by Douglas Veitch

Lang syne there stood the three o’ us,
Tall ganglin’ lums the shade o’ rust,
Ower Peebles toon we toored in sicht,
When Tweed Mills a’ were at their hicht.

Ma freend at Tweedside yince was wee-est,
Tae Pairish Kirk he wis the nearest,
He grew gie quick when Reverend swore,
“Aye coverin’ ma kirk in glaur”.

He aye wis awfuy photygenic,
When tourists snapped the kirk sae scenic,
they couldny photygraph the spire,
Withoot the lum an’ smoke an’ fire.

His mill burnt doon wi’ black reek’s smell,
An’ left him stanin’ by hissel,
Nae guid wi’oot a mill tae rin’
They wirney lang tae cussin din.

Ma pal at Damdale wisnae liked,
He’d spoot his soot at awthin’ white,
The wifies on the bleachin’ green,
Wid curse his soot wi’ words obscene.

Their washin’ white, ’til his black fugs,
Dried oot the serks lik’ spotted dugs,
His mill shut doon in ’68,
and this did sharely seal his fate.

Wi’ dynamite his end wis quick,
Nae howkin’ doon here, brick b’ brick,
Yin bang, he wobbled, bowed his heid,
Then fell, an’ like the mill was deed.

An’ then there’s me at Mairch Street Mill,
Gettin’ takin’ doon though A’m no ill,
Ma pointin’s mebe comin’ oot,
It’s lang syne I emitted soot.

A find this aw an’ awfy scunner,
Coosted doon when jist a hunner,
The scaffold noo is built aroond,
They Jakes will thraw me tae the groond.

But noo ma days are numbered few,
Ma thouchts are riled wi’ whit A view,
The sicht o’ whit replaces me,
That new lum disna please ma ee.

Tae sicht it makes me smile an’ grin,
A skinny drainpipe made o’ tin,
Ah, memories when the three o’ us,
Looked doon on busy buslin’ fuss.

The blowin’ horns an’ clackin’ looms,
Roarin’ spinners an’ scourin’ fumes,
Weavers, dyers, spinners, bleachers,
Darners, turners, a’ guid creatures.

Workin’ in the the mill’s great road,
Soonds we dinna hear no more,
Thae days are a’ lang syne aboon,
When Peebles was a workin’ toon.

A hae a last look roon the hills,
There’s yin freend there that cheers ma ills,
Pokin’ his heed abin the trees,
The last built lum that stands at ease.

An’ tho’ he never poored a loom,
He threshed the corn at Edderstoun,
A guid wee lum wi’ brick built face,
I pray they let him stand in peace.