Sangster, David Fortune
Ma hert loups up fan ah behald
A windmill on the hill:
The bonny bleds gang birlin' roon'
It fair gies ye a thrill.
Some fowk say they're ugsome brutes,
An' think they should be banned,
But they gie oor bothies heat an' licht
An sae ah think they're grand.
Ah mind fan winter eesed tae yowl
In ower the Braes o' Gight
Yer anely wey o' keepin' warm
Wis graipin' lades o' shite.
Ye hadna fire tae warm yer brose,
Nor licht tae read yer psalms,
Ye chittered aa the nicht an' rose
Tae thaw yer Nicky Tams.
But thankit be tae God an' Man,
The thrummin' o' the blades
Has harnessed up the aasome pooer
O' gales that fan the glades.
We microwave oor mealie puds,
Bile tatties for wir tea,
An' whiles we tak oor ease an' watch
"East Enders" oan TV.
But fan ah see oor maister pass
In his new fower-by-fower -
His Barbour coat has nivver a lirk,
His beets nae sploit o' glaur.
A Rolex watch glents on his wrist,
He chaws a big cigar -
Ah sometimes think this "Green Machine"
Micht be a stap tae faur.
Fer pooer o' whitsoever kin'
Ends up in rich men's hauns:
They hecht their mansions heich an' strang
An' fence their empty lands.
They gaze oot oan their bonny view
An' snuff the air sae free,
While somewheres oot o' sicht, the puir
Maun sterve, an' fecht, an' dee.