Carradale

[Humphlock]

Wal at Bayview wrote a poem about some of these old worthies. I wonder if anybody still has a copy.

Well I'm nearly sure I've a copy of Wal's poetry through the hoose. I seem to mind it's about the old-flas going up to Heaven. Wan line sticks in my memory "I'm an honest, man, St Peter, on the earth they called me Bob; And like you, on Lake of Galilee, fishing was my job". It's good stuff but if I mind right it's kinna long, and these youngsters and folk in America winna want to be reading the laiks o' that when they're all excited about sweetie papers and dear knows whit all the now.

[Bochan Mor]

Wal at Bayview wrote a poem about some of these old worthies. I wonder if anybody still has a copy.

Well I'm nearly sure I've a copy of Wal's poetry through the hoose. I seem to mind it's about the old-flas going up to Heaven. Wan line sticks in my memory "I'm an honest, man, St Peter, on the earth they called me Bob; And like you, on Lake of Galilee, fishing was my job". It's good stuff but if I mind right it's kinna long, and these youngsters and folk in America winna want to be reading the laiks o' that when they're all excited about sweetie papers and dear knows whit all the now.

Give heritage a go Humphlock. Despite the drivel on here, there's maybe plenty of folk wanting to read Wal's poems, just as they would like to see Angus MacDonald's paintings, where ever they are.

[Humphlock]

Right you are, Bochan. I think I'll need to give you the poem in installments or it'll be the RSI I'll be getting. I've looked it out now so here we go for the first bit -

A Dream
Walter Paterson

One night as I lay sleeping, there came a dream so fair
With the vault of Heaven open, to disclose the golden stair.
There it shone in wondrous beauty, golden steps and burnished rail
Stretching down in glorious splendour, from the Heavens to Carradale.

As I gazed in awe and wonder, at this soul-inspiring sight
There I saw three pilgrims mounting, step by step, and flight by flight.
Up they mounted, ever higher, towards that heavenly land, so blest
Where the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary are at rest.

When at last they reach the summit, and at Heaven's portals stand
There they view with adoration, all the works in Heaven planned.
Then each pilgrim, moving forward, to St. Peter's golden desk
There relates his whole life story, at that saintly man's request.

There St Peter holds the ledger, and its pages clearly show
All the crimes and faults of mortals, in this sordid world below.
As the first man tells his story, I can see St. Peter smile
For his fancy has been tickled by the pilgrim's story style.
.
.
.
To be continued... That's do yiz for the night.

[Bochan Mor]

Humphlock, that is just splendid. Is it from a book?

I look forward to your next instalment.

[Humphlock]

Glad you enjoyed it, Bochan. Aye, it's from a wee booklet with seven poems, jeest typed out, no really published.
He certainly had a way with words, Wal the sowel.
I'll try and mind to add a wee bit more tomorrow night.

[jdcarra]

Do you remember the "engines" (ie generators) that used to sound over the village at weekends. Some houses had them to provide light which got dimmer and dimmer as the week progressed. When the fishermen came home at the end of the week one of their first jobs was to start the engine again. Other sources of light were Alladin and Tilly lamps. What was an accumulator for? An old lady at the "Row" always had to have hers delivered.

Were they as big as this one .

[Bitter End]

NAW jd .guid tae see yer still rinnin aroon wi yer wee cimera
Gran Poem HUMPH Aye damn fine an splendid indeed it is.
IS morenish buildin some kin o flotation device fur the tractor , a wild lookin scrabble o pipes an bouys thets growin by the day, in the hope thet it'l maybe no sink whin it next takes tae a field or is he fillin them wi gas tae mak a flyin machine tae stay oot o the wey o the the bochan's cruise missile? or --

[jdcarra]

NAW jd .guid tae see yer still rinnin aroon wi yer wee cimera
Gran Poem HUMPH Aye damn fine an splendid indeed it is.
IS morenish buildin some kin o flotation device fur the tractor , a wild lookin scrabble o pipes an bouys thets growin by the day, in the hope thet it'l maybe no sink whin it next takes tae a field or is he fillin them wi gas tae mak a flyin machine tae stay oot o the wey o the the bochan's cruise missile? or --

I,a fine posting by Humphlock , great poem, looking forward to the continuation.

The wee camera got a new lease oh life for Christmas, a new battery , so stand by again. Oh and the wife also got me a wide angle lens for my camera which will now come in handy for this contraption you say that morenish is building. Do you have a grid ref oh this invetion or what?

I'm away to take some pics oh all this snow before it melts, post you some later .

[Humphlock]

Right yiz are, boys and lassies, here we go with the second installment of Wal's poem.


Good St. Peter, said the pilgrim, there is something you should know
On the earth, I was postmaster of the Carradale P.O.
In my years of early manhood, I went round with Waddel's van
Where despite the great temptations, I remained an honest man.

Then St. Peter calls for silence, and he asks the pilgrim straight
Have you ever sold a sausage that was slightly underweight
Have you ever changed the labels, on the hams of foreign cure
And assured your earthly customers, t'was Ayrshire, certain, sure?

Many things, this ledger tells me, of your work on Waddel's van
So if you would enter Heaven, please explain them, while you can.
The pilgrim answered slowly, of these crimes I now repent
Oh, let me enter Heaven and not to Hell be sent.

Again, St.Peter scans the ledger, and he answers with a smile
Your repentance gives you entry, on probation, for a while.
You shall bask in summer sunshine, stroll through palm and orange groves
Breathe the air so sweetly laden with the scent of musk and cloves.

You shall bathe in sparkling waters, you shall drink the bubbling wine
Angel maidens shall attend you, at your every call and sign.
You shall sit at table laden with the finest Heavenly fare
You shall eat the tender gammons, which the Chefs of Heaven prepare.

You shall ride in golden chariot, smoke the finest leaf cigars
Clad in robes, with diamonds sparkling, brighter far than heaven's stars.
An escort of heavenly beauties shall help you, as you go
To forget your earthly worries, in the Carradale P.O.

But I issue now a warning, and I trust you mark it well
At the slightest sign of sinning, we will pack you off to Hell.
The pilgrim lifts his burden, as St. Peter waves his hand
Enters through the open portals, to the fair and heavenly land.
.
.
.
.
Great eh? To find out what happens to the second pilgrim, tune in tomorrow night.

[Right Pongal]

By Jove Humphlock, Wals was some man. His own personal vision of heaven was starting to sound like Taliban propaganda towards the end. But great to be able to read it nonetheless.

I wonder if he's come back as one of the bats that hang about his corner?

[Bitter End]

Jist amazin Humphlock

[bill]

Thoroughly enjoying the continuing poem.

Are you sure though it was Waddel's van,an not me in the Co-op van he 's writing aboot ? ?

[Bochan Mor]

This is sheer class Humphlock, will you be tantalizing us with further poems? According to your profile, you've been lurking in the shadows of Bayview since 2005, like a sleeping cell of Crofterdom, primed to ease this thread back from the brink of extinction. I never thought it would reach the 100,000 views, but you may well have initiated the reversal of the exodus!

Things are certainly looking up. All we need now is a tearoom on the East side of the village and we will all be happy...... Well, except Morenish!

[Humphlock]

Ach well, folks, I'm jeest hellish pleased that yiz're enjoying Wal's verses.

Bochan's wondering where I've been hiding up till now. Well, Humphlocks are not known for making quick movements. We prefer jeest to sit quiet until we've something worth sharing. To tell ye the truth, I had no more mind aboot it since I signed up until the other day, and so I had a wee look to see whit yiz were discussing. I'm no jeest yollach with this kinna thing so I hope yiz'll keep me right if I offend any of yer rules or anything.

Aye, Bochan, a wee tearoom maybe with a nice view of the quay, like the Bungalow had, would be a great thing altogether.

Anyway, don't forget to tune in the night for the next thrilling installment from Heaven.

[Humphlock]

As promised, fans, here we go again up to Heaven to see what happened to Wal's second Carradale pilgrim.

And now the second pilgrim at the table takes his stand
To relate his earthly story at St Peter's firm command.

I'm an honest man, St Peter, on the earth they called me Bob
And like you, on Lake of Galilee, fishing was my job.
I have always stood for justice, firm and steadfast as a rock
So let me enter Heaven, I'm a better man than Jock.

In this ledger, says St Peter, I read of rabbits snared
And of salmon taken quietly, from the waters of the Laird.
No doubt these crimes are paltry, but your record clear must stand
Before you gain admittance to this fair and heavenly land.

St. Peter, said the pilgrim, hear my plea for pity's sake
When I shot my net for herring, I got salmon by mistake.
I may have lifted rabbits from the Point at highest tide
But I didn't kill the rabbits, they committed suicide.

Then St. Peter tells him sadly what the ledger plainly states
that no fisherman from Carradale can pass the heavenly gates.
You shall enter as a tradesman, for I note the ledger says
As an apprentice plumber, you have spent your youthful days.

You shall enter this Valhalla, you shall sleep on bed of down
And be clad in silken raiment, on your head a golden crown.
Angel maidens shall massage you, with palm and olive oil
Singing songs in heavenly chorus, to soothe you, as they toil.

You shall bask in glorious sunshine, on the Heaven's glorious strand
With a host of Angel beauties at your pleasure and command.
You shall eat of Heaven's plenty, you shall drink the sparkling beers
Lulled to sleep by heavenly music, never heard by mortal ears

Forward then, to Heaven, McCallum, happy live throughout the years
Just forget your former sorrows, in earth's sordid vale of tears.
The doors of Heaven open and the pilgrim passes in
While the sole remaining pilgrim, now his story does begin.
.
.
.
.
Touch of the Taliban promises in there again, Pongal!
Anybody know the nickname the second pilgrim had, and where he stayed at the end of his days?

Third pilgrim's tale coming up tomorrow night, God (and the Hydro board) willing.