Sunday School Picnics
by Jenny S Stewart

A getherane at e motor stance all waitin on a bus,
Wi buckids speyds an full o spirits, causin quite a fuss,
Wur mams wi cotton frockies on, an teychurs weyrin cheens
Lek regimental sergeant majors, couldna quel wur beans.

A bussie comin, double decker, new fey Staxigoe,
No need till rush ere for a seyt, no room abeen ablow,
E nixt lock empty, doors let go, lek bees let oot a hive
We belted ower till fecht for pleyss, e action meyd us thrive.

Wi streamers hingin fey e windows, singin lek till burst,
Arrived at Dinnad, throtties sore complete wi ragin thirst,
Wur moarnane baggies all dished oot, a pie some crisps a scone,
All wholesome meyt for growin bairns wi no chiel left alon.

Then, till e beach, pure ecstacy, a whole day on e san',
Could gie more pleasure than a trip till far flung foreign lan',
Wur sand-castles a work o art, then treasure hunt for shell,
A reyce along e golden beach, a paddle in e swell.

An mam wid open up hur bag an dish hur goodies oot,
Sangwidges for ivry chiel an plenty more no doot,
Wrapped in loff bags sma squeyr parcels, eych a mystery,
Wis id eigg an san' or spam an san' till feast on all e day?

'Boot half past fower, we'd climm e dunes till go back till e hall,
For cups o tea an "fancy baggies", boy, we'd hed a ball,
A bus lod fill o sunburnt feycies sleepy eyes an smiles,
All dreymin o goin back nixt year till pass e homeward miles.