(Fir Andy Forster)
Oan a snell nicht in Dumfries, in a cauld theatre,
these journeymen tak the stage.
Hoary as aiks, gnarlt as hawthorns,
grey-heidit, bald, they wear
their years wi easy grace.
Songs equally timeless;
stories, ballads, jigs an reels,
that aa at aince soar
wi the majesty o aigils,
else coorie doun
gentle as an eiderdown nest.
The ghaist o Sandy Denny walks amang us,
an we are aa transportit,
tae thon loosome place that music taks us –
sae richt that they shuid sing that sang agane.
Simon tells us o the bell they cast,
that tolls in some heich tower o Banbury,
bearin their nem an faur kent fame
doun throu singin time tae come.
A rousin finale o ‘Matty Groves’,
these sons o Albion tak their leave.
Andy, Margaret, Hugh and I,
daunder hame alang the Saunds,
tae the skinklin starns accompaniment;
bi the frosty Nith, still as a photograph.
Somewhaur, faur aff,
we hear a vyce ring clear.