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To
the Wind
O
gallus wind o’ Embro toun
Ye
breenge through ilka space.
I
turn a corner - blaw me doun!
Ye’re
there, ye’re at my face,
Careerin
up the causeway croun
In
furious paper chase.
Some
grey and venerable square
Is
dreamin o’ its past
Till,
roarin oot a randy air,
Ye
gie it sic a blast,
Ye
leave the douce auld leddies there
A’
breathless and aghast.
Ye
rouse us up at break o’ day
Wi
dustbin lids for rattles
Syne,
start them birling doun the brae
Like
tanks gaun into battle
Ye
dinna heed what tricks ye play
Wi’
fowks weel-valued chattels
But,
though we ca’ ye mony a name
in
guid Scots prose or sonnet,
Our
city wadna be the same
Gin
ne’er ye blew upon it
Sae,
as ye blew in Burns’s times,
Blaw
still upon our city.
Blaw
us a man wi’ rowth o’ rhymes
Wha
kens baith pride and pity
Tender
wi’ failins, tough wi’ crimes
And
honest as he’s witty
Douglas
Fraser
1959
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