A poem by Peter Sellar
Dreaming of my childhood days, I wander back in dreams,
To when I was a little lad so long ago it seems,
Playing skippies in the streets, or cowboys ‘doon the Links’,
The reek coming from the siver’s, by god it really stinks.
The jam works doon at Links Place, where the smell wis awffy nice,
Beside Crawford’s biscuit factory, wi lassies called ‘White Mice”.
Leither’s beach, the ‘Tally toor’ where we went if it was fair,
Or doon Seafield Road tae Porty, the smell of salt was in the air,
Dancing up the Assembly Rooms, eyeing a’ the girls.
Doing a quick-step or a tango, showing off yer fancy twirls.
Hame along auld Bernard Street, where ‘Rabbie’ stands on high,
White patches lying at his feet, an we ken the reason why.
It’s frae seagulls dropping ‘dirty doo’ on Scotia’s national Bard.