On the death of a great school pal


By Exile


Wee Smeekie slipped awa’,

Ne’er again he’ll chase a ba’,

Ne’er again he’ll chase a lass,

Or mak’ a tellin’ cross-field pass,

He lies in peace at Auchtergaven,

Laid to rest on January eleven,

Baith legs had gone, he couldnae see,

He survived until two thousand and three,

Re-united now wi’ his mither Mary,

And grandad Jimmy wha’ could be contrary,

And his favourite uncle, Archie Syme

Wha’ worked at Burnside in his time,

An Geordie Cowie his first Boss,

O’ Smeekie you’re a sad, sad loss. 




I see your image perfect noo,

Yer blonde coo’s lick, eyes sapphire blue,

That flashing smile and cheeky face,

They spindle shanks won many a race,

Yer well tanned skin an’ wiry frame,

At long last Smeekies goin’ hame,


Aye in trouble wi’ yer spigot,

A Rangers fan but no a bigot,

When ye lost baith legs an’ couldnae see,

Why did ye no lay doon an’ dee?

The stubborn pride you epitomised,

Was the Smeekie that I recognised,


God bless you Smeekie, God rest your soul,

God take that body and make it whole,

May He put you in your rightfu’ place,

On the winners rostrum o’ the human race,

I hope we’ll meet again someday,

But I’d sooner meet ye doon the Tay.


 Copyright Calluna publishing 2003