MILLISLE

A toon that’s no a toonlan,
In Bal’macruise it sits.
Tha mair it haes nae islan,
Millisle is whut it gets.

Tha Mill’s awa, like Borza’s,
Nae sliders, pokes, nor coarn.
M’Clatchey’s shap fur dullies,
Tha Furst an Last forlorn.

Tha auldest biggin stannin,
Tha Meetin Hoose fur shair.
A T-shape in its plannin,
But trippers gang nae mair.

Tha toon micht luk throughither,
An bi ma sowl ye’r richt.
Ye’d har’ly tak yer mither,
Whan daylicht turns tae nicht.

Doon bye tha shore it’s growein,
Ootbye tha Meetin Hoose,
Tha heidstanes A’m allowin,
Fur oul yins noo let loose.

There maun be some attrection,
Fur in yer motthor-car,
Ye cannae miss tha ection,
Nor pairk it onywhar.

But luk behin tha hoardin,
Tae whar tha simmer sin
Bates doon on weans a-spoartin,
Aa roon oor new Lagoon.