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The Trump  

A chap at e door on an oorie forenicht 
O mirk an o haar an o caal.
The tyke, she lat oot an oonchancie-lik yowl,
As A shochlt the linth o the haal.
Syne apenin up tae the mirk an the haar,
A saa by the licht o the lump
A tow-heidit chiel – muckle-boukit he wis – 
An he heelt oot his haan an said ‘trump!’
Jist aat!
A’d kent im at eence for a trump! 

‘Gin’t’s sipper ye’re wintin,’ A says, ‘ye’re ower late; 
Oor brose is lang unner the belt.
We’re nae needin clyse pegs; wir knives are aa shairp;
An wir fortun’s arriddy been telt.’
‘Na, na,’ says the billie. ‘Ye’ve gat it aa wrang.
A haev a much better excuse.’
Than he spiers, in this affa American twang,
‘Foo much daev ye wint for yir hoose?’
Ay, fegs.
Foo much did A wint for ma hoose! 

It teuk ma some fylie tae cower the begeck,
Than, loshtie, A set tee tae laach.
The soon o ma keckle, lik hens at their claik,
Gaed racketin ower the haach.
‘An faar wad a vaagrant lik ee o aa men,
Fin the siller? D’ye think A’m nae wyce?’
Sae he oots wi his cheque beuk an oots wi his pen
An he says tae ma ‘Nemm me yir price?’
Sure’s daith!
The chik o im! ‘Nemm me yir price!’

Syne, seein his collar an tie,
A gaes oot;
An A peers at im unner the lump.
A sweer he wis weerin his gweed Sabbath shoot.
A byordinar funcy-lik trump!
A says till him ‘Faat wad a boddie lik ee
Be wintin wi my hummle howff?’
‘A’d caa it aa doon the neist mornin’, says he,
‘An howk up yir fiedles for gowff.’
Nae lee!
He’d howk up ma fiedles for gowff! 

‘An faat o the chuckneys? Faa’d see tae their needs?
An faar wad we sup wir ain kail?
An faat wad we dee for a reef ower wir heids?
Na, thes doonsit is nae up for sale!’
‘A carna a docken for ee an yir plicht.
Yir cott may be hame,’ said the trump,
‘But it’s siccan a sicht that it’s castin a blicht.
Fae the clubhoose, it leuks a richt dump!’
The vratch!
He caad ma bit hoosie a dump!

He mairches awa, leukin gurly an grim
An yalls it wis aa wir ain wyte;
But he nivver forgya us for na-sayin him;
An he cut aff wir waater for spite!
The laist time he strade ower the ackers he aacht,
An glowert at the hoose that he hates,
He said ‘Tak it fae me, ye’ll be sorry ye laacht,
Fan they mak me heid man o the States!’
Gweed keep’s
Gin he’s the heid man o the States!

Douglas Kynoch