Farewells

Recollections were a little hazy, His leaving party last night, Undying friendships sworn, That last friendly little fight. Goodbye, Scotland the Brave, Home of the warrior Clan, The Batter Fried Mars Bar, The Rangers footie fan, Cool pints of Heavy Plates of ‘taties and neaps, Lining for the stomach After boozy long sleeps. He wore a Black Watch Kilt Hung modestly to his knees With a hem of fishing weights To stop it lifting in the breeze. A sheathed Skean Dhu projected From the top of one long sock As he stood there, a solitary figure, On the banks of his local loch. A supply of Haggis sandwiches Were wrapped in a large pack Carefully stored for his rations In the Bergen on his back. Goodbye porridge mines of Pentland, Casual beating for the Haggis hunt, Time to think of his own future, Best foot forward, Eyes to the Front. One last wistful look around him Then, carefully adjusting his load He took that first step from Scotland Along that long High Road, To the Land of the Sassenach. He was a Scot through and through But in such troubled times as these A man’s got to do what he has to do.