by Bill Cunningham
Those who have jobs
In the dark depression years
Earn a holiday.
Fifty-one weeks of
Lifting a cap to a foreman
Being on short-time
Docked for being late;
No excuse accepted.
Insecure, because a Freemason
Knows a lodge member,
Who has a cousin, nephew, ‘brother’
Who has wife and children
And is behind in the rent.
“Surely Andrew you can help him out;
He’ll do anything”
Or perhaps the Priest
Has a parishioner, Irish born
A good Celtic supporter,
Regular at mass
And Mary having her fifth.
“Can you not find him something Patrick?”
But now it’s ‘Fair’ week
All this is forgotten for seven days.
II
Doon the wa’er thae go
For a day trip
In July sunshine.
Weans wi’ ice-cream meltin’
Rinnin’ doon new jerseys
Bought wi’ store divi’.
Foremen, off to a cousin’s place
In Oban; boating on Lomond,
Whiles wives in summer dresses,
Smart sandals and gay hats
Taking tea with friends of equal status
Talk of sons and daughters
At High School,
And their University prospects.
Apprentices hiking in glens
Awash with heather,
Chattin’ up lassies in the YH;
“Young Ladies” from offices
Who in a working week
Would never talk to
Uncouth lads who work with
Rivets in a shipyard.
III
Bu’ am no’ part o’ this,
Ma faither disna hiv a joab
He’s mair oaf’n in Dan Cowan’s
Drinkin’ the ‘brew’ money
Wi’ ithir auld sodgers
So we dinna go oor holidays.
Anyway, a live in Leith
An’ that’s part o’ purse-prood
Presbyterian Edinburgh,
An’ Glesga’s a foreign place,
An' the folk frae thaer talk funny.
During Fair Week hunners o’ them
Come through tae Portobelli;
Aw thae folk whae talk funny
Ye canna move oan the sands fur them
Sittin’ in deck-chairs, ridin’ donkeys.
Eating buckies and mussels.
A loat o’ thaem hiv thaer holidays
At ma Granny’s hoose,
Cousins, and Aunties
An’ sometimes thae gie me a penny
For an ice-cream.
They’re no’ posh folk
Nae foremen in thaer families,
An’ nae wonder, foremen
Widna talk sae funny, wid they?
Ma grand-faither plays the boax
An thaer’s loats o’ singin’
That’s whit a like the best.
Ma faither is the best singer
O’ them aw, a like it
When he sings.
An’ thae Glesga folk like it tae
Bu’ it’s nae guid when
Thae buy him beer
For he aye gets drunk
An’ hits ma mother.
IV
An’ then the ‘Fair’ week is ower
An’ the showgrunds’ closed.
Aw thae folk wi’ funny voices,
Gae hame tae Glesga.
An' we’ll no’ see thaem for another year,
Maybe never.
At school, the teacher tells us
To write a letter to a friend
Describing our holidays.
That’s a silly idea:
In our family there are no holidays;
And all my friends
Are at school with me
So why would I write them a letter?
And they didn’t go
Away on holidays either.
Surely the teacher knows that.
