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Farewells


Recollections were a little hazy,
His leaving party last night,
Undying friendships sworn,
That last friendly little fight.
Goodbye, Scotland the Brave,
Home of the warrior Clan,
The Batter Fried Mars Bar,
The Rangers footie fan,
Cool pints of Heavy
Plates of ‘taties and neaps,
Lining for the stomach
After boozy long sleeps.

He wore a Black Watch Kilt
Hung modestly to his knees
With a hem of fishing weights
To stop it lifting in the breeze.
A sheathed Skean Dhu projected
From the top of one long sock
As he stood there, a solitary figure,
On the banks of his local loch.
A supply of Haggis sandwiches
Were wrapped in a large pack
Carefully stored for his rations
In the Bergen on his back.

Goodbye porridge mines of Pentland,
Casual beating for the Haggis hunt,
Time to think of his own future,
Best foot forward, Eyes to the Front.
One last wistful look around him
Then, carefully adjusting his load
He took that first step from Scotland
Along that long High Road,
To the Land of the Sassenach.
He was a Scot through and through
But in such troubled times as these
A man's got to do what he has to do.







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