Fi’baw in the Street

Shote! here’s the poliss,
the Gayfield poliss,
an thull pi’iz in the nick fir
pleyan fi’baw in the street!
Yin o thum’s a faw’y
like a muckle foazie taw’y
bi’ the ither’s lang an skinnylike,
wi umburrelly feet.
Ach, awaw, says Tammy Curtis,
fir thir baith owre blate ti hurt iz,
thir a glaikit pair o Teuchters
an as Hielant as a peat.
Shote! thayr thir comin
wi the hurdygurdy wummin
tha’ we coupit wi her puggy
pleyan fi’baw in the street.

Sae wir aff by Cockie-Dudgeons an
the Sandies and the Coup,
and wir owre a dizzen, fences tha’
the coppers canny loup,
and wir in an ou’ o backgreens an
wir dreepan muckle dikes,
an we tear ir claes on railins
full o nesty irin spikes.
An aw the time the skinnylinky
copper’s a’ ir heels,
though the faw’y’s deid ir deean,
this yin seems ti rin on wheels:
noo he’s stickit on a railin wi
his helmet on a spike,
noo he’s up an owre an rinnan, did
ye iver see the like?

Bi’ we stour awa ti Puddocky
(tha’s doon by Logie Green)
and wir roon by Beaverhaw whayr
deil a beaver’s iver seen;
noo wir aff wi buitts an stockins
and wir wadin roon a fence
(i’ sticks oot inly the wa’er, bi’
tha’s nithin if ye’ve serue)
syne we cooshy doon thegither
jist like choockies wi a hen
in a bonny wee-bit bunky-hole
tha’ bobbies diriny ken.
Bi’ ma knees is skint an bluddan,
an ma breeks they want the seat,
jings! ye git mair nir ye’re eftir,
pleyan fi’baw in the street.