Ah saa e boats ging oot e herbour moo
an thocht aa oor futures hid come at aince
for we’d reap the ile an big in is Nor-East toon
a pridefu hairt o sonse wi plinty siller forby.
Ah saa e boats come in, nae mair wi herrins
but wi cheils fa bled the thick black gowd
fae in aneth e boddam craigs o mar,
aneth e crustit yird lyin droont ablow.
Ah saa e hooses oot e road growe up
an aa e fouth o common fowk faa’s darg
wis on e birlin dreels an saut-weet rigs,
syne fleein hame throu blast an blatter,
ah saa’t seip awa doon graspin cundies
made tae full e pooches o a curn cheils,
e heidyins dernt in saicret office-brochs
a hunner, a thoosan miles, as hyne awa.
An syne ah saa e siller turnt tae cowper,
nivver gowd, an e city roads aa rut an howk,
wi e fowk remainin scowkin hame, bauchlin, shilpit,
wi naethin left o e dream a puckle year awa.
Files, noo, we maun jist sing e sang, oor myndin
on e fushion at fullt oor hairts afore e ile
pit its glamour roon oor een and made us hear
e bawbee-clink afore e rattlin o oor bleed.
© BH, 2026
Is wis a response tae a poem by Brian Thomson aboot Aiberdeen in its declinin aifter the ile.
His siggestion wis tae pit it oot itsel, an nae as a post, for ithers tae see.
Heres it!
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