Part 1
BONNIE JOANN
_BY VIOLET JACOB_
SONGS _of_ ANGUS
FIFTH IMPRESSION
“The dialect is Angus, and in every song there is the sound of the east wind and the rain.... She has many moods, from the stalwart humour of ‘The Beadle o’ Drumlee’ and ‘Jeemsie Miller’ to the haunting lilt of ‘The Gean-Trees’ and the pathos of ‘Craigo Woods’ and ‘The Lang Road,’ but in them all are the same clarity of vision and clear beauty of phrase.”
_From_ MR. JOHN BUCHAN’S _Preface_.
LONDON: JOHN MURRAY
BONNIE JOANN
AND OTHER POEMS
BY VIOLET JACOB
LONDON
JOHN MURRAY, ALBEMARLE STREET, W. 1921
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
TO MY NEPHEW
WILLIAM KENNEDY-ERSKINE
MOST UNDERSTANDING OF READERS
CONTENTS
PAGE
BONNIE JOANN 1
THE WIND FRAE THE BALTIC 3
THE TRAMP TO THE TATTIE-DULIE 5
HALLOWE’EN 8
ADAM 10
THE DAFT BIRD 13
PRIDE 15
‘KIRRIE’ 17
THE END O’T 20
THE KELPIE 22
BALTIC STREET 25
BAILIE BRUCE 28
CHARLEWAYN 31
THE MUCKLE MOU’ 34
THE GANGEREL 36
THE TINKLER’S BALOO 38
THE BANKS O’ THE ESK 40
THE WISE-LIKE CHAP 41
INVERQUHARITY 43
FAUR-YE-WEEL 46
IN ENGLISH
A YOUNG MAN’S SONG 50
THE SHADOWS 51
A WINTER PHANTASY 52
MARSEY TOWN 54
THE SEASONS 55
All these poems, with the exception of the last two in the book, have appeared in _Country Life_, and I have to thank the editor for his courteous permission to reproduce them.
V. J.
BONNIE JOANN
_AND OTHER POEMS_
BONNIE JOANN
We’ve stookit the hairst an’ we’re needin’ To gaither it in, Syne, gin the morn’s dry, we’ll be leadin’ An’ wark’ll begin; But noo I’ll awa doon the braeside My lane, while I can-- Wha kens wha he’ll meet by the wayside, My bonnie Joann?
East yonder, the hairst-fields are hidin’ The sea frae my een, Gin ye keek whaur the stocks are dividin’ Ye’ll see it atween. Sae douce an’ sae still it has sleepit Since hairst-time began Like my he’rt--gin ye’d tak’ it an’ keep it My bonnie Joann.
Owre a’thing the shadows gang trailin’, Owre stubble an’ strae; Frae the hedge to the fit o’ the pailin’ They rax owre the way; But the sun may gang through wi’ his beamin’ An’ traivel his span, For aye, by the licht o’ my dreamin’, I see ye, Joann.
Awa frae ye, naebody’s braver, Mair wise-like an’ bauld, Aside ye, I hech an’ I haver, I’m het an’ I’m cauld; But oh! could I tell wi’out speakin’ The he’rt o’ a man, Ye micht find I’m the lad that ye’re seekin’, My bonnie Joann!
THE WIND FRAE THE BALTIC
Below the wa’s, oot-by Montrose, The tides ca’ up an’ doon And mony’s the gallant mairchantman Lies in aside the toon; Oh, it’s fine alang the tideway The loupin’ waters rin When the wind is frae the Baltic wi’ the brigs comin’ in.
I’d gie the ring upon my hand To hide me frae the sea That manes by nicht an’ cries by day The dule that’s come to me, For I’ll hear nae mair the fit-fa’ When hame the brigs may win O’ a man that sailed the Baltic, nor his step comin’ in.
And noo the toon is fair asteer, The weans rin doon the street, And I may turn my face aboot An’ get me hame to greet, There’s sic a joy wi’ a’ fowk My tears wad be a sin, For the wind is frae the Baltic--an’ the brigs comin’ in.
THE TRAMP TO THE TATTIE-DULIE
Thrawn-leggit carle wi’ airms on hie And jist a hole for ilka ee, Ye needna lift yer hand to me As though ye’d strike me; Ye’re threits abune an’ strae below, But what-like use is sic a show? Ye maun respec’ me, bogle, tho’ Ye mauna like me!
To gutsy doo or thievin’ craw Ye mebbe represent the law When they come fleein’ owre the wa’ To tak’ an airin’, Dod, I’ll no say they arena richt When sic a fell, unchancy sicht Gars them think twice afore they licht-- But _I’m_ no carin’!
Yer heid’s a neep,[1] yer wame’s[2] a sack, Yer ill-faured face gars bairnies shak’, But yet the likes o’ you can mak’ A livin’ frae it; Sma’ use to me! It isna fair For though there’s mony wad declare That I’m no far ahint ye there, _I_ canna dae it!
Life’s a disgust wi’ a’ its ways, For free o’ chairge ye get yer claes, Nae luck hae I on washin’-days-- There’s plenty dryin’, But gin I see a usefu’ sark An’ bide or gloamin’ help my wark, The guidwife’s oot afore it’s dark-- And leaves nane lyin’.
Weel, weel, I’m aff. It’s little pleasure To see ye standin’ at yer leisure When I’ve sae mony miles to measure To get a meal! Ye idle dog! My bonnet’s through, An’ yours is no exac’ly new, But a’ the same I’ll hae’t frae you, And faur-ye-weel!
FOOTNOTES:
[1] Turnip.
[2] Belly.
HALLOWE’EN
The tattie-liftin’s nearly through, They’re ploughin’ whaur the barley grew, And aifter dark, roond ilka stack, Ye’ll see the horsemen stand an’ crack O Lachlan, but I mind o’ you!
I mind foo often we hae seen Ten thoosand stars keek doon atween The nakit branches, an’ below Baith fairm an’ bothie hae their show, Alowe wi’ lichts o’ Hallowe’en.
There’s bairns wi’ guizards[3] at their tail Clourin’ the doors wi’ runts[4] o’ kail, And fine ye’ll hear the skreichs an’ skirls O’ lassies wi’ their droukit curls Bobbin’ for aipples i’ the pail.
The bothie fire is loupin’ het, A new heid horseman’s kist is set Richts o’ the lum; whaur by the blaze The auld ane stude that kept yer claes-- I canna thole to see it yet!
But gin the auld fowks’ tales are richt An ghaists come hame on Hallow nicht, O freend o’ freends! what wad I gie To feel ye rax yer hand to me Atween the dark an’ caun’le licht?
Awa in France, across the wave, The wee lichts burn on ilka grave, An’ you an’ me their lowe hae seen-- Ye’ll mebbe hae yer Hallowe’en Yont, whaur ye’re lyin’ wi’ the lave.
There’s drink an’ daffin’, sang an’ dance And ploys and kisses get their chance, But Lachlan, man, the place I see Is whaur the auld kist used to be And the lichts o’ Hallowe’en in France!
FOOTNOTES:
[3] Mummers who go from door to door.
[4] Cabbage-stalks.
ADAM
Ye’re richt weel buskit, yer poke is fu’, Ye ride i’ yer ain machine; ’Twould tak a fule to hae words wi’ you An’ no ken the gowk he’s been.
At rowp or preachin’ the best ye’ll hae, This warld or the neist ane’s gear, The breist[5] o’ the laft on a Sawbath day, Or a seat by the auctioneer.
Ye’re no jist auld an’ ye arena young, But it doesna affec’ the case, For I’m aye that fear’d o’ a wumman’s tongue That I’m like to forget her face.
An’ fowk says “Donal’, ye’re forty past, I doot she’ll be fifty-three, But ye maun settle yersel’ at last That hasna a spare bawbee.
Oh, youth’s a ploy, but it winna bide And a body’s gettin’ on-- What ails ye, man, at a thrifty bride Wi’ a dandy bit hoose like yon?”
Them’s wise-like bodies I hae to thank And mebbe they’re no far wrang; But whiles ye’ll step frae a creakin’ plank An’ doon i’ the glaur[6] ye’ll gang!
It’s warm, thae nichts, i’ the auld King’s Heid; What better can ye desire Than a lass to bring ye the dram ye need An’ yer billies aroond the fire?
An’ wha is’t redes me to tak’ a wife? A puckle o’ single men! No ane, I’m thinkin’, wad risk his life Wi’ a jaud that he disna ken!
I’ll wish ye luck an’ a braw guidman, And weel may ye baith agree, But I’m no seekin’ ye, Maggie-Ann, And I doot that he’ll no be me!
FOOTNOTES:
[5] The front seat in the gallery.
[6] Mud.
THE DAFT BIRD
When day is past an’ peace comes doon wi’ gloamin’ An’ twa by twa the young fowk pass the yett, Auld stocks like me maun let their thochts content them, Mindin’ o’ coortin’s that they’ll no forget. Ye’re no sae far awa the nicht, my Marget, Tho’ on the brae-heid, past the dyke ye lie, Whaur ae daft bird is singin’ i’ the kirkyaird And ae star watches i’ the evenin’ sky.
Late bird, daft bird, the likes o’ you are bedded, The daylicht’s deid, it’s hame that ye should be, Yer voice is naucht to them that canna hear ye; But sing you on, it isna naucht to me. Dod, like yersel’, it’s time that I was sleepin’, Sae lang it is since Marget laid her doon, And ilka year treids up ahint anither Like evenin’s ghaist ahint the aifternoon.
For rest comes slaw to you an’ me, I’m thinkin’, Oor day’s wark’s surely lang o’ wearin’ through, The gloamin’s had been wearier an’ langer, Thae nichts o’ June, late warker, wantin’ you. I maun hae patience yet, I’ll no be grievin’, There’s them that disna fail tho’ day be spent, An’ yon daft bird’s aye singing i’ the kirkyaird-- Lord, I will bide my time, an’ bide content.
PRIDE
Did iver ye see the like o’ that? The warld’s fair fashioned to winder at! Heuch--dinna tell me! Yon’s Fishie Pete That cried the haddies in Ferry Street Set up wi’ his coats an’ his grand cigars In ane o’ they stinkin’ motor-cars!
I mind the time (an’ it’s no far past) When he wasna for fleein’ alang sae fast An’ doon i’ the causey his cairt wad stand As he roared oot “Haddies!” below his hand; Ye’d up wi’ yer windy an’ doon he’d loup Frae the shaft o’ the cairt by the sheltie’s doup[7].
Aye, muckle cheenges an’ little sense, A bawbee’s wut an’ a poond’s pretence! For there’s him noo wi’ his neb to the sky I’ yon deil’s machinery swiggit[8] by, An’ me, that whiles gi’ed him a piece to eat, Tramps aye to the kirk on my ain twa feet.
And, nee’bours, mind ye, the warld’s a-gley Or we couldna see what we’ve seen the day, Guid fortune’s blate whaur she’s weel desairv’t The sinner fu’ an’ the godly stairv’t, An’ fowk like me an’ my auld guidman Jist wearied, daein’ the best we can!
I’ve kept my lips an’ my tongue frae guile An’ kept mysel’ to mysel’ the while; Agin a’ wastrels I’ve aye been set And I’m no for seekin’ to thole them yet; A grand example I’ve been through life, A righteous liver, a thrifty wife.
But oh! the he’rt o’ a body bleeds For favours sclarried[9] on sinfu’ heids. Wait you a whilie! Ye needna think They’ll no gang frae him wi’ cairds an’ drink! They’ll bring nae blessin’, they winna bide, For the warst sin, nee’bours, is pride, aye, pride!
FOOTNOTES:
[7] Croup.
[8] Swung, whirled.
[9] Spilt.
‘KIRRIE’
Comin’ oot frae Kirrie, when the autumn gowd an’ siller At the hindmaist o’ September month has grips o’ tree an’ shaw, The mune hung, deaved wi’ sunset, no a spunk o’ pride in till her, Nae better nor a bogle, till the licht was awa; An’ the haughs below the Grampains, i’ the evenin’ they were lyin’ Like a lang-socht Land o’ Promise that the cauld mist couldna smoor; An’ tho’ ye didna see it, ye could hear the river cryin’ If ye stood a while to listen on the road to Kirriemuir.
There’s an auld wife bides in Kirrie--set her up! a pridefu’ crater-- And she’s crackin’ aye o’ London an’ the grand fowk ye may see; O’ the King, an’ syne his palace, till I’m sure I’m like to hate her, For the mairket-day in Kirrie is the sicht for me. But ye ken I’m sweir to fash her, an’ it’s best to be agreein’, For gin ye dinna heed her, then she’s cankered-like an’ soor, Dod, she tells o’ muckle lairnin’--but I doot the bizzar’s[10] leein’, For it’s fules wad bide in London when they kent o’ Kirriemuir.
O, the braw, braw toon o’ Kirrie! What a years that I hae lo’ed it! And I winna seek to leave it tho’ I’m spared anither score; I’d be greetin’ like a laddie for the auld reid hooses croodit Lookin’ down upon the steadin’s and the fields o’ Strathmore. Ye may speak o’ heavenly mansions, ye may say it wadna grieve ye When ye quit a world sae bonnie--but I canna jist be sure, For I’ll hae to wait, I’m thinkin’, or I see if I believe ye, For my first braid blink o’ Heaven, an’ my last o’ Kirriemuir!
FOOTNOTES:
[10] Jade.
THE END O’T
There’s a fine braw thistle that lifts its croon By the river-bank whaur the ashes stand, An’ the swirl o’ water comes whisp’rin’ doon Past birk an’ bramble an’ grazin’ land. But simmer’s flittit an’ time’s no heedin’ A feckless lass nor a pridefu’ flow’r; The dark to hide me’s the grace I’m needin’, An’ the thistle’s seedin’ An’ my day’s owre.
I redd the hoose an’ I meat the hens (Oh, it’s ill to wark when ye daurna tire!) An’ what’ll I get when my mither kens It’s niver a maiden that biggs her fire? I mind my pray’rs, but I’m feared to say them, I hide my een, for they’re greetin’ fast, What though I blind them--for wha wad hae them? The licht’s ga’en frae them An’ my day’s past.
Oh, wha tak’s tent for a fadin’ cheek? No him, I’se warrant, that gar’d it fade! There’s little love for a lass to seek When the coortin’s through an’ the price is paid. Oh, aince forgotten’s forgotten fairly, An’ heavy endit what’s licht begun, But God forgie ye an’ keep ye, Chairlie, For the nicht’s fa’en airly An’ my day’s done!
THE KELPIE
I’m feared o’ the road ayont the glen, I’m sweir to pass the place Whaur the water’s rinnin’, for a’ fowk ken There’s a kelpie sits at the fit o’ the den, And there’s them that’s seen his face.
But whiles he watches an’ whiles he hides And whiles, gin na wind manes, Ye can hear him roarin’ frae whaur he bides An’ the soond o’ him splashin’ agin the sides O’ the rocks an’ the muckle stanes.
When the mune gaes doon at the arn-tree’s back In a wee, wee weary licht, My bed-claes up to my lugs I tak’, For I mind the swirl o’ the water black An’ the cry i’ the fearsome nicht.
And lang an’ fell is yon road to me As I come frae the schule; I duarna think what I’m like to see When dark fa’s airly on buss an’ tree At Martinmas and Yule.
Aside the crusie[11] my mither reads, “My bairn,” says she, “ye’ve heard The Lord is mindfu’ o’ a’ oor needs An’ His shield an’ buckler’s abune the heids O’ them that keeps His word.”
But I’m a laddie that’s no that douce, An’ fechtin’s a bonnie game; The dominie’s pawmies[12] are little use, An’ mony’s the Sawbath I’m rinnin’ loose When a’body thinks I’m hame!
Dod, noo we’re nearin’ the shorter days, It’s cannie I’ll hae to gang, An’ keep frae fechtin’ an’ sic-like ways, And no be tearin’ my Sawbath claes Afore that the nichts grow lang.
Richt guid an’ couthie I’ll need to be, (But it’s leein’ to say I’m glad), I ken there’s troubles that fowk maun dree, An’ the kelpie’s no like to shift for me, Sae, gin thae warlocks are fear’d o’ Thee, Lord, mak’ me a better lad!
FOOTNOTES:
[11] Iron oil-lamp.
[12] Canings.
BALTIC STREET
My dainty lass, lay you the blame Upon the richtfu’ heid; ’Twas daft ill-luck that bigg’d yer hame The wrang side o’ the Tweed. Ye hae yer tocher a’ complete, Ye’re bonnie as the rose, But I was born in Baltic Street, In Baltic Street, Montrose!
Lang syne on mony a waefu’ nicht, Hie owre the sea’s distress, I’ve seen the great airms o’ the licht Swing oot frae Scurdyness; An’ prood, in sunny simmer blinks, When land-winds rase an’ fell, I’d flee my draigon[13] on the links Wi’ callants like mysel’.
Oh, Baltic Street is cauld an’ bare An’ mebbe nae sae grand, But ye’ll feel the smell i’ the caller air O’ kippers on the land. ’Twixt kirk an’ street the deid fowk bide Their feet towards the sea, Ill nee’bours for a new-made bride, Gin ye come hame wi’ me.
The steeple shades the kirkyaird grass, The seamen’s hidden banes, A dour-like kirk to an English lass Wha kens but English lanes; And when the haar, the winter through, Creeps blind on close and wa’ My hame micht get a curse frae you, Mysel’ get, mebbe, twa.
I’ll up an’ aff the morn’s morn To seek some reid-haired queyn, Bauld-he’rted, strang-nieved,[14] bred an’ born In this auld toon o’ mine. And oh! for mair I winna greet, Gin we hae meal an’ brose And a but an’ ben in Baltic Street, In Baltic Street, Montrose!
FOOTNOTES:
[13] Fly my kite.
[14] Strong-fisted.
BAILIE BRUCE
Ye’d winder, when creation’s plan Seems sae acceptable to man, And the Creator, in His power, Made brute an’ bird, an’ fruit an’ flower; When e’en the wasps that bigg their bike An’ clocks[15] an’ golachs, an’ the like O’ a’ yon vairmin has their use, What gar’d Him fashion Bailie Bruce?
He couldna thole to see a wean Wheepin’ his pearie[16] on the green, Nae sweethe’rts coorted but he saw Auld Homie’s tail ahint the twa. In godly wrath he aye wad show His hate o’ sinfu’ men; but tho’ The wicked fled afore his face The guid aye passed them i’ the race.
Oot frae the foremaist seat at kirk He roared the psalms like ony stirk, For gripp’d was he by sic a zeal As nane but the elect micht feel; An’ when the kirk-door plate was set, Wi’ looks o’ pride ye’d ne’er forget, When puir fowk laid their pennies doon He’d gi’e his Maker half a croon.
Weel, whiles oor ancient customs change An’ fowk accep’ what’s new an’ strange; Oor decent plate awa was laid For bonny baggies--English made. Sawbath cam’ roond; the kirk was in; The Bailie sat an’ glow’red on sin; The Elder brocht wi’ reverent feet His baggie to the foremaist seat.
In drapp’d the money; Bailie Bruce Wi’ open hand an’ purse-strings loose And e’en upliftit, kept his place; The bag passed on its road o’ grace. Weel was’t he couldna see the smile That a’ yon kirk-fu’ had the while Nor yet the Elder’s twisted mou’ That wrocht him a’ the journey through!
For oh! ahint the Bailie’s back Was done a deed o’ shame to mak’ His righteous he’rt wi’ anger swell _Nane gie’d a bodle but himsel’!_ An’ at the coontin’, plain to see, The baggie held but ae bawbee!
* * * * *
His health noo gars him keep the hoose; Losh-aye! what ails him, Bailie Bruce?
FOOTNOTES:
[15] Beetles.
[16] Whipping-top.
CHARLEWAYN[17]
(_Yestere’n was Hallowe’en, To-day is Hallow-day, It’s nine free nichts to Martinmas, And then we’ll get away._
OLD SONG AMONG ANGUS FARM SERVANTS.)
Frae Hallowe’en to Martinmas There’s little time to fill, And yet there’s mony a warkin’ lass Thinks a’ the days stand still.
Oh, cauld the mornin’ creeps on nicht Alang the eerie skies, An’ cauld the blink o’ caun’le-licht That lets me see to rise.
For late an’ airly at the fairm The wark seems niver past, But a week, come Monday, brings the tairm When I may flit at last.
My mither hauds her docters ticht, My mither’s hoose is sma’, An’ I niver lo’ed my mither richt Until I gaed awa.
But yestere’en was Hallowe’en When a’ may dance an’ sing; The auld guidwife shut doon her e’en, The young anes got their fling;
Set up, the fiddler wrocht. Below, The reel swang ilka ane, But my feet danced oot to meet my joe By the licht o’ Charlewayn.
My mither’s hame’s a happy hame Whaur easy I may lie, And o’ mysel’ I’m thinkin’ shame, Sic a feckless queyn am I.
For, by the licht o’ Charlewayn, It’s Rab that gar’d me lairn To see a lover’s lass mair plain E’en than a mither’s bairn.
Aye, yestere’en was Hallowe’en, An’ Martinmas is near; It’s wae for Martinmas I’ve been But it’s like to find me here!
FOOTNOTES:
[17] Charles’ Wain, the Plough.
THE MUCKLE MOU’
When ye are auld an’ pitten past, Ye’ll whiles be sittin’ wi’ a freen’ And crackin’, as ye hear the blast Rage i’ the lum, o’ fowk ye’ve seen. There’s some gangs whingein’,[18] singin’ sma’, An’ some that taks a baulder tune, But ae thing’s aye the same wi’ a’-- Their mou’s owre muckle for their spune.
Ye’ll see a lad--his hoose the best, A thrivin’ swine in till his yaird, His gairden fu’--he winna rest, He’s wud because he’s no a laird! He coorts a lass; she’ll tak’ her aith He isna fit to dicht her shune, What’s wrang wi’ ane is wrang wi’ baith-- Their mou’s owre muckle for their spune.
O’ tinkler-fowk, an’ fowk wi’ means Ye’ll scarcely hae the time to speak, Men, wives an’ widdies, lords an’ weans, The mair they get, the mair they’ll seek. Ye’d think the vera warld was deav’d Wi’ them that’s roarin’ for the mune, Nae maitter what they’ve a’ receiv’d Their mou’s owre muckle for their spune.
But when ye’ve lookit mony a year Upon yersel’ and ither men, Although to lairn ye’ve whiles been sweir, There’s twa-three things ye’re like to ken; Ye winna need to mak’ ado An’ warstle wi’ the powers abune, Yer spune’s the measure o’ yer mou’, Gin ane is wrang, it’s no the spune!
FOOTNOTES:
[18] Whining.
THE GANGEREL
It’s ye maun whustle for a breeze Until the sails be fu’; They bigg yon ships that ride the seas To pleasure fowk like you.
For ye hae siller i’ yer hand And a’ that gowd can buy, But weary, in a weary land, A gangerel-loon am I.
Ye’ll feel the strang tides lift an’ toss The scud o’ nor’land faem, And when ye drap the Southern Cross It’s a’ roads lead ye hame.
And ye shall see the shaws o’ broom Wave on the windy hill, Alang the strath the hairst-fields toom[19] And syne the stackyairds fill.
Ye’ll hear fu’ mony a raittlin’ cairt On Forfar’s causey-croon,[20] Wi’ young stirks loupin’ to the Mairt That roars in Forfar toon.
O’ nichts, ayont yer snibbet door, Ye’ll see in changeless band, Abune Craig Oule, to keep Strathmore, The stars of Scotland stand.
But tho’ ye think ye sicht them fine Gang ben an’ tak’ yer rest, Frae lands that niver kent their shine It’s me that sees them best!
For they shall brak’ their ancient trust, Shall rise nae mair nor set, The Sidlaw hills be laid in dust Afore that I forget.
Lowse ye the windy-sneck a wheen, An’ glowre frae ilka airt Fegs! Ye may see them wi’ yer een-- _I_ see them wi’ my he’rt!
FOOTNOTES:
[19] Empty.
[20] The middle of the street.
THE TINKLER’S BALOO
Haud yer whisht, my mannie, Hide yer heid the noo, There’s a jimp young mune i’ the branches abune An’ she’s keekin’ at me an’ you. Near she is to settin’, Waukin’ she shouldna be, An’ mebbe she sees i’ the loan by the trees Owre muckle for you an’ me.
Dinna cry on Daddie, Daddie’s by the fairm, There’s a specklie hen that strays i’ the den An’ he’s fear’d she may come to hairm. Thieves is bauld an’ mony, That’s what guid fowk say, An’ they’d a’ complain gin the limmer was ta’en An’ cheughit afore it’s day.
Sleep, an’ then, come Sawbath, A feather o’ gray ye’ll get Wi’ specklies on it to set i’ yer bonnet An’ gar ye look brawer yet. Sae hide yer heid, my mannie, Haud yer whisht, my doo, For we’ll hae to shift or the sun’s i’ the lift An’ I’m singin’ baloo, baloo!
THE BANKS O’ THE ESK