young they are,
When I’m drivin up Glenartney
Wi’ ma auld schule car.
There’s Billy an there’s Bertie,
And Sandy one and two,
Wi’ Stewart an wi’ Jackie,
They complete the merry crew.
They sing a cornkister
Just as well as any star,
When we’re driving up Glenartney
In the auld schule car.
I’ve got another laddie,
But like me he’s left the schule,
We’ve made him leading tenor
Just tae earn his milk and meal.
He leads us in the singing,
And he keeps us up tae par,
When we’re driving up Glenartney,
In the auld schule car.
The cuckoo in the season
Gi’es a call as we pass by,
The old cock grouse, he lifts his head,
An’ winks a beady eye.
An’ whispers tae his sittin’ hen,
‘Jist bide ye whaur ye are,
For ye ken its jist McPherson
Wi’ his auld schule car.’
We dinna hae the golden sands,
Nor yet the sunny days,
But bonnie is the heather
Growing round Dalclathic Braes.
We see the winter shadows
On the snowclad Uam Var,
When we’re driving up Glenartney
In the auld schule car.
We see the bonnie rowan trees,
Their flowers the summer’s pride,
And then the scarlet berries come,
And deck the countryside.
Ye get a great contentment,
And a pleasure nane can mar,
When we’re driving up Glenartney
In the auld schule car.
I’ve seen the glen in a’ its moods,
In sunshine and in snow.
I’ve seen it at its brightest
When the autumn colours glow.
I turn quite sentimental,
Till a pothole gi’es a jar,
Then I ken I’m in Glenartney
Wi’ ma auld schule car.
There’s time when death’s dark shadow
Haunts that lonely, lovely glen,
An’ Grewer whispers tae his wife,
‘We’ve lost anither hen.
It wisnae Fisher Ferguson,
Nor Pate frae Tighnablair,
It maun hae been McPherson
Wi’ his auld schule car.’
So if you’re bowed wi’ trouble,
An’ your sky seems dull an’ grey,
If you think that fickle fortune’s
Turned her head the other way,
Should you want to lose your sorrows
(An’ be sure there’s thousands waur),
Just come driving up Glenartney
In ma auld schule car.
My laddies a’ hae left me,
Father Time has passed along,
I hope they face life’s battles
Wi’ the same auld cheery song,
As echoed round the hill tops
‘Stron-e-moul tae Uam Var,’
When we sang gaun up Glenartney
In the auld schule car.
If you have read Jessie’s Journey , my first book, you will recall John Gilbert, that fine gent who gave me permission to use his grandfather’s moving poem ‘The
Tinker’s Grave’. I knew little about him at that time. I simply read the verses, researched who it was that penned them, and discovered I had to ask permission from his grandson.
The poet lived in Perthshire, ran a fruit and veg. shop in Comrie, and was gifted, as we all now know, with the art of beautiful verse. Since Jessie’s Journey , his grandson has very
kindly given me the following information about the poem:
‘One evening towards the end of the Napoleonic Wars, a young man, Peter MacEwan by name, was watching for smugglers in the woods of Strath Bran. He saw no smugglers; instead he saw a
strange sight, the burial of an old tinker. When Peter MacEwan was an old man he described the scene to my grandfather when he was a young boy.
Each autumn a group of tinkers were in the habit of camping near my Grandfather’s home. On one occasion he noticed that one of their numbers was missing and naturally asked where he was.
“We left him sleeping ’tween the licht and the dark,” was the mysterious reply.
That incident in Strath Bran and that reply inspired my Grandfather to write the poem.’
Travelling tinkers didn’t always bury their dead without marking the spot. Up until the reign of Henry VIII they were renowned for their elaborate way of sending loved ones into heaven
with precious belongings and lots more. Stones were erected over them and it was apparent what lay beneath the earth. Well, the king became obsessed with gypsies, whom
When I’m drivin up Glenartney
Wi’ ma auld schule car.
There’s Billy an there’s Bertie,
And Sandy one and two,
Wi’ Stewart an wi’ Jackie,
They complete the merry crew.
They sing a cornkister
Just as well as any star,
When we’re driving up Glenartney
In the auld schule car.
I’ve got another laddie,
But like me he’s left the schule,
We’ve made him leading tenor
Just tae earn his milk and meal.
He leads us in the singing,
And he keeps us up tae par,
When we’re driving up Glenartney,
In the auld schule car.
The cuckoo in the season
Gi’es a call as we pass by,
The old cock grouse, he lifts his head,
An’ winks a beady eye.
An’ whispers tae his sittin’ hen,
‘Jist bide ye whaur ye are,
For ye ken its jist McPherson
Wi’ his auld schule car.’
We dinna hae the golden sands,
Nor yet the sunny days,
But bonnie is the heather
Growing round Dalclathic Braes.
We see the winter shadows
On the snowclad Uam Var,
When we’re driving up Glenartney
In the auld schule car.
We see the bonnie rowan trees,
Their flowers the summer’s pride,
And then the scarlet berries come,
And deck the countryside.
Ye get a great contentment,
And a pleasure nane can mar,
When we’re driving up Glenartney
In the auld schule car.
I’ve seen the glen in a’ its moods,
In sunshine and in snow.
I’ve seen it at its brightest
When the autumn colours glow.
I turn quite sentimental,
Till a pothole gi’es a jar,
Then I ken I’m in Glenartney
Wi’ ma auld schule car.
There’s time when death’s dark shadow
Haunts that lonely, lovely glen,
An’ Grewer whispers tae his wife,
‘We’ve lost anither hen.
It wisnae Fisher Ferguson,
Nor Pate frae Tighnablair,
It maun hae been McPherson
Wi’ his auld schule car.’
So if you’re bowed wi’ trouble,
An’ your sky seems dull an’ grey,
If you think that fickle fortune’s
Turned her head the other way,
Should you want to lose your sorrows
(An’ be sure there’s thousands waur),
Just come driving up Glenartney
In ma auld schule car.
My laddies a’ hae left me,
Father Time has passed along,
I hope they face life’s battles
Wi’ the same auld cheery song,
As echoed round the hill tops
‘Stron-e-moul tae Uam Var,’
When we sang gaun up Glenartney
In the auld schule car.
If you have read Jessie’s Journey , my first book, you will recall John Gilbert, that fine gent who gave me permission to use his grandfather’s moving poem ‘The
Tinker’s Grave’. I knew little about him at that time. I simply read the verses, researched who it was that penned them, and discovered I had to ask permission from his grandson.
The poet lived in Perthshire, ran a fruit and veg. shop in Comrie, and was gifted, as we all now know, with the art of beautiful verse. Since Jessie’s Journey , his grandson has very
kindly given me the following information about the poem:
‘One evening towards the end of the Napoleonic Wars, a young man, Peter MacEwan by name, was watching for smugglers in the woods of Strath Bran. He saw no smugglers; instead he saw a
strange sight, the burial of an old tinker. When Peter MacEwan was an old man he described the scene to my grandfather when he was a young boy.
Each autumn a group of tinkers were in the habit of camping near my Grandfather’s home. On one occasion he noticed that one of their numbers was missing and naturally asked where he was.
“We left him sleeping ’tween the licht and the dark,” was the mysterious reply.
That incident in Strath Bran and that reply inspired my Grandfather to write the poem.’
Travelling tinkers didn’t always bury their dead without marking the spot. Up until the reign of Henry VIII they were renowned for their elaborate way of sending loved ones into heaven
with precious belongings and lots more. Stones were erected over them and it was apparent what lay beneath the earth. Well, the king became obsessed with gypsies, whom
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