Best Scotsman Poems
From Edinburgh’s Waverley to Kings Cross
At journey's rest before terminating chaos,
Winding through the serene countryside
Spying a glimpse of the North Sea tide,
Rolling along in my soul a rhythmic song
Dismissing the world and all that’s wrong,
At our head the streamline ‘Silver Link’
Amazing speed pressure gauge to the brink,
There I was with pad and my faithful pen
A number one hit it was way back then.
‘Mighty engine wayward theme
Piston rods ejecting steam
Vibrant alive this the motion
From city town to the ocean
Feeling now the huff and puff
Screaming whistle growls and guff
Enduring rhyme upon the track
Rhythm of the clickity clack.’
Flying Scotsman express service between
London and Edinburgh and vice versa,,
Silver Link one of the 32 A4 Pacific locomotives
that pulled the express the 396 miles non stop
at speeds of 110 to 120 mph and this the 1930's
© Harry J Horsman 2015
With a snakelike hiss, the train doors close
the engine rocks and rumbles on clicking
over welded metal couplings: iced, glazed, froze,
the steam heat in clouds arose, rail licking.
On velvet we sit, lace behind our heads,
stewards bring tea for the clock is ticking.
High tea at five, we're fed like thoroughbreds
for dinners late (at eight) in formal dress.
A honeymoon for two not quite purebreds.
1/24/15
The Flying Scotsman went from London to Edinburgh, keen,
And to remind us of security and nature it was painted green,
I knew, had dinner with one of its drivers
Who said it was one of his best endeavours,
‘Cos he always knew where he was going and where he’d been.
Big Ben strikes ten, depart Kings Cross.
Squeal of tight wheel, where lines criss-cross.
Clickety-clack. Clickety clack.
Now heading north-bound on fast track.
Leave city sprawl in grey and grime
for now we're on East Coast mainline
in rural space, expanse of green,
where all around, countryside scene.
My window view is flashing by,
too fast for focus of my eye.
Field after field, farming landscape.
Golden barley, bright yellow rape.
Wood with coppice, hedge and hawthorn.
Few grazing sheep looking forlorn.
On steep hillside, deserted farm,
red-brick decay falling down barn.
Whistle warning, speed through stations,
each one gone in just two seconds.
Now reach Yorkshire where engine built.
Accelerating to full tilt.
Non-stop on straight, all clear ahead.
And now we hit the full hundred.
Still at top speed and close to coast.
Through industry, of the North East.
Now parallel to Roman road,
to Edinburgh with full payload.
We're nearly there and right on time.
Now slowing down for station line.
Clickety-clack. Clickety-clack.
Over the points to platform track.
Arrive on time in the city,
the clock showing just six thirty.
A Scotsman voyaged through the highlands
Thickly covered with lush, purple heather
Kilt adorned and bare, his regions nether
Feeling breezy on this, a grand endeavor
He trekked across enjoying balmy weather
Heather gray sky and ben blend together
Through the loch did wet his boots of leather
The effort causing removal of his sweater
Warm with heather yarns the colours speckle
He laid it on the hillside and rested, however
Off in the purple heather shrub was a new treasure
A lass holding a bouquet of aforementioned heathers
Whether or not she knew, she blushed behind her freckles
And when she saw him, the meeting was a pleasure
Her laugh as soft and light as a floating feather
They grew a love that no one could deem to measure
Happily ever after, and of course, her name was...Gertrude
A Scotsman who searched for a wife
was tired of his solitary life;
he dated a few,
before people knew
he rogered the cattle in Fife...
for Charles' contest
apologies to any Scotsmen!
TIGHT WAD
Yer cannie, as cannie be.
Nae sloutch, or frivolous, spend-thrift, ye.
Whose coin, to feered to leave the purse,
-in-case it’s ye’sd tae quench the thirst.
O, the ither, who just stood ye one.
Now sitting empty as a drouthy burn,
as he waits on you to stand your turn.
He taps his glass, he looks at you,
A bead of sweat runs doon your broo.
There’s nae way oot o this one noo.
Ye steady yer-sel, ye are resigned.
Then an idea springs tae mind.
You dig deep, you rummage roond.
The ither hopes its coin you’ve foond.
But you pull oot your watch instead,
his face is thunder yours turns red.
But not of shame, but by reprieve,
for the precious coin that’s now been
saved--to see the light of a-nither day,
as you prepare to go your way.
Jings is that the time, you will exclaim.
It’s time that you were getting hame.
And as you leave to go on your way,
I’ll catch you next time you will say,
As you pat you’re purse, well hidden away,
Your coinage safe for a-nither day.
A poem by john scott