The Lost Tribe
by: Robertson, Stanley
Tune: Bonnie George Campbell
O whar’s mi auld faither wi his cuddie and cairt?
Sic a bonnie wee beastie tae cheer up yer heart.
Mi mither sae blyth, sae bonnie and gay,
Gone is their camp and gone is their way.
Whar’s the spring wallie wi the cauld monteclear
That cascaded the mountain and sloched yer thirst dear?
The biling pot steamin ower the auld jockey stick,
On a glimmer o breem near a baisket o wick?
Whar’s the cranberries wi picked each year?
Or the yella fields o flax that wi aa looed sae dear?
The scythe and the sickle, the adle an the ploo,
Nae mair tae be seen, whar are they noo?
Whar is oor lingo, the Doric and Cant?
The poems and the ballads that made aabody rant?
The big muckle ballad, the pipes and the drones,
The hoochs and the hechs an the chuckin o stones?
The auld road o Lumphanan or the Waa Steedins o Dess
Whar the traivellers aa camped but left nae mess,
But a scorched billie o grass whar the glimmer hae bin,
A reminder o folk that were innocent o sin.
Their wye o life wis a life on the raw,
They lived aff Mither Nature but shared yin anna.
Their religion wis live and let live,
They niver held spite, forget and forgive.
Some folks condemned them and cawed them Tinks,
Ithers folks liked them and made them aa think.
But tae me they were mine and aye reign in mi heart
An mi love for the Traivellers will nere frae mi pairt.