Caul Kail

Morrice, Ken

Rigs stan erect, great iron teats
on the breist o the sea
We sook the black milk up and up
until the waal gangs dry.

And gin the ile's aa teem and deen,
the bonny fish aa catchit,
fit then? Tartan toorist whigmaleeries?
Trips roon the roosty ile-rigs?

'Gweed maisters,' we'll hae tae parleyvoo
in their ain leid
tae Eytalians, Frenchies and stoot German lairdies,
daffin oor bonnets,

'Welcome tae Caledonia! The ile, maisters,
finally got on oor wick.
But tak a gless ev'noo tae wash doon
yer authentic neep brose.'

Syne we'll fa tee tae keep the toon,
set oot new kailyairds.
A grippy nation like oors canna but learn
tae pit its mou tae the bottle.

Or, gin it's teem, sook its ain thoomb.