Perpetual drought has settled on four wards in Glasgow, and a Scotch acquaintance of mine took to his bed at the news: So far he has refused all but liquid nourishment, (Mr. F. W. Thomas writes, in the 'Daily News'), It was at his bedside last evening, while I was eating his porridge, that I composed the following Lament or Coronach, The Scotch you will notice, is a wee bit under proof, but it is the best I can do.. Pass the bag: pipes, please!
Oh, Glasgae, Glasgae, what a fall, Whatever's happened to ye all Frae Dennistoun to Govan Hall?
Tt gars me greet! \.uy did_ye vote at all at all For Pussyfoot.
(Govan Hall is poetic off-licence. It should be Govan Hill. And "at all at all," I believe, is Irish. But isn't "gars me greet" splendid No more ye'll drink the barley-bree, Or get a drappie in yer e'e.
spots we're going strict T.T.
Text read from the printed page and cleaned; old type leaves the occasional error.