Scotland

SCOTLAND Very big sign on highway A1 going southways Out of Scotland into England, Painted with thistles, tartans, bagpipes, says “Haste ye back to bonnie Scotland”. The other side of road has a small squat Stone saying one word - “England” - and that’s that. I am not Scottish: there’s nobody perfect about. But I’m the closest thing to I reckon: I am a Geordie, a Scot with brains knocked out. But mother often told me I was not born - But conceived in Scotland - the Trossachs; But nevertheless, still one of the Sassenachs. I know Scotland as well as I know my hand: Have crossed the mighty Forth bridges countless times, Know the “charms” of Dundee’s sandstone tenement-land, Breakfasted at the huge dining table with clock chimes In Carbisdale Castle youth hostel, at ease; And sawed logs for firewood from its fir trees. I’ve hitched with Glaswegian drivers on the Campsie Moors And listened to their pleasant chatter In heavy dialect for twa hoors Without understanding a word, for that matter; And often had a dram and been merry With the crewmen on the Ballachulish ferry. The fact is that Scotland is the most Beautiful part of the world I’ve ever known And the Scots are a warm generous host Always pleased to help a stranger on his own. A pub-reading of Burns’ Tam O’ Shanter From a soft Scots lilt is a real enchanter. And when you go south on the A1, All you find is just England. That’s probably why they want You to haste back to their bonnie land. Kilts and haggis, the list is endless: And while you’re there you won’t be friendless.