The Lambin
The Lambin
Huw’s the lambin ganin Jack
Mine’s nowt grate see far,
Deed lambs, kebbed yowes and gay few twins
An the inbye’s a foot deep in glaur.
And that tup Aa got frae Lanark
Was just a gud lookin nowt,
His lambs gye-necked and undershot
An Aa paid enuff for him Aa thowt.
Thor’s nee decent growth on the in-bye haughs
And the Northern’s bagged feed’s ower deor,
Aa’m feared that the milk’ll gan off the yowes
We snaa forecast Aa heaor.
An the best o’ the hoggs are gay middlin te poor
Aa’ll flookeed with big pokey jaas,
Sair skittad an’all with dags right ower thor backs
An te the feel thor aall lean as craas.
An the lambin man’s dun a quick flit by the moon
Taen off wi the byre-man’s dowta,
She’s a canny lass an’all and just left the school
Wi some brains in hor heed ye’d of thowta.
Me owld collie bitch just laid doon an’ deid
So am hevin te work the young pup,
Mind Aa keep him at hand on a gay short hemp rope
Till Norman’s bus has gone up.
Nuw Av ruined the nebs on me Simonside beuts
Burying yowes in holes of hard clay,
So Aa’ll need te catch Norman’s bus the morn’s morn
And a new pair‘ll tek a month’s pay.
But Aa knaa that Am gitten ower owld te farm
And Aa need te spend mare time in the hoose,
But te leave the farm to the eldest son
Am teld is the warst kind of child abuse!
Ode to North Tyne
By A Charlton, (1946), Hyde, Wareham, formerly of Westmorland House, Wark on Tyne.
Oh! North Tyne, dear North Tyne, the home of my heart
Thy memory will never away from my heart,
The home of the dauntless, the fair and the free,
Whose deeds are recorded on land and on sea.
Thy scenes are enchanting through moorland and lea,
From Peel Fell to Hexham on the way to the sea.
Other dales may be fairer, but none can compare
With the expanse of beauty, romantic and rare.
A portion of nature, not other can share, nor compare
With kind hearts, still beating there.
From Falstone to Reedsmouth, and down to the Clint,
Of beauty and grandeur there’s never a stint.
By Lea Hall and Houxty, Chipchase, Houghton and Wall,
The scene of my young days sweet memories recall.
And where’er I may go, or whate’re may betide,
There’s no place to me like my bonny Tyneside.
It was at Wark village I first saw the light
That has spluttered and flickered through the passage of life
And has shown, through those years of pleasure and strife,
That the forces of might still overrule right.
It’s some consolation we certainly know
That whate’er might betide, where’er we may go
With all our errors, or favours we’ve won
We’ll just leave this world as rich as we come.
Old schoolmates have gone, some now far away
In far distant countries our Flag to display,
With sons of the Empire they march hand-in-hand,
To uphold traditions of the dear Motherland.
Some days we shall meet them, and welcome them back
(Those dauntless defenders of the old Union Jack,
To the home of the childhood, where we oft used to play;
In woodland or meadow by the Bonny Brae.
Oh! Bonnie North Tyne, I hope to see thee once more,
Tho’ miles lie between me and thy happy shore,
I dwell among strangers far from my old home,
Through scruples of others, no fault of my own.
I wish all folk in thy valley, all good things that be,
And that fair winds may guide them on life’s troubled sea
To a haven of happiness, unfettered and free,
To list to thy murmurings in “Sweet Liberty”.
At Birtley my loved ones are sleeping their lane,
They never won fortune or craved for fame.
Without fear or favour they’d nought to reflect,
They lived out their lives with blemish or shame.
Till God called them to join Him elect,
By His will they shall sleep and be ever at rest
On the land of their childhood, the dearest and best.
There I hope to join them and lie by their side.
Mid’st flowers of the forest, and sweet scented pine,
No thougt of the morrow, of time or of tide,
When God chooses to call me from Bonnie North Tyne.
A Bellingham Laddie
Aaa was born at Noble Street
Number ]]6 Noble Street|six]] te be exact.
Norse Armstrong landed on hor bike
Me backside for to smack.
Me fathor worked at Reedsmouth
A guard on the Wannie train.
From Bellingham to Scotsgap
And then back heme again.
Aa went te church each Sunday
Te pray for endless hoors,
Te save me soul from Owld Nick’s fire
By wor beloved ‘Daddy Flower’.
Bellingham Show (Anon)
A thick veil of mist, the Tyne valley did fill
As I crested the top of the high Hareshaw hill,
Aa’ heard musical strains in the vale far below
As onward Aa headed for Bellingham Show.
As up through the town me owld bike Aa did drive
The crowd was as thick as brown bees round a hive,
The rich and the poor, the high, great and low
All had come for enjoyment at Bellingham Show.
They were there from the banks of the Tyne and the Rede
The Coquet and Wansbeck and ------ silvery Tweed,
All jumpin with glee, full of dash, fun and go
Mekkin’ haste to be in at Bellingham Show.
There were horses and cattle, bull stirks, calves and cows
There was old tups and gimmers, young dinmonts and yowes,
They were there from the uplands and lands lyin’ low.
The flower of the Cheviots at Bellingham Show.
There were dogs of all classes, both red and white cakes
There were cats, cocks and hens, chickens, white ducks and drakes,
There were pigs in salt butter, but salted also
Dressed sticks and hen eggs at Bellingham Show
The farmers looked happy, the wools had a rise
The lambs have selled weel, the yowes hev likewise,
Their bright smiling faces as they wandered to and fro
Bespoke of contentment at Bellingham Show.
and go forth at dawn the next morn
Just after the smile when the sweet sun was born,
Man the cry of his hounds and his loud tallyho
Near eclipsed all the joys of Bellingham Show.
Bellingham Show
By Clive Dalton
The highlight of our year up the North Tyne, without doubt, was Bellingham Show held in the last week of August for the last many years. We Bellingham residents dated everything in our lives by the Show. Arguments over dates could always be settled by “huw lang it waas afore or eftor the Show”.
In farming, we dated such critical events as finishing the hay or the harvest to the Show, when the nights started to cut in and the dews got heavy so you were really struggling to get anything to dry after that. If hay was still standing after Bellingham Show – then you could bet your Rogerson’s hill boots that fettles would not be good.
The North Tyne “show season” started with the Border Shepherd’s show at Falstone held about 20 August. Here shepherds put their best sheep before the judge, and if the sheep did well, owners would take them to Bellingham to hopefully “clean up” depending on the judge there. As in all showing, it was critical to know who the judge was. So Falstone show was a taster for Bellingham Show, which was then followed by the later shows up the Rede at Rochester around the 1st September, and then up the Coquet at Alwinton at the end of September to complete the season.
The air of excitement at Bellingham Show started to build for us village laddies about a week before the event, when we saw the first tents appear. Then the sheep and cattle pens and the horse jumps came out from under the grandstand. Then a few days before the Show – what excitement, “the hoppings” arrived; it was overwhelming for us yunguns in the 1950s and 1960s.
Show day arrived, and a main feature was the noise of steam trains shunting and whistling in the station as the “special” trains from Ashington and Tyneside arrived to deliver their passengers on trips to the show.
Joining the throng of folk walking through the village, and heading along around the Catholic turn across the bridge to the show, we could hardly contain ourselves. We never made conversation with these foreigners from Newcassel and beyond as they seemed full of gob and pushy. But the Bellingham pubs (the Railway, Black Bull, Rose & Crown and the Fox & Hounds) welcomed them at 11 am opening time; many never got to the show but they had a great time!
At the show field gate, our neighbour Tommy Davidson was there every year with his rose buttonhole to take the money, and once in, you just went daft wondering where to go first.
I was always duty bound to check the “industrial tent” to see what prizes Dad had won with his vegetables, and to see if Mother had won owt with her baking or crochet work. Then I went to have my mind blown by the dressed walking sticks from both sides of the Border. This put you off ever trying to even copy the work of these famous men like George Snaith or Ned Henderson.
But soon, the livestock had to be checked to watch the judging at the top end of the field near the cemetery wall, where they were sorting out the sheep and cattle. This was a favourite spot – mainly to study the humans and their behaviour as much as the stock! My life-long interest in this subject started here I’m sure, as well as in the dog tent among the exhibitors of the “border terriers, fox honds, Bedlington terriers and whippets from all over the county and outside”.
It was from these early days that I realised that given time, owners start to look like their animals! The other place to gain more evidence of this was the goat tent!
By late morning the preliminary rounds of the horse jumping had started and also the wrestling. The Northumbrian pipes were ganin canny by then too, so you had this terrible dilemma of deciding which finals to watch.
It was aalll ower much. But it was easiest to give the piping a miss as after you’d heard “Sweet Hesleyside” and “The Rothbury Hills” played a hundred times, it was more than enough. However, if you stood in the right place you could watch Dessie Ward cowp all his opponents in the wrestling, and when the roar came from the crowd in the grandstand, you could rush over and catch Doreen Ray riding a clear round for Miss Mitford of Woodburn.
There was always a few commercial exhibitor selling their wares and Isaac Walton was very prominent. In their tent, could get measured for a tweed suit or jacked with a nice “single vent country cut” as the salesman (clad in tweed suit), would strongly recommend. I had one of these tweed suits for years.
The beer tent was always overflowing but we village laddies gave it a wide berth incase some friendly neighbour saw us! Anyway, it was so full of “full” raucous Geordies, on a constant trek to the primitive nettie made of corrugated iron, that it didn’t have much appeal.
But weariness eventually set in as the sun stared to fall, and it was time to get across the Tyne bridge back to the village and heme because there was “The Show Dance” to prepare for in the toon hall! You had to be firing on all cylinders for this event!
What a prospect–with the lasses in thor lang dresses trying not to sweat ower much as the North Tyne Melody makers and Billy Richardson the MC gave us little time between dances. We needed that time to get the lasses te sit on wor knees under the premise of a shortage of seats!
After 10pm “the lads” from the pubs arrived at the dance, with their caps on acute angles and bottles of beer in their raincoat inside pockets. They were oblivious to the sweltering heat of the hall. The lasses were quite safe as few of them could get across the floor to where they intended to arrive to request a dance! They were far more engaged in a cluster around the bottom door, picking arguments and the occasional fight with their mates.
The poem
Well, you can see why such an event certainly justified a poem. The late Will Elliott of Greystead, Tarset, gave this version of “Bellingham Show” to me. Nobody ever seemed to know who composed it or when. I’d appreciate any details about this, as the author certainly knew about the enjoyment and hazards of the event and deserves an acknowledgement. The poem especially reflects the importance of the Show for ootbye folk, as an important event of their farming year. The words have been recited and sung at many a Northumberland shepherd’s supper.
Bellingham Show (Anon)
Aa am an aad heord and aa live far oot bye
Aa seldom see owt but the sheep and the kye
So Aa says tu wor Betsy Aa think Aa will go
Te hev a bit leuk at Bellingham Show.
Ah weel, says the auld wife, if the money’s tu spare
Aa doot it’s a lang time since ye ha bin there.
Wor pack lambs hev seld weel, they’ve a lang time been low
So Aa think ye might gan te Bellingham Show.
So Aa gits misell drest in me braw Sunday claes
In me brass nailed shoes polished as black as two slaes,
A big high stand up collar, n’ me tie in a bow
Aa looks quite a masher at Bellingham Show.
Weel Aa got the to the showfield, Aa managed forst rate
N’ Aa paid me bit shilling to get in the gate.
Aa met wi some freens whae claried oot, Oh, Ho!
Hes thoo really gitten te Bellingham Show.
As was feelin gay dry so in we aal went
Just for a wee drap an a crack i the tent,
Aa sayed mine’s was a haaf ‘n, the rest aal cried Ho!
There’s tu be nee haafs at Bellingham Show.
Weel we aal hed a glass or it might hev been twee
Or tu tell yu thi truth, it might hev bin three,
Thi drop that we got set wor heeds in a glow
As we taaked ower aad times at Bellingham Show.
Aa then had a leuk at the tups and the hoggs
The horses, the coos, the fat pigs n’ the dogs,
N aal ower the showfield Aa went tu and fro
Determined tu miss nowt at Bellingham Show.
Aa waas hevin’ a leuk at the butter’n eggs
N Aa sat doon on some boxes tu rest me aad legs,
Up come n’ aad lady fat, forty ‘n slow
Contented ‘n jolly at Bellingham Show.
Excuse me she sayed but Aa do hate mistakes
But which are the duck’s eggs and which are the drake’s,
Aa hev just been wondering, I thowt ye might know
There’s intelligent people at Bellingham Show.
Aa can tell ye that missus, it’s quite plain tu be seen
The duck eggs is white n’ the drakes eggs is green,
O hoo simple, she cried, hoo wise yen can grow
By makin enquiries at Bellingham Show.
Aa steps up tu a chep what waas shaved tu the lips
Says Aa, canny man, a pennorth o’ chips.
He cursed ‘n sent me tu the pigeons below
He was a motor car driver at Bellingham Show.
Excuse me, cries Aa, but Aa doot Aa am green
Aa thowt ye wor mindin a fried chip machine,
Whey man that’s a motor belongin’ lord so and so
‘N wor here for thi day at Bellingham Show.
So Aa dodged away roond bi thi edge o’ the crood
N Aa smoked me aad pipe in a nice happy mood,
When up cums a young queen ‘n cries Uncle Joe
Aa’m so glad to hev met yu at Bellingham Show.
She gav a bit scream ‘n Aa thowt she waad faint
But Aa’s sometimes jelus o’ women what use paint.
Oh excuse me says she, ‘n your pardon bestow
Mistakes sometimes happen at Bellingham Show.
It’s aal reet noo hinney it’s aal reet Aa cried
While Aa stooped doon a minit me shoelace tu tie.
When Aa leuked up again ‘n me eyes roon did thro’
Me relation hed vanished at Bellingham Show.
Me heart begen jumpin n’Aa felt fairly spent
So aa thowt Aa’d hev a bit glass in the tent,
So inside Aa gets, felt me pockets ‘n lo!
That fly jade had robbed us at Bellingham Show.
So Aa went tu the Bobby an telt him me tale
But he saaid Aa waas nowt but a silly aad feul,
Tis time ye knew better as aad men shud know
Not tu meddle wi lasses at Bellingham Show.
Aa got see excited ‘n lood aa did yell
That thi Bobby teuk me right off tu the cell,
Throo the door he did send me wi’ the tip o’ his toe
Saying “Keep yoursell quiet at Bellingham Show”.
Wor not made ‘o munny.
When ye gan te Robbs te buy new claeas
And ye membe think it’s funny,
Just mek quite sure ye divn’t forget
That wor not made ‘o munny.
And divn’t gan te Nicholls
And cum heme wi expensive honey.
Thors plenty of rasp jam in the hoose
Cos wor not made ‘o munny.
And forget aboot the Sooth ‘o France
For a fortnight somewhere sunny.
Thors nowt’s rang wi’ a day at Whitley Bay
Cos wor not made ‘o munny.
And thors nee need for chocolate eggs
As gifts from the Easter bunny,
Just use them that’s been laid away
Cos wor not made ‘o munny.
The hoggs is luckin as lean as craas
An thor muck’s serious runny,
Aa telt the boss they need a dose
But he says he’s not made ‘o munny
When next ye gan te Hexham
And luk for a snack that’s yummy,
And hole in te Tommy Nicholls
Just remember – wor not made ‘o munny
Bonny Warksburn (John Buglass)
Oh Bonny Warksburn what changes I’ve seen,
These last fifty years in which I have been,
Not an old face is left all strangers to me,
Yet you run your same course on your way to the sea.
Away on the skyline on the hills to the West.
Seen the sun go down like a red robins breast,
Watched it set behind streamers a sure sign to be,
Warksburn would soon fill on its way to the sea.
From Blackaburn to the Haining right out to The Green,
On these grassy fells some grand flocks I’ve seen,
Now a thing of the past nought but tree after tree,
Yet you flow through these forests on your way to the sea.
Many a fox from his lair has risen of yon moss,
With the hounds at his brush where no rider dare cross,
The sheep would all scatter a good guide to be,
As he swung for Warksburn as it flowed to the sea.
The Curlews and Peewits were flying on high,
The Skylarks were singing on the hills far out bye,
The herds with their collies were out in great glee,
As they headed for Warksburn as it flowed to the sea.
On its banks has been built a village up to date,
An outstanding model of the modern state,
Yet the morning mist rises and hangs over thee,
As it follows your course on your way to the sea.
But time marches on soon I’ll see you no more,
Must join my old friends that have gone on before,
There will be many changes, changes I’ll never see,
But you’ll run on forever on your way to the sea.
The Bairnies Cuddle Doon (Anon)
The bairnies cuddle doon at nicht
Wi, muckle faught an, din
Oh try and sleep, ye waukrife rogues
Your faither’s comin’ in
They never heed a word I speak
I try to gie a froon
Buy aye I hap them up an’ cry
Oh, bairnies cuddle doon
Wee Jamie wi’ the curly heid
He aye sleeps next the wa
Bangs up an’ cries,”I want a piece”
The rascal starts them a’
I rinan’ fetch them pieces, drinks
They stop awe the soun’,
Then draw the blankets up an’ cry
“Noo, weanies, cuddle doon”
But ere five minutes gang wee Rab
Cries out, frae neath the claes
“Mither, mak’ Tam gie ower at once
He’s kittlin’ wi’ his taes“
The mischief’s in that Tam for tricks
He’d bother half the toon
But aye I hap them up and cry
“Oh bairnies cuddle doon”
At length they hear their faither’s fit
An’ as he steeks the door
They turn their faces to the wa’
While Tam pretends to snore
“Hae a’ the weans been gude?” he asks
As he pits off his shoon
“The bairnies, John, are in their beds
An’ land since cuddled doon”
An’ just afore we bed oorsel’s
We look at oor wee lambs
Tam has his airm roun’ wee Rab’s neck
And Rab his airm round Tam’s
I lift wee Jamie up the bed
An’ as I straik each croon
I whisper till my heart fills up
“Oh bairnies, cuddle doon”
The bairnies cuddle doon at nicht
Wi’ mirth that’s dear to me
But soon the big warl’s cark an’ care
Will quaten doon their flee
Yet come what will to ilka ane
May he wha rules aboon
Aye whisper though their pows be bald
“Oh, bairnies, cuddle doon
The Lads that were Reared Among Heather (Anon)
Come all ye young lasses whar hae ye been
Sae sleepy and drowsy, I ken by your een
In all the wide world, you’ll ne’er find a frien’
Like the lads that were reared among heather
Awa’ wi’yer satins, yer silks and yer shawls
Yer soirees and yer parties and yer elegant balls
For a dance in the barn’s worth ten in the hall
Wi’ the lads that were reared among heather
Tak’ a walk roon yer cities, braw buildings outside
Gaze on the splendours and the wonder with pride
Fine ships have been built, on the banks o’ the Clyde
By the lads that were reared among heather
Awa’ wi’ yer satins, yer silk and yer shawls
Yer soirees and yer parties and yer elegant balls
For a dance in the barn’s worth ten in the hall
Wi the lads that were reared among heather
When the Queen wants some soldiers, she kens whaur to send
To the mountains and valleys, the hills and the glens
Wi’ their bonnets and plaids, they’re aye true tae the end
Are the lads that wers reared among heather
Awa’ wi’ yer satins, yer silks and yer shawls
Yer soirees and yer parties and yer elegant balls
For a dance in the barn’s worth ten in the hall
Wi the lads that were reared among heather
Now England can boast for the seet scented rose
And Ireland can boast for the shamrock she grows
But gi’ me the land, where the clear water flows
And the mountains are covered with heather
Awa’ wi’ yer satins, yer silks and yer shawls,
Yer soirees and yer parties and yer elegant balls
For a dance in the barn’s worth ten in the hall
Wi’ the lads that were reared among heather
Awa’ wi’ yer satins, yer silks and yer shawls
Yer soirees and yer parties and yer elegant balls
For a dance in the barn’s worth ten in the hall
Wi’ the lads that were reared among heather
The Dosin ‘O the Hoggs (Anon)
The The back end again is wi’ us and the wund blaas cauld and chill
moorland herds are at it wi’ their usefu’ collie dogs
Busy pairtin’ aa’ and sheddin’ for the dosin’ o’ the hoggs.
Auld Grumpy she’s been dieted on cows new milk and grass
Her dung collected an’ aal stirred up intae a sickly mess.
A glessfu’ doon each throat is teemed, then oot ontae the foggs
For four and twenty hoors completes the dosin’ o’ the hoggs.
Aa spiered o’ ma freend Danny. Aa spiered o’ Jock o’ the Nick
They aa’ declared for sickness ‘twas a glorious specific.
But Wullie o’ the Seven Sykes said he wad bet his clogs,
‘Twas just an auld wife’s fancy, was the dosin’ o’ the hoggs.
Aa says, “ Ye surely dinna think it does nee guid ava’”
“Na na,” says he “Last year we dosed, Aa hed an aafu’ Fall.
Next mornin’ fifteen lyin’ deed, as cauld and stiff as logs.”
“Na,na,” says he “Aa’ll no believe o’ the dosin’ o’ the hoggs”
Wi opinion sae divided, whee hes yin tae believe?
If ye dose them they will sicken, if ye dinna they’ll no’ leeve.
This amuses mony an auld herd as through his flock he jogs.
It’s a varry kittle business, is the dosin’ o’ the hoggs.
Bonny Warksburn (John Buglass)
Oh Bonny Warksburn what changes I’ve seen,
These last fifty years in which I have been,
Not an old face is left all strangers to me,
Yet you run your same course on your way to the sea.
Away on the skyline on the hills to the West.
Seen the sun go down like a red robins breast,
Watched it set behind streamers a sure sign to be,
Warksburn would soon fill on its way to the sea.
From Blackaburn to the Haining right out to The Green,
On these grassy fells some grand flocks I’ve seen,
Now a thing of the past nought but tree after tree,
Yet you flow through these forests on your way to the sea.
Many a fox from his lair has risen of yon moss,
With the hounds at his brush where no rider dare cross,
The sheep would all scatter a good guide to be,
As he swung for Warksburn as it flowed to the sea.
The Curlews and Peewits were flying on high,
The Skylarks were singing on the hills far out bye,
The herds with their collies were out in great glee,
As they headed for Warksburn as it flowed to the sea.
On its banks has been built a village up to date,
An outstanding model of the modern state,
Yet the morning mist rises and hangs over thee,
As it follows your course on your way to the sea.
But time marches on soon I’ll see you no more,
Must join my old friends that have gone on before,
There will be many changes, changes I’ll never see,
But you’ll run on forever on your way to the sea.
The North Tyne Foxhunters (John Buglass)
Did ye ever ken Tom Robson
The great hunting king
When hunting his hounds
Made Warksburn fairly ring
Ye would ken Jim Murray
And his little black mare
The sound of his horn
Raised the fox from his lair
Chorus
Then hark on to Fairy
Her note we all know
Hark Hallo he’s away
Tally-O, Tally-O
Ye would ken Barty Charlton
Lang master o’ the pack
Through mosses and flows
He knew every track
Ye would ken Jimmy Thompson
A real canny sort
Who carried the horn
And gave us great sport
Chorus
Ye all ken Tommy Walton
In his black hunting cap
The master at the moment
And a gay canny chap
With John Thompson the whip
And Lofty the hound
They’ll soon bowl him over
If he stays above ground
Chorus
You’ll all remember Ralph Thompson
And Bracelet his hound
It was “Hark” on to Bracelet
Whenever they found
You’ll all ken Dick Davison
First man in the chase
Uphill and through dale
He goes a great pace
Chorus
Ye all ken Joe Murray
Who lives at Whitehill
He has hunted 50 years
And he’s hunting still
Ye all ken Jimmy Little
Still hearty and hale
Always had a hound
At a hunt or a trail
Chorus
Ye all ken Graham Robson
The master of finance
A pound for the funds
He’ll not miss a chance
Let them sing to these hunters
As the years roll by
May the coming generations
Let their names never die
Chorus
Canny Shepherd Laddie O the Hills (Anon)
There's songs aboot oor soldiers and oor sailors by the score,
Of tinkers and of tailors and of others there's galore;
But I'll sing ye a song that you've never heard before,
It's the canny shepherd laddie o' the hills.
Chorus
Oh the shepherds o the Coquet, the Alwin and the Rede,
The Bowment and the Breamish, they're all the same breed,
Wi their collie dog beside them and a stick with horn heid
It's the canny shepherd laddie o' the hills.
Chorus
They climb oot ower the mountain ere it's turned the break o' day,
Through the bent and moss hags and round bogs they wend their way,
Quick tae see a mawkit yin or a sheep that's strayed away,
It's the canny shepherd laddie o' the hills.
Chorus
They send the collie around the sheep with a yell o "Gan oot wide"
Then whistle with the notes so shrill the dog drops in his stride
"Come by Moss! Doon a bit I'll tak my stick oot ower yer hide"
It's the canny shepherd laddie o' the hills.
Chorus
If the lambing time is stormy he will curse and he will swear
There's a yowe that's lost its lamb and I've skinned an auld yowe there,
Some o them have ta'en the sickness, nae mair trouble can I bear
It's the canny shepherd laddie o' the hills.
Chorus
In the back-end tae the marts he'll gang if the prices they are dear
To celebrate he'll treat his pals tae whisky and tae beer,
But if the prices they are bad, it taks a dram tae cheer
The canny shepherd laddie o' the hills.
Chorus
In the winter when its stormy and drifts are piling high
He'll never flinch tae tak the risk that in the snow he may die
His first care is his sheep are settled and sheltered safe may lie
The canny shepherd laddie o' the hills.
Chorus
At Alwinton they may turn oot tae see the Shepherds' Show
Then into Foreman's for a drink they with their cronies go,
They'll argue and they'll sing and shout, but fecht, well bless me no
The canny shepherd laddie o' the hills.
Chorus
Now if ye've gaun among them as A've done for forty years
Nae kinder hearted folk you'll meet if you look far or near
The kettl'e set a boiling and they cry "Sit you doon here"
The canny shepherd laddie o' the hills.
Chorus
A've said nae words aboot their wives A'm shair there is no need
But in every house I've been tae yet they seem tae be the heid,
And I'm sure you'll all agree with me, it taks a hell of a good wife to breed
A canny shepherd laddie o' the hills.
Nicky Tams (Anon)
Nicky Tams where thongs of leather, or lengths of string, that were tied round the trouser, just below the knees, to keep the bottom of their trouser out of the muck.
When I wis barely twelve years auld I left the pairish school.
My faither fee’d me tae the mains tae chaw his milk and meal.
First I pit on my narra breeks tae hap my spinnel trams,
Syne happit roon my knappin knees a pair o’ nicky tams.
Well, first I gaed on for baillie’s loon and syne I gaed on for third,
And syne, of coorse, I had to get the horseman’s grip and word,
A loaf of breid tae be my piece and a bottle for drinking drams,
Ye daurna gang thro’ thecalf-hoose door withouut your nicky tams.
The fairmer I am wi’ the noo, he’s wealthy but he’s mean.
The corn is cheap, his horse is thin, and his harness fairly deen.
He gars us load oor cairts ower fu’, his conscience has nae qualms,
When breist straps brak there’ naethin’ like a pair o’ nicky tams.
I’m coortin’ bonnie Annie noo, Rab Tamson’s kitchie deem,
O she is five and forty and I’m but seventeen.
She clorts a mickle piece tae me wi’ different kinds o’ jams,
And tells me ilka nicht that she admires my nicky tams.
Ae Sunday mornin’ I gaed oot, the kirkie for to gang,
My collar it was unco ticht, my brreks were nane ower lang.
I had my Bible in my pooch, likewise my book o’ psalms,
When Annie roars, “Ye muckle gype, tak aff yer nicky tams!”
So, unco sweer, I took them aff, the lassie for to please,
But aye my breeks they lurkit up aroon aboot my knees.
An a wasp gaed crawlin’ up my leg in the middle o’ the Psalms.
O never again will I rade the Kirk withoot my nicky tams.
Noo, I’ve aften thocht I’d like tae be a bobby on the Force,
Or mebbe be a tramwayman and drive a pair o’ horse.
Whatever it’s my fate tae be, the bobbies or the trams,
I’ll ne’er forget the happy days I wore my nicky tams
