A Right Kettle!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Keirboy, hoik your mettle up, Keirboy, hoik your kettle up,
Keirboy, hoik your metal up; we all need more pay.

BoJer’s taken it down again, BoJer’s brought it down again,
BoJer’s dropped it down again. We’re done for today.

Tories slash the NHS, Tories crash the NHS,
Tories smash the NHS and doctors fall away.

As Tory education hacks, in Tory education hacks,
through Tory education hacks they show their feet of clay.

Tory social care is last, Tory social care’s a farce,
Tory social care is past; the poor’re taxed to pay.

Toxic Tories’ Brexit lies, Brexit’s Tories’ toxic lies,
Tories’ toxic Brexit lies mean shortages each day.

Hangers-on begin to spin, hangers-on will never thin,
hangers-on begin to grin at us poor sods, their prey.

On the day they’re voted out, on the day they’re booted out,
on the day they’re clean swept out we might have a say.

Don’t let hope rise up so high, best not let your hope be high
never let your hope rise high ‘cause Starmer’s on his way.

Mary’s Hill

 

 

 

 

 

 

A sonless Gairbraid Laird once lived
by bonny Kelvinside.
He had a daughter young and fair
and she was full of pride,
for on his lands there stood a hill,
the highest point in sight,
so Mary Hill the girl became,
those acres hers by right-o,
rich acres hers by right.

Many a day she climbed the slope,
looking from side to side.
Before, behind, beneath her feet
her lands were green and wide.
She married young to Graham’s son,
who once a slave had been,
and grew to love her ‘venture man,
the handsomest she’d seen-o,
most handsome, she had seen.

They worked the land her father owned,
digging deep for coal,
but it was wet and slaggy stuff;
profit was their goal.
Their gamble failed and money lost
added to her woe,
so Mary climbed the family hill
to soothe the bitter blow-o,
to heal the bitter blow.

She looked north and she looked south,
she looked both east and west;
of all the green land stretched before
she loved her own lands best.
Sad and sore, she birthed two girls;
no son was ever born
as was the Blessed Mary’s child
upon a blessed morn-o,
upon that blessed morn.

But Mary hid her griefs away,
held steady to her breath,
for her father willed her his estate
when he was close to death.
She rallied soon when she heard
a rumour out of hand -
a Forth and Clyde Canal proposed
to cross, in part, her land-o,
to pass across her land.

Plans showed the need for a viaduct
to span the River Kelvin
and public funds much land would leave
for her to toil and delve in.
Mary Hill and her husband Rob
took the compensation
because the canny two, well pleased,
could bolster up their station-o,
would bolster up their station.

And so it was and so it did:
a village soon sprang there
upon the banks of the new canal
with its locks and water fair.
It wasn’t long before trades grew
on the outskirts of the build,
boats made, glass blown and iron works,
wood neatly sawn and milled-o,
wood crisply sawn and milled.

So Mary climbed her hill once more,
she looked down south and near
and saw her lands made gainful for
both her daughters dear.
The Grahams pledged more land to aid
the township’s growth. “It will
from city’s end to bridge be called
the town of Mary Hill-o,
our town of Mary Hill.”

And so it was and so it is,
though borough now it be,
while Mary’s hill stands higher yet
with water in its lee-o,
more water in its lee.