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   Poems from the Old Days                                        

I'm A Scout
W T Lyall

Thur wis ei a great commotion in ai hoose on Friday nicht,
1 lost ma leather woggle, 1 couldna' see'd in sicht.
I raked in every cupboard an' raivled all ma stuff,
At last 1 found ade b'low ai bed, covered up in fluff.

Ma neckerchief is crimson red, ma shirt an' shorts new pressed,
Ma mither says she's awful gled till seem me kinda dressed.
Ma crumpled hat is second-hand, an' looks lek an ould sou'wester,
But I've chuist chined a Week Boy Scouts, an' Johnny Yuille's  Scoutmester.           

Johnny hez he's work cut oot wi' twel' patrols till muster,
A hundred boygies runnin'daft, ai best o' men wid fluster.
But wur Scoutmester's in command, an' get's us sorted oot,
Ai first thing every scout must do, is pass he's tenderfoot.

I'm tvin' reefs an' bowlines wi'a gret beeg lump o'rop
Roond turns an' half hitches, ades me 'ats in ai knot.
An' then 1 hev till learn ai flags, ma heid's goin' roond and roond,
1 even learnt when ai Union jack is flyin' upsides doon.

Johnny gets us all in line, he's got some news till reveal,
Wur beidin' sooth for summer camp, till sunny Letherinwheel.
So all ai gear is loaded up in Johnny's Bedford van,
Tents an' poles, hampers o' food, kettles, pots and pans.

An ould kit bag chuist hads ma gear, I've got ade up till scratch,
Sop an' toowal, socks an' shirt, an' chammas' at dinna match.
A knife, a fork, a spoon, a mug, a pleit all packed an' clean,
Twa blankets do for a sleepin' bag tied up wi' safety peens.

Seventeen miles in a highland bus, we hed a richt good laff,
At last we arrive at Letherinwheel an' pitch wur tents up ai strath.
We'll all explore iss strange new world, river, hills an' trees,
An' soon we'll learn some fact o' life, midges, wasps an' bees.

But first we hev wur chores till do, choppin' an' sawin' wood,
Water till lift feh a distant well, an' cookin' lovely food.
Bangers fryin' on a smoky fire make houngry bowgies crave,
Johnny splutters in flame an' smok, workin' lek a slave.

Treasure hunts an' long hill hikes, in sun an' win' an' rain,
We practise semaphore signals, an' play all kinds o' games.
Wur on ai move feh morn till nicht, thurs not wan scout takes long,
at nicht ai flames is lickin' high, as we sing wur campfire songs.

'Iss scraggy tot went off till ai church, ai minister's wife chuist glanced,
But we ended up hevin' efternoon tea, in a grounds o' a parish manse,
But now ades time till lower ai flag, wur swere till break up camp,
’Iss wanderin' youth returns till horn, happy tired an' damp.

But winter months are on us now, an' funds are gettin' low,
Birds o' a feather must flock together, prepare for ai annual Gang Show.
We make an' paint ai scenes wursels, wi' skills a bitty remote,
Wur handed scripts till learn ai words, till sing or act ai goat.

At last wur ready for opening nicht, stage hands rant and rave,
Ai rifle hall near bursts at ai seams, as we ride 'on ai crest o' a wave".
Comedy, poetry, song an' dance, all kinds o' fancy routines,
Lichts all colours o' ai rainbow, an' ai crowd fair awey wi' ai scene.

Ai audience laffed an' clapped an' cheered, ai Groat said wur standard wis high,
But now ades back till playin' scouts, thurs harder knots till tie.
Ye'll see me climin' Harrow Hill on Friday as a rule,
I'm proud till say ‘at' l'm a scout', wi' Scoutmester Johnny Yuille.