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The Rickety Bus
Matt. Freeland

Click here to listen to this in Real Audio read by Marilyn Wright

It lacks the fine feenish an' city-bred air,
The rickety bus in the country-toon square,
But it's grand when the driver says: "Richt awa' noo;
There's nae sign o' Wull, an' forbye, we're near fu."
Then he coaxes the starter, the clutch, an' the brake,
An' the flair starts to dance an' the windas to shake:
There's a screech, then a breenge that sets shooglin' oor banes,
An' we stot through the toon ower its auld cobble-stanes.
She's across the wee briggie an' doon past the mill,
She wheechs roon' the bend, an' she pechs up the hill;
There's laughin' an' crackin', a lang drawn-oot sigh,
An' Jock on the baker's van hails us gaun by.
The distant hills birl to the swish o' the trees,
The sweet scent o' wuid-smoke comes doon on the breeze;
There's a lamb on the road, far stravaiged frae its maw,
An' we stop while the driver lad shoos it awa'.
Ay, it hasna' the feenish, the city-bred air,
Yet the finest o' roadsters was never sae fair
As that rickety bus, 'mang the folks that I ken,
When she takes the last bend  to my hame in the glen.

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