THE LEGACY

by Marion Montgomery

Ye shuid hae bin a writer,
Tellin o worthies like the wife
Wi twa hooses, upstairs and doon,
For fourteen bairns - and grand names
For them aa. (Yin named for Baden-Powell
Wis aye cried, "Puddin-Bowl".)
Ye'd words tae bring back oil lamps, horses -
The life o Peg yir pownie
Wis better nor Black Beauty -
And village kirks wi canglin bells:
"We are the State Church," jawed the Auld;
"No ye're no! No ye're no!" the Free.
In baith the growin list o deid
Read oot ilk Sunday o the war
That kilt yir first love, maimed the tither.

The neist war cam. And still ye fund
Guid stories. In the clack o queues -
"I niver thocht I'd see the day
I'd gang doon on ma knees jist fir
An ingyin" - or fitba experts
On a miners' bus - "There's aye ae
Puddin, but this gemm there were twa".
Ye saw the dug-fecht ower Forth Brig,
Hail stairheids wave lads aff tae war.
Aye, ye cuid mak us lauch or greet
Or bide the endin o lang tales
Telt in the shelter while the guns
And search-lichts probed the lift.

Ye shuid hae bin a writer
But remained "Anon". Gied me -
Yir last gift - this machine tae type
Braw Scots words learnt frae you. I'll
Pass baith them and it tae the lassie
Wi her granny's name an wey wi stories.
And she sall be a writer.