Rivers are boring when they’re straight, We’ve got the canals for that. But rivers will race and rivers will wait, As they twist through their habitat. They’re in no hurry to terminate, They meander around, and ambulate, Through oxbows of a future-date, Until they’re old and fat. I used to marvel how they’d know Which way to go to flow through ev’ry town. But gravity cares none for to or fro, For fast or slow, As long as they flow down. Rivers are boring when they’re straight, But once they’ve earned the name of ‘great’, They carve their many strands through delta sands, While the hungry sea must wait.
Sometimes, Burns Night falls on the second New Moon, And that marks a brand New Year – So the neeps and the cock-a-leekie share the serving spoon As the beansprouts and riceballs appear. From the docks of Kowloon to the mists of Brigadoon, It all goes in the haggis, and the bamboo pipes the tune – As we all sup together, from Scotland Yard to Scone, In a typhoon of tartan cheer. Now me, I am just a Sassenach poltroon From the billabongs of Perth to the snows of Saskatoon – But a shortbread in my green tea on a global afternoon, And the paddy-fields of glens are very near.
Can I just say what a wonderfully weird experience it is to hear someone read Address to the Haggis in an unapologetically RP accent ?
A strange village, this. But why ? The pub is near the village hall, The church is near the school. The pear trees over-reach the wall, Beside the milking stool. So where precisely does the oddness lie ?
I think it’s in the accents heard – But not of locals, rather Poles, They say “howzat” and “’pon my word” And land the choice Mikado roles. No reason why they shouldn’t, true, But still…they’re more than quite a few…
A strange village this, no doubt. There’s thatch as far as one can see, And rolling downs for views. So why do folks from Italy Fill Church-of-England pews, While Argentines keep bees and run the scouts ?
Speaking English, fishing pike, Or growing leeks and supping beers, And naming local landmarks Like they’d known them all their years. No reason why they shouldn’t, though, Yet change round here is often slow…
A strange village this, alright. As mentioned in the Domesday Book And in the Civil War Where Indians have found a nook Behind the stable door. With a hint of local brogue, but only slight.
And Caribbean morris-men, And Russian gardens with a gnome, And Chinese shepherds down the fen – And yet, so very much at home. No reason why they shouldn’t, Ma’am – They’ve asked me round for tea and jam.
You can tell this poem is out of date by its use of ‘Ma’am’.
I asked her what was the tartan she wore, She smiled and told me Smith. I’d never considered that Clan before, But fair enough – the Smiths of yore, The Sassenachs of Aviemore, The flints in the monolith – The common Clan for the ev’ryman, The hammers and tongs of myth.
She asked me the tartan in which I deck, Buchanan, perhaps, or Brodie, or Beck ? I smiled, and told her Burberry Check.
It seems that the Gaelic word for smith is the origin of the Clan McGowan, but that even before surnames arose in the Highlands, some Scots had Anglisised their profession to ‘smith’.
Cowes, atop the Isle of Wight – East and West, though much the same – Victorian and seaside-y, With boats and seagulls running free. And not a single cow in sight – No running of the bulls – for shame ! No fording droves between the piers, No cowboys showing off their steers. And don’t come here in Cowes Week, right ! It doesn’t live up to its fame ! It’s not the time when bullocks battle, Not a trace of rutting cattle. Why then whet our appetite, To wastes its strange and lively name ? There are no bovine sacrifices, Just cream teas at tourist prices.
I know, I know, despite a spine of rolling chalk downs through the Island, Cowes itself sits atop clay…
Too far North, and barely notice, North, yet swimming in the seas – Where beaches should be icy-cold, There’s ice creams, tans, and mushy peas. There’s little snowfall on the coast As far as even Sixty-North, And days of t-shirt weather stretch For far beyond the Firth of Forth
It’s crazy how the ocean brings The Caribbean to the Clyde, While closer to the Pole than even Fuego is on the other side, And Trondheim firmly basks within Antarctic latitudes, Yet broadleafs line the verdant fjords To show their gratitude.
And not just warmth arrives all year, but rain – And rain it is, not snow – So Western Europe only works because Its crops and people grow. Too far North, and that’s the beauty, Norther than we’ve any right, When Winter Moons are long above And Summer Suns last half the night.
I’ve commented before on how much further North Europe is than North America, at least in terms of their respective population centres. For instance, the Southern point of Hudson Bay lies at the same latitude as London – but whereas the former has polar bears, the latter doesn’t even have them in London Zoo.
She sits on her first floor balcony, Overlooking Casterbridge Square, She sits and sips her Earl Grey tea In the light West Country air – Here in her true-blue toytown Like a tolerated pet, Her flat dressed-up and she dressed-down, As she joins the Georgian set. Dorchester is hard on Hardy – Thomas, yes, but never Keir, And the local Labour party Is about to disappear. But the class-struggle can still advance With the taste of the elites – Should not all workers get the chance To live in pleasant streets ? And yes, she’s aware of their breeze-block hearts, And their ceilings lacking height, And don’t get her started on glazing bars ! But all-in-all, it does alright. Developers on best behaviour, Showing that they can play nice – But oh, the cost for a little flavour ! Beauty has its bogus price.
Of course, whenever HRH comes by, She must lay low As locals swoon and neighbours sigh At the whole boot-licking show – And even when it’s safe to leave And stroll about the place, The very streets still live and breathe With his family’s air and grace. She sees it in the names of roads, The names of buildings, names of shops, She hears it in the toady toads Whose croaking never stops. But the sad fact is, it’s thanks to him That there ever was this town – It may be prim, but never grim, As sparkly as a crown. So yes, she knows, for all her gripes, It’s thanks to him, her joy – For were it left to lefty types Then tower blocks ahoy ! She sits on her balcony under the sun Over the flagstone square – And curses the Tories, but knows they’ve won – For she’d rather be here than there.