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| "Fower bairns, Aa' til different fathers!" We said in the staffroom Wi the gowd o' grace On oor weddin fingers. "An her but in her early twenties!" We said that hid spent Oor teenage years Amon books an bland professors. A sma bit quinie Wi a face for dreams She cam ti meet her bairnies At the skweel. The youngest craitur hung on till her han As though she wis God's ain Mither Stracht fae yon starry nicht in Bethlehem. Oh, Quine, Quine! Fit dream did ye hae? Fit blue skies did ye see the gither? Fit flooers grew roon yer feet? Fa did ye think ye hid in yer airms Fin ye wis conceivin yon bairnies? Fa are we Wi oor buiks an oor biggins An wir weddin rings Ti cast the stane at you? Fin we lie wi wir men Atween lawfu wedded sheets Div we nae dream them Back ti the loons we thocht they war That wid kill dragons And capture kingdoms for's? Them it wid hardly teem the moose trap Or conter the Cooncil Tax for's noo? Naa, we abandonned wir dreams An took wir rings An wir biggins An wir lawfu born bairns. Bit you seek on for yours. |
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| © P J Goodall | ||
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