sleep-terrors filled her with nightmares, his strength guarded her vulnerability. Most of all, though, Dave encouraged her gift; installing a PC, recording
equipment of every kind, books etc. Now, at long last, she is what she always thought it was her reason to be on the earth—a songwriter and poet. To date she has seventeen published works, is
featured in Tim Neat’s book as one of the ‘voices of the Bards’, and is working on her masterpiece, Kingdom of Marigolds .
Here’s a song she wrote for Dave who is her ‘bees knees.’
BEES KNEES
You do not have the sight
To follow stars into the heavens.
You do not have the hearing
That can tell when mountains sway.
You do not have the reach
To touch the birds as they are leaving,
But to me
You are the bee’s knees anyway.
You do not seek a quest
To pull the sword from out of that stone.
You do not have a plan
To save the day.
You do not have the means
To tackle poverty alone,
But to me
You are the bee’s knees anyway.
You cannot solve the secrets
Beneath the desert sands.
You cannot sail the seven seas
By two o’clock on Sunday.
You can’t control the high winds,
Or the waves that wash the beaches,
But to me
You are the bee’s knees anyway.
You can become a legend,
Especially in my time.
You will release the magic
That I hope for when I pray.
You must be sure you love me,
Just as much as I love you,
For to me
You are the bee’s knees anyway.
More of Shirley later, for now we’ll talk about a real legend in his time—my friend Mamie’s dad, Keith McPherson. He owned and ran a garage at the far end of Comrie in
Perthshire. He’s no longer with us, having passed away in 1973, yet the poems he left will remain. As long as his poems are enjoyed and respected, then how can oor lad be forgot?
Mamie trained as a nurse in the Western Infirmary in Glasgow, doing her training in the Royal Maternity, better known as Rotten Row. German POWs imprisoned at nearby Cultiebraggan Camp (those
who posed no danger) would find a benevolence, seldom seen in one so young, from fourteen-years-old Mamie. When they visited Keith’s garage she would give sweeties to the youngest and
cigarettes to the older prisoners. In a recent television programme, Mamie met some of those POWs who came back to Comrie to say thanks for the kindness which helped them through a terrible time in
history.
There were plenty of lads who, all the worse for a heavy night’s drinking, found themselves sat in Crieff cottage hospital dreading a lecture from a local doctor. Worse still was the
prospect of getting home to the wife, sporting another stitched head-wound and taking a tongue-lashing. It was Mamie they wanted to see, because never a lecture or a dressing-down or any other kind
of warning about the evil drink did she administer. She would simply ask, while cleaning and bandaging, ‘How is them weans o’ yours, lad? Are you still working with so and so?’
Gentle words from a dear lady, who knew her patient was punishing himself inwardly. Little did she realise it was her good nature that made him feel shame and remorse.
I have known Mamie for over thirty years, and to this day I’ve never heard her speak down to a living soul. Her couthy ways were inherited from Keith, and not only did he love his
neighbours, but he made sure all the bairns living around Glenartney got to school on time. He owned and maintained the school taxi. His poem about this ‘school taxi’ speaks for
itself.
THE AULD SCHULE CAR
(Sing it to the tune of ‘Where the praties grow’)
There’s folk who like to travel,
And some foreign lands tae see,
Like sunny Spain or Italy,
Or even gay Capri.
But me I like the hameland,
So I dinna travel far,
I go driving up Glenartney,
Wi’ ma auld schule car.
I have a wheen o’ laddies,
Who are starting on life’s road.
Wi’ singin and wi’ laughter,
Man, they mak a cheery load.
I join them in the chorus,
For I’m just as
equipment of every kind, books etc. Now, at long last, she is what she always thought it was her reason to be on the earth—a songwriter and poet. To date she has seventeen published works, is
featured in Tim Neat’s book as one of the ‘voices of the Bards’, and is working on her masterpiece, Kingdom of Marigolds .
Here’s a song she wrote for Dave who is her ‘bees knees.’
BEES KNEES
You do not have the sight
To follow stars into the heavens.
You do not have the hearing
That can tell when mountains sway.
You do not have the reach
To touch the birds as they are leaving,
But to me
You are the bee’s knees anyway.
You do not seek a quest
To pull the sword from out of that stone.
You do not have a plan
To save the day.
You do not have the means
To tackle poverty alone,
But to me
You are the bee’s knees anyway.
You cannot solve the secrets
Beneath the desert sands.
You cannot sail the seven seas
By two o’clock on Sunday.
You can’t control the high winds,
Or the waves that wash the beaches,
But to me
You are the bee’s knees anyway.
You can become a legend,
Especially in my time.
You will release the magic
That I hope for when I pray.
You must be sure you love me,
Just as much as I love you,
For to me
You are the bee’s knees anyway.
More of Shirley later, for now we’ll talk about a real legend in his time—my friend Mamie’s dad, Keith McPherson. He owned and ran a garage at the far end of Comrie in
Perthshire. He’s no longer with us, having passed away in 1973, yet the poems he left will remain. As long as his poems are enjoyed and respected, then how can oor lad be forgot?
Mamie trained as a nurse in the Western Infirmary in Glasgow, doing her training in the Royal Maternity, better known as Rotten Row. German POWs imprisoned at nearby Cultiebraggan Camp (those
who posed no danger) would find a benevolence, seldom seen in one so young, from fourteen-years-old Mamie. When they visited Keith’s garage she would give sweeties to the youngest and
cigarettes to the older prisoners. In a recent television programme, Mamie met some of those POWs who came back to Comrie to say thanks for the kindness which helped them through a terrible time in
history.
There were plenty of lads who, all the worse for a heavy night’s drinking, found themselves sat in Crieff cottage hospital dreading a lecture from a local doctor. Worse still was the
prospect of getting home to the wife, sporting another stitched head-wound and taking a tongue-lashing. It was Mamie they wanted to see, because never a lecture or a dressing-down or any other kind
of warning about the evil drink did she administer. She would simply ask, while cleaning and bandaging, ‘How is them weans o’ yours, lad? Are you still working with so and so?’
Gentle words from a dear lady, who knew her patient was punishing himself inwardly. Little did she realise it was her good nature that made him feel shame and remorse.
I have known Mamie for over thirty years, and to this day I’ve never heard her speak down to a living soul. Her couthy ways were inherited from Keith, and not only did he love his
neighbours, but he made sure all the bairns living around Glenartney got to school on time. He owned and maintained the school taxi. His poem about this ‘school taxi’ speaks for
itself.
THE AULD SCHULE CAR
(Sing it to the tune of ‘Where the praties grow’)
There’s folk who like to travel,
And some foreign lands tae see,
Like sunny Spain or Italy,
Or even gay Capri.
But me I like the hameland,
So I dinna travel far,
I go driving up Glenartney,
Wi’ ma auld schule car.
I have a wheen o’ laddies,
Who are starting on life’s road.
Wi’ singin and wi’ laughter,
Man, they mak a cheery load.
I join them in the chorus,
For I’m just as
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