Air - " Come Under My Plaidie." There's ice on the loch, an' there's broom on the knowe, Let ilka keen curler get hand o' a cowe ; Awa' wi' refusin' or silly excusin', Wha kens but the morn may be dreepin' in thow. The frien'ly contention demands oor attention, The skipper's advice is imperative law; Then up in the mornin', an' march at your warnin' Wi' crampets, stanes, besoms, an' bottles, an' a'. Antiquity honours oor national game, An' royalty joins in promotin' its fame; While science ascendin' is widely extendin' Its magical powers to embellish the same; Oor wives an' sweet lassies, wi' smiles on their faces, Will welcome the conquerors ben tae the ha', An' public reporters, thro' far distant quarters, Will tell wha gaed foremost, fu' muckle, an' a'. The loch's aye the loch whaur in canld days o' yore, The leeside was cheer'd by the quoitin' stane roar, Whaur aft oor auld daddies wad aff wi' their plaidies, As they had been shown by their daddies afore. By manly exertion, in skilfu' diversion, The rivals were ready to block, wick or draw, An' tee-shots unguarded by sneeshin' rewarded, Tho' thretty-p'und tron were ca'd up tae the snaw. Then hey for a sicht o' the skipper's bit broom, Invitin' the curlers' attention to him ; While station't an' steady the soopers are ready Tae keep baith the howe an' the head ice in trim ; An' hey for the callans when brocht tae the balance, Gie proofs they are slips o' the stems noo awa', Wha march't in the mornin`, accordin' to warnin', Wi' crampets, stanes, besoms, an' bottles, an' a'.
The Village of Chryston - North Lanarkshire - Scotland
Walter Watson
The Chryston Poet