Aw c`mon don`t laff



         The first 2 could have been about me,--------

                 sort of --- In another life of course                   

 

 

                                          The Shotts docken.

                                                      (The story of Tam’s Loup)

                                                                     By 

                          Jacqueline Lightbody.

 

 

There lived in Shotts in olden days,

  A drunkard quite devoid of grace.
           
                  Whom demon drink tried hard to damn,
 

                                                                                  The people called him "drunken Tam"

 

                                                      The only friend he had indeed,

           Was his poor horse, his faithfull steed.

         When Tam was helpless full of drink,

    The horse for him would work and think.

 

        For when Tam couldn’t cope with reins,

              The horse itself had far more brains.

                        And often in the dead of night,

               Would lead Tam home to cottage light.

 

                                         He wasn’t so bad a man at heart,

            And often tried from drink to part

        But what some call “a social grace"

         Had poor Tam held in death’s embrace.

 
 
One night across the bleak Shotts Hill,
 
            The mist came down and bodded ill. 
 
            The horse, though faithful to the end,
 
                    Stumbling blindly, threw his friend.

When on the morn the mist did clear,

              They found poor Tam’s dead body near.

             And then they made another find,

    Which told Tam`s change of heart and mind.

For on the ground where Tam lay sprawled,

      On a docken leaf these words were scrawled.

                    “Twixt the saddle and the ground

                        Mercy was sought and mercy found”.

 

That night Tam got his sudden call,

                And only God who knoweth all.

           Can tell what happened near the sod,

       When Tam went out to meet his God.

This tale is vouched for very well,

          Because the place where poor Tam fell.

            Was called ‘Tam’s Loup’ you’ll see it still,

               Beside the quarry at Shotts Hill,

                 So even in that far off day,


                                 Drunken driving did not pay.

 

______________________________________________

                                                            The second,

                       penned by TR Jardine.  

THE LEGEND OF TAMS LOUP

 

            Tam Baird was a rake and a lecherous chiel,

            Weel faured and guid lookin', a drunkard as weel,

               The lassies A' lo'ed him in spite o' his fame,

      And mony had cause tae repent in their shame.

          

             Each nicht he wad straddle his faithfu' grey mare

                And ride tae the inn tae droon sorrow and care.

                He'd drink wi' his cronies til in the sma hoors,

                He mounted again tae ride hame o'er the moors.

 

      He cared na for bogle or hoolet or wraith,

      Tho'kennin hoo travellers they lured tae their daith.

      He boasted the deil aye looked efter his ain,

      And sae wasna feart tae ride hame a' alane.

 

              So he turned her richt roon on the road past Kates

      Well,

     Where the ghost o' the giant is reputed tae dwell.

     He reeled in the saddle, his senses they swam,

     And e'er reachin' the Quarry was deep in a dwam.

 

     He dreamt o' his youth, o' the lang bygone days,

    Which he spent mang the howes and the flooery green          braes.

     By the week wimplin' burn whauer he paiddled wi' glee,

     And the steep roarin' linn near the auld rowan tree.

 

             He saw the auld school with its girls and its boys,

     The games that they played and their harmless ploys.

     The lang simer days and the deep winter snaws,

     And the wee hoose was hame in the bield o' the shaws.

 

     The Kirk on the Sabbath - the Hymns that he sang,

     The catechism teachin' whits right and whits wrang.

    (But Satan the tempter o' Gods human race,

     Caused Tam tae first stumble, then fa' in disgrace).

 

     He saw himself wastrel, a richt neer do well.

            A freckless, carnapcious, cantankerous chiel,

     And Tam in his anguish and shame groaned aloud

     As he saw his auld Mither sae withered and bowed

       And heard her last words as he hurried away,         

    "O Tam dinnae leave me or whit will I dae".       

    He strood oot the gateway unmoved by her tears,

    And the last thing he heard was her scream in his ears.

 

    Tam woke wi' a start - he had sobered up fast,

    He wis tremblin` wi shame, and regrettin` his past 

         His grey mare had stopped, and she nickered wi` fright,

    As they baith saw a figure surrounded wi' light.

 

    It beckoned tae Tam, and the voice sounded sweet,

          Come nearer Tam Baird,- it`s by chance that we meet,

    And see your bit bairnie, that never drew braith,

    And stroke its cauld pow, - noo Tam dinna be laith!

           The Devil for lang had thocht Tam was his man

    But lately had doots so he harboured a plan

    In case Tam repented before his last braith,

    He'd pay him a a visit and hasten his daith.

 

    And so he conjured on the steep Quarry's side,

    To image the lass Tam refused for his bride.

    Held close tae her briest the wee unchristened waen

    That Tam had disowned and denied was his ain.

 

 

          Tam wanted to rin so he turned his mare fast

     But the biest shied awa' and puir Tam stared aghast

     At the horned appparation there blockin' his way

     And Bess reared in fricht with an earpiercing neigh.

 

     Puir Tam was unsaddled and tossed in the air

     Out over the cliff and he cried in dispair,

     "I repent o' ma sins, a' the ill I hae done,

     Forgie me - " was a 'eer his heid struck the grun.

 

      Tis true, it is said, when man faces death,

      In the moment before he expires his last breath

      His sins ever mounting thro' a the years bye

      Are mirrored distinctly in each victims eye.

 

              And pictured as clear as the sunniest day

      As his memory's film all his misdeeds portray.

      The wild wilfull wrongs, on the steep downward path,

      That merits damnation and heavenly wrath.

 

      Yet always there's time, ev'n at this latest hour,

      To demonstrate Heavens omnipotent power,

      To liberate souls who do honestly rue,

      And cheat the puir deil o' his evident due.

 

      The devil was watchin' and waitin' below,

      When he heard Tam cry out to his immortal Foe.

      He cursed that his plan had been thwarted that day,

      But he'd ithers tae tempt, so he hurried away.

 

             This tale it is true for where Tam's corpse was found,

     In letters of gold printed deep in the ground.

     These words had been written by Angels from Heaven,

     "E'er Tam reached the ground, 

     all his sins were forgiven"



                                                              T.R Jardine

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------             I like this sort of stuff, it lets me pretend i`m smarter than i am,

                                   ---- or something like that.  

                    (Or i only like `em `cause they`ve got my name in `em    ) 

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

This one i remember from way back when Adam was a boy, as far as i know it was written by the  Moody Bluess (i`m guessing Justin Hayward and John Lodge), and i just took a liking to it at the time, it goes something like this: 

 

              When the white eagle of the north is flying overhead
     And the browns, reds and golds of autumn lie in the gutter, dead.
        Remember then, that summer birds with wings of fire flaying
       Came to witness springs new hope, born of leaves decaying.
      Just as new life will come from death, love will come at leisure.
             Love of love, love of life and giving without measure
       Gives in return a wonderous yearn of a promise almost seen.
                   Live hand-in-hand and together we`ll stand

                              On the threshold of a dream.

 

 

                                     (Very 60`s / 70`s, ---  man)

 

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

 Or you could try a bit of Scottish culture, get yer gob round this then:

            Address to a Haggis

                         By Robert Burns

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

        The groaning trencher there ye fill,
        Your hurdies like a distant hill,
        Your pin wad help to mend a mill
        In time o need,
        While thro your pores the dews distil
        Like amber bead.

        His knife see rustic Labour dight,
        An cut you up wi ready slight,
        Trenching your gushing entrails bright,
        Like onie ditch;
        And then, O what a glorious sight,
        Warm-reekin, rich!

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

        Is there that owre his French ragout,
        Or olio that wad staw a sow,
        Or fricassee wad mak her spew
        Wi perfect scunner,
        Looks down wi sneering, scornfu view
        On sic a dinner?

        Poor deil! see him owre his trash,
        As feckless as a wither'd rash,
        His spindle shank a guid whip-lash,
        His nieve a nit;
        Thro bloody 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 whistle;
        An legs an airms, an heeds will sned,
        Like taps o thrissle.

        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 wish her gratefu prayer,
        Gie her a Haggis.

 

                             Or in English:

 

        Fair and full is your honest, jolly face,
        Great chieftain of the sausage race!
        Above them all you take your place,
        Stomach, tripe, or intestines:
        Well are you worthy of a grace
        As long as my arm.

        The groaning trencher there you fill,
        Your buttocks like a distant hill,
        Your pin would help to mend a mill
        In time of need,
        While through your pores the dews distill
        Like amber bead.

        His knife see rustic Labour wipe,
        And cut you up with ready slight,
        Trenching your gushing entrails bright,
        Like any ditch;
        And then, O what a glorious sight,
        Warm steaming, rich!

        Then spoon for spoon, they stretch and strive:
        Devil take the hindmost, on they drive,
        Till all their well swollen bellies by-and-by
        Are bent like drums;
        Then old head of the table, most like to burst,
       'The grace!' hums.

        Is there that over his French ragout,
        Or olio that would sicken a sow,
        Or fricassee would make her vomit
        With perfect disgust,
        Looks down with sneering, scornful view
        On such a dinner?

        Poor devil! see him over his trash,
        As feeble as a withered rush,
        His thin legs a good whip-lash,
        His fist a nut;
        Through bloody flood or field to dash,
        O how unfit.

        But mark the Rustic, haggis-fed,
        The trembling earth resounds his tread,
        Clap in his ample fist a blade,
        He'll make it whistle;
        And legs, and arms, and heads will cut off
        Like the heads of thistles.

        You powers, who make mankind your care,
        And dish them out their bill of fare,
        Old Scotland wants no watery stuff,
        That splashes in small wooden dishes;
        But if you wish her grateful prayer,
        Give her [Scotland] a Haggis!

 

                    I`ve just noticed, it`s beer o`clock again, --- i`m off, see ya.