by: Mitchell, Edward
The ‘lang grey toon’ is fit it’s ca’ed
Nestlin anaith the Hill o’ Maud
It’s glory days are lang sin’ past,
Wi’ harbour fu o’ sail an mast,
Nearly teem the basins lie,
Faint echoes o the days gone bye
Thir wiz a time, fowk eest tae sae,
A man cwid walk across tae Spey,
An nivir wid his taes git weet
For shoals o herrin neath his feet,
Those days are bye, time mairches oan,
The ‘silver darlins’ lang sin’ gone
Lang, lang ago the fisher wives
Had prospects few but work-fill’t lives,
Wi bairns tae feed an lines tae bait,
A life o drudgery their fate,
The fleets they follit north an south,
Fa said the lassies werena tough!
Fin ah wis young ah eest tae play
Wi pals alang the ‘Gashoose Brae’,
Kicked fitbas in a staney park
Wis nivir hame till it got dark,
Lang simmer days an star-fill’t nichts
We thrilleds tae see ‘The Northern Lichts’.
The toon wis fu o kirks an banks,
It also his its share o cranks,
Like ‘Forty Pooches’ on the brae
Ye nivir see his like the day!
Jist shout at ‘im an he’d gae chase,
An shed his jaikets in the race.
But noo ah’m getting oan in years,
Ah still can mind the joys an tears,
Though miles awa fae ma place o birth,
That ‘lang grey toon’ alang the firth,
In dreams ah see at daylicht’s end
The sunset gleams on Scaraben.