by Jaz Dunnichen

Contermacious yir Pictish quean an loon.

Charrit an airms Tam, no aft laid doun.

Breuked a braw stour an aft pentit thairsel

tae set tae Romans, flichtermice fae Hell.


Sic Hadrian biggit thon faur-kent dyke

seein tae as the wather wiz dreich like.

Gin Antoninus biggit anither ane-

gaed fae Forth tae Clyde wi divot an stane.


Tak yer een aff thon wee ginger limmer –

she’s fell peelie-wallie like wir simmer.

Dout that she’ll cast her duddies tae the wark,

maistly sin yir wearin thon mingin sark.


Weel it wis fair in the newins the day –

micht hae been anither waw Mearns way,

that archaeologists jalouse thay’ve fund

whiles  howkin some reid clart oota the grund.


Mind ye wad cuddies ere ye wir waddit –

craitur cried Mons Graupius ye  haddit.

Stairtit swith an gat stickit in the glaur,

cried efter thon fecht by dinna ken whaur.


Wee cutty sark thar’s juist gon ben the howff.

That’ll lear ye tae be sae awfu dowf,

doverin as the warld passes by

regairdless o’ ongauns like hird o’ kye.


Nou if wi depairt dae wi hae three dykes?

That’ll fair stir up ane whappin wasps’ byke.

Whauraboots is wir leal mairch the nou?

Here man, ye can vote even gin ye’re fou!


Hadrian’s,  Antonine’s an ae ither.

Gie awa Hadrian’s – twa bide hither.

Sortit wi’oot a muckle stramash Tam.

Wauken up man an feenish that wee dram.


Wunner if the Picts kent thir wis ile?

Thay focht the Roman billies a while.

Used tae gie ane anither a guid fleg

but a’m no sae shuir wha wis the mair gleg?


Nou wi micht git lowsed – tak tent Tam tak tent!

Than again some fowk think wi micht git rent.

Mind guid howffs’ll be here mony morras,

sae we coud come back droun ony sorras.











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