye maan sit ye doon. "First speir for the health o’ Jock o’ Noth, An syne for the Lady Anne, An syne ye maan speir for Jock himsel Wi yer han on the fite quarz stane. "Fin ye speir for Jock o’ Noth He’ll min’on Jock’s afa drouth An drain’ a’ the bree fae his ain hill Fit Oot ower ti the Tap o’ Noth. "An fin ye speak o’ the Lady Anne Sae happy his dreams will be The sun will shine the Simmer lang For miles roon Bennachie. "An fin ye speir for Jock himsel, Sae hert-touch’t he will be , He’ll cast a spell o’ richt gweed will For miles roon Bennachie." "The nicht it’s dingin’ on sleet an sna’, The morn’s Mid Simmer’s Day. Gin ye dare yer Dome ti save, It’s time ye war away. Mid Simmer Day dawned fair an clear, The yalla wis on the breem, The scent o’ the funs wis in the air An the Dome wis grassy green. On Berryhill the carynx boomed An in the carpark vehicles gleamed Five thoosan year wis glimmerin there At the Fit o’ Bennachie. An Romans focht wi paintet Picts, An Cooncillers cam ti see, An the sun shone doon on ane an a’ At the Fit o’ Bennachie. An Tourists cam, an still they cam, An the park wis crooded sair. Says Peter til brave Alan then, "The place will haad nae mair!" "Turn roon! Turn roon!"says Alan Ti the hoards aboot at the gate. "Haad doon, haad doon that lang roadside. "It’s there ye’ll need ti wait." Up an spak a ladye syne, An rael sair-made wis she, "I canna win oot o’ my ain kailyard At the Fit o’ Bennachie. "For they’ve blocket ma yetts wi their parkin, A’ the fowk that’s come ti see That new-fangled Dome an aal-farrant things At the Fit o’ Bennachie. Bit welcome, a’, an heist ye back Ti the Fit o’ Bennachie!" Noo, the Garioch is a bonnie lan. As far as the e’e can see, There’s streams o’ cars gyan nose ti tail Wi tourists ti Bennachie. They queue up at the grassy dome For prehistory an cups o’ tea Tourism noo is the crap that grows At the Fit o’ Bennachie. There ilka day dawns fair an clear, There’s nae mair dubbie bree, An there’s richt gweed will ti ane an a’ At the Fit o’ Bennachie. |
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| © P J Goodall | ||
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