James Begg

I’m wishan that the Spring wis here
It canna come too queek
We’d get back ‘till the Partans
Wi our boatie ower in Week
For Partan fishing is the thing
In ony kind o’ weather
Cause fan ye come in from the sea
You’ll always get a blether.

The chiel that come roond for wur crabs
He leks a blether too
About the price o’ feedan’
Cause his shed is full o’ Soes
Iss mannie that I’m talking aboot
I’m sure you will all know
But if ye dinna ken by now
I’ll tell you his name’s Joe.

One day he wis complainan’
On the price‘ ill feed a peeg
If it dina‘ get enough
Hid widna‘ grow ower beeg
Then some chiel telt him fit ‘till do
Hid wis the very dab
That he would get enormous peegs
If he fed them up on crabs.

He tried it oot ‘at very day
An’ his peegied started sproutan’
Then every day that Joe came roond
"More crabs", he kept on shoutan’
For twa or three weeks he kept it up
Then he noticed something wrong
The peeg hed stopped his growan’ oot
And his legs were awful long.

Joe went to pat him on the back
And then he got a shock
He hedna’ got one inch o’ skin
But a shell as hard as rock
Whatever am I goan to do
Said poor Joe, near ‘tll tears
I’ve never seen the lek o’ it
In all my breedan years.

He lay awake all nicht long
He couldna’ sleep a wink
Hid really wis a problem
And his poor mind couldna’ think
Next day his worries were all ower
As easy as can be
The peeg hed changes intil a crab
And gone back ‘till the sea.

Twas on a sunny April day
Allan an’ Peter sailed away
To look their creels at Stroma Isle
It would only take a little while.

Off they set in Peter’s boat
No finer yawl wis ‘ere afloat
They set their course for Lang-a-Toon
Before the ebb came roaran’ doon.

But the tide they hed misjudged a bit
Because the flood wis runnan’ yet
So back they went ‘till Wardie-goe
For a flask o’ tea then back they’d go.

Now Allan he scoffed his tea first
Cause he hed a powerful thirst
But Peter’s bowgie, his wis sore
He’d too much beer the nicht afore.

His poor gums they were achan too
Wi yon false choppers in his moo
So Peter whipped his falsers oot
An’ rolled them in an oily cloot.

The warm tea helped soothe Peter’s bowg
He licked his lips lek ony dowg
Then pit his engine in ‘till gear
The slack tide it wis very near.

Beeg lobsters were in Peter’s heid
As he threw off his crusts o’ breid
He saw them floatan on the swell
He saw that oily rag as well.

He turned the boat as fast’s he could
But it dinna do him ony good
The oily rag wis gone from view
And so were Peter’s false teeth too!.

Now everyday when the weather’s fit
Allan an’ Peter go back there yet
An’ what they are lookin for all the while
Is a lobster with a bright white smile.