RATHFRILAN FAIR

This is a wee poem I wrote a few years ago, loosely based on a story I heard about my great-great-granny's brother.

RATHFRILAN FAIR

Aroon a hunnèrt yeir syne, in tha Sooth o Coontie Doon,
Leeved a boy by tha name o Truesdale, near oul Rathfrilan toon.
His mither caa’d him Francis, but maist fowks gied him Frank.
He wus a boul big hallion, but he’d siller in tha bank.

Weel, Frank he wusnae merriet, an he haed a fairm o lan.
He wusnae mair nor fiftie, and life wus quare an gran.
Fur he cud dae whutivver he plaised, wi deil tha wife tae barge,
An monie a yin wushed he wus Frank, no lannit wi sim oul targe

Ae Fair Day morn, Frank hitchit tha trep an set aff fur tha toon,
Fae tha fairm at Ballynagappog, strecht up tha hill an roon,
Tae tha Kirk Square whaur he pued up, ayont an oul stane barn,
Whaur he spied twathie cronies, staunin smowkin, haein a yarn .

“Ach Billie Rab!” quo Frank wi glee, “whaur hae ye bin, oul freen?
An whut aboot ye, Joey? An hoo’s tha wife an wean?”
Oul Frank he wus in quare guid form, as he pit tha meer awa,
But he seen she haed a feed o coarn an a guid wee bed o strae.

Noo tha boys wus feelin drouthie, wi aa tha crack o tha Fair,
Sae Frank bocht them baith a whiskey, an the’ bocht a clattèr mair.
Afore lang the’ wus richtlie, an liltin sangs o yore,
Tha mair the’ cudnae houl a tune - ye cud tell the’ wus heff tore.

Tha lanlaird o tha yillhoose, telt them “Na. Nay mair!
Fur youse is pittin dacent fowk aff cummin in tha dair.”
Wee Joe wis oxter-coggelt oot, an telt no tae luk doon,
On accoont o whun he daen it, tha flair wis birlin roon.

Puir Rab near boked his ring up whun the’ gote oot in tha air,
Sae tha boys aa thocht the’d gang aff hame, afore thar day gote waur.
Frank gaed tae get tha oul grey meer, By Sowl, bit no too quäck,
Fer tha mair yin fit gaed forrits, tha ither stauchèrt beck.

Wi Meggie gote atween tha trams (A dinnae mine jist hoo)
An collar, hames an harnish oan, Frank creed oot, “A’m aff, noo”.
He sprachlit up intae tha sate, an it wus a sicht tae see,
Fer whaur yin meer stud fower oor syne, afore him noo wus thie!

Noo, Rathfrilan bes a ticht wee toon, biggit oan a hill, at tha croon,
An nae matter whut wye in ye lann, ye’ll hae a steich raa doon.
Sae whan he set aff hameairt boon, Frank tuk it gye an cannie,
Til John Barleycorn cheepit in his lug, “Yir drivin like ma grannie.”

Sae, wi sperks fleein fae tha wheels, an tha pechin o tha pownie,
It wisnae lang til Frank creed, “Hup”, as he spied his ain fairm loanie.
Bit tha reins wis like twa washin lines, an he nivver hit tha brak,
Sae Frankie an tha pownie, tha’ tuk tha turn owre quäck.

Tha trep it cowpt clean owre, an Frank wus kilt stane deid.
A ledge he nivver felt a thang, fur he lanit oan his heid.
T’wus brither Tam wha fun him, leein fornenst tha sheugh,
Wi fanklit airms an broo stove in, boys, he wus lukkin reuch.

Tha seestèrs baa’ed an greetit, fur the’ wus affleectit sair,
The’ wus powerfu fonn o brither Frank, an vext he wus nae mair.
Tha freens an neebours cam tae murn, an gie thair seempathy
An aa ye hearit wus, “Boys a Dear”, ir “Och Anee, Anee”.

Frank’s leein in a kirkyaird noo, weel plantit sax fut unnèr
An gin ye tak strang drink an drive ye’ll mebbe join him thonnèr
Sae whan y'ir gaun oot oan tha toon, lee tha motòr weel alane
An gin ye cannae get a taxi, jist ye dannèr hame yir lane