Awaiting Her Birthday

Holed up in a Scottish flat all day from six to three, stuffin' my gob with Vol-au-vent and pots of English tea. As ocean slaps the briny stones and swirls the salty air, I'd rather be in my own home than sitting in this chair. Too late to fetch a midwife, too far to drive the quay, While he's at work up here I stay, 'til someone comes for me. I pull myself up to the sash; the window shares a view, of children in their uniforms with tartans green and blue. They walk the steep, uneven lanes and giggle as they play, And soon at last - my own sweet lass will do the same one day.