A night when ancient war-gods vented
All their anger in the weather,
Bracken shook like ghouls demented,
Earth and heaven fused together.
The gale had never once abated,
Never once had it looked back,
And lightning shafts illuminated
The Scottish moorlands clothed in black.
The driving rain in fury poured
Like waves of vengeful Ostermen,
And mighty Thor and Odin roared
In savage echoes round the glen.
Jim McPherson stumbled gamely
Through the dank and sodden heather,
Cold and soaking, cursing lamely
At the unrelenting weather.
Down the hillside, slowly sinking,
Ancient wisdom, bowed, forlorn,
Granite boulders stared unblinking,
Eyes through grassy carpet worn.
Until, at last, his sturdy boot
Felt tarmacadam ‘neath his feet,
And, pausing to arrange his suit,
He marched off quickly down the street.
Down the long dark road he pressed,
Skirting round Ben Tanzie’s girth,
Like an ant around the breast
Of ever-watchful Mother Earth.
Soon he came upon a white house
The object of his lonely trek,
Shining brightly like a lighthouse,
Close beside a glassy beck.
He pushed his way in through the door
And paused upon the woven mat,
Water pouring on the floor
A-leaping from his brimming hat.
He spied the owner by the fire,
In his shirtsleeves pristine white.
“How’re ye, Bull?” he did enquire,
“Business awful bad tonight?”
Billy said, “There’s no-one here,
There won’t be much a-washin’ delph.
And, but I knew that you’d appear,
I’d mebbe stayed upstairs meself.”
McPherson squelched up to the bar,
And sat down in his normal spot.
“I willna ha’ ma usual jar,
I’m sore in need o’ sumtin’ hot.”
“Mebbe ye’ll ha’ a cup o’ tay?”
Said Billy, rising with a smile.
He placed a teapot on a tray,
A-grinning broadly all the while.
“’Tis not for tay me mouth’s bin achin’!”
Came McPherson’s sharp retort.
“Sumtin’ strong teh stop me shakin’,
Sumtin’ like a glass o’ port.”
“Port is it?” came back the banter,
“Wha’ sort o’ port does sir require?
Shall I fetch ma best decanter
An’ serve it t’ye by the fire?”
McPherson smiled, “Now don’ be sully,
Jes’ gi’e’s a glass t’mek me warm.
An’ I dinna care wha’ sort now, Bully,
‘Tis any port, sure, in a storm.”
All their anger in the weather,
Bracken shook like ghouls demented,
Earth and heaven fused together.
The gale had never once abated,
Never once had it looked back,
And lightning shafts illuminated
The Scottish moorlands clothed in black.
The driving rain in fury poured
Like waves of vengeful Ostermen,
And mighty Thor and Odin roared
In savage echoes round the glen.
Jim McPherson stumbled gamely
Through the dank and sodden heather,
Cold and soaking, cursing lamely
At the unrelenting weather.
Down the hillside, slowly sinking,
Ancient wisdom, bowed, forlorn,
Granite boulders stared unblinking,
Eyes through grassy carpet worn.
Until, at last, his sturdy boot
Felt tarmacadam ‘neath his feet,
And, pausing to arrange his suit,
He marched off quickly down the street.
Down the long dark road he pressed,
Skirting round Ben Tanzie’s girth,
Like an ant around the breast
Of ever-watchful Mother Earth.
Soon he came upon a white house
The object of his lonely trek,
Shining brightly like a lighthouse,
Close beside a glassy beck.
He pushed his way in through the door
And paused upon the woven mat,
Water pouring on the floor
A-leaping from his brimming hat.
He spied the owner by the fire,
In his shirtsleeves pristine white.
“How’re ye, Bull?” he did enquire,
“Business awful bad tonight?”
Billy said, “There’s no-one here,
There won’t be much a-washin’ delph.
And, but I knew that you’d appear,
I’d mebbe stayed upstairs meself.”
McPherson squelched up to the bar,
And sat down in his normal spot.
“I willna ha’ ma usual jar,
I’m sore in need o’ sumtin’ hot.”
“Mebbe ye’ll ha’ a cup o’ tay?”
Said Billy, rising with a smile.
He placed a teapot on a tray,
A-grinning broadly all the while.
“’Tis not for tay me mouth’s bin achin’!”
Came McPherson’s sharp retort.
“Sumtin’ strong teh stop me shakin’,
Sumtin’ like a glass o’ port.”
“Port is it?” came back the banter,
“Wha’ sort o’ port does sir require?
Shall I fetch ma best decanter
An’ serve it t’ye by the fire?”
McPherson smiled, “Now don’ be sully,
Jes’ gi’e’s a glass t’mek me warm.
An’ I dinna care wha’ sort now, Bully,
‘Tis any port, sure, in a storm.”
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