It’s noo weel nigh on fifty ear
Seen I left ma faither’s fairm
Ti gyang an bide in the toon
An there ti chunce ma airm
Bit noo I’m growein auler
Ma myn gings back a fyle
Fin I wis classed a kwintra teuchter
Brocht up in a different style
There’s nae muckle wrang I maun confess
Wi a body faa wis born in the toon
Bit on fowk faa spikkit the Doric
Some ower their noses wid look doon
Noo the jobbie I wis fee’t fer
Hid me spikkin aat bit mair posh
The thingies yer asked ti dee
Fin ye need ti earn some dosh
Bit losh ye nivver forget yer roots
An I still spik in the Doric tongue
An on the odd antrin nicht
A cornkister I hiv sung
So I’m prood ti be a teuchter
Prood ti be an aul kwintra loon
An I’ll stick twa fingers up
Ti them faa wid ding us doon
©Bob Smith “The Poetry Mannie” 2010