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Torry and Saint Fittick




Along the valley of Tullos, towards it's rocky bay,
Lies the Church of St Fittick, ancient ruins here to stay,
Its history for those interested, is detailed and very thorough,
Of local heroes and fisher folk, of Torry, a medieval burgh.


Servicing the local people, holy scriptures could be heard,
It had an open window, so lepers may hear the holy word,
Those poor lepers of Saint Fitticks, still outcasts and hidden away ,
Now within sight and sound of what the holy man had to say,


Only the ruins stand against a backdrop of that rugged shore,
A marker of a time gone by, call of faithful heard no more
This old church lies abandoned, for now three centuries of years,
That silhouetted belfry lies silent, a peal of history no-one hears.


Under a flat stone, by the southeast corner of the wall,
Lies the inscription in latin, how a local hero did fall,
In the northeast corner  a watcher's house was then erected,
As a lookout for body snatchers, their crimes to be detected.

Now in this ancient bleak kirk yard the dead forever sleep,
A wall contains our national hero's hand, hidden within its keep,
WhenWilliam Wallace succumbed to that wicked English king,
His severed limb to this kirk, did his loyal followers bring.

There's a beacon of light, which attracts the mariners most,
Girdleness lighthouse warns of dangers around the rocky coast,
T'was here that countless souls, lost their precious lives to the sea,
Often claiming the local fisherman, the father and breadwinner he,


The river Dee steers a new course with city to the north,
Its banks to the south lie the lands of Torry and Kincorth,
Bridges were connected for its two separate populations,
Therein lies a sorrowful tale of tragedies and tribulations,


Aberdeen was the target for Vikings to rape and to pillage,
They ransacked their Apardion, but ignoring our little village,
The invading English “men of war” were driven out to sea,
Young lives being swallowed by the mouth of the River Dee.


On a sacramental fast day, many a family did the river cross,
To ramble innocently through Torry, blinded to a future loss,
The ferry back to the city, sank leaving a tragic human toll,
Another dark chapter as through Torry's history we trawl


Bridges would make life easier, traversing the river on foot,
Along with Torry's old character, slowly began its final salute,
Nine hundred years counts for plenty when it comes to Torry folk
Its rich tapestry, our generation, adds yet another endearing stroke.


Who remembers crazy kids diving from the old suspension bridge,
Or swinging out over the river, from a tree off the Liver's ridge,
Or a walk along the “gramps” picking fruit along the way,
Or with our National milk tins, collecting “buckies” at the bay.


To our patron saint of Torry, a forgotten St Fittick is his name,
History now dictates that Torry can never again be the same,
He looks over his fisher folk, the parents, loons and quines,
An ancient bond still exists that their Torry character defines.


I've always been a Torry loon, Australia now my home of many years,
I can look back at my childhood and shed some sentimental tears,
From my home in the Antipodies, to my old home Girdleness,
I'll ask St Fittick only one small thing, my old Tullos home to bless











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