Oh, what a parish, a terrible parish;
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Oh, what a parish is that o' Dunkeld.
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They hangit their minister, droon'd their precentor,
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Dang doun the steeple and fuddled the bell.
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The steeple was doun but the kirk was still staunin',
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They biggit a lum whaur the bell used to hang.
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A stell-pat they gat and they brewed Hielan' whisky;
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On Sundays they drank it and ranted and sang.
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O, had you but seen how graceful it lookit,
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To see the crammed pews sae socially joined.
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MacDonald the piper stood up in the poopit,
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He made the pipes skirl out the music divine.
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Wi' whiskey and beer they'd curse and they'd swear;
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They'd argue and fecht what ye daurna weel tell.
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Bout Geordie and Charlie they bothered fu' rarely
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Wi' whisky they're worse than the devil himsel'.
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When the hairt-cheerin' spirit had mounted their garret,
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Tae a ball on the green they a' did adjourn.
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The maids wi' coats kilted, they skippit and liltit,
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When tired they shook hands and then hame did return.
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If the kirks a' owre Scotland held like social meetin's
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Nae warnin' ye'd need from a far-tinklin' bell,
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For true love and friends wad draw ye thegither
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Far better than roarin' the horrors o' hell.
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The Parish Of Dunkeld
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| Andy M. Stewart |
