It's no yin o they fantoosh places
wi new fangled machines,
but rare an couthy if ye hae a drouth.
Nae table o yer ain when it's hoachin,
we're aw neebours here;
auld Jean and her freen, cheek be jowl
wi folk frae far-flung airts.
Reek o bacon an saft baps,
a wee smidgin o frazzled fat
poking oot roon the tap.
Braw lace tablecloths,
plain cheeny plates an mugs,
snug when it's rainin stair rods
or blawin a hoolie in The Mile.
Laid oot oan the dresser, hame bakin,
a wheen o scones, cakes, shortbreid, tea loaf.
Sponges smoored wi icing on three-tiered staund.
Up aboon, raws o plates in aw shapes and sizes.
A wee mindin o the bonnie lass,
cooried doon lang syne noo
in Canongate Kirkyaird.
