There was a sleet in the cauld wind we decided to brave
As we trudged up the hill to find Wee Smeekies grave
The lush grass was sodden, it was muddy underfoot,
As we stopped to draw breath whilst surveying Bankfoot
This historic village cemetery was kept sae neat and tidy
Was whaur Smeekie had been buried four weeks past on Friday
And a braw, braw place tae lay in rest I thought untae my’sel
A reception room for Heaven, no’ a waiting room for Hell
Gravestones o’er the centuries o’ granddads, daughters, brothers
Cousins, nieces, nephews, grannies, fathers, sons and mothers
Orderliness most evident, o’ that you would expect
Auchtergaven’s way o’ saying “To our dead we pay respect”
This graveyard had seen many tears, an’ deaths for many reasons
And the evidence on the headstones by the monumental masons
Whau’s inscriptions were reminders o’ the fragility o’ life
And the tenderness and devotion o’ a husband and a wife
Going through life together, sharing everything they’ve got
Then going to meet their maker and sharing the same plot
Takes a special compatibility wi’ warmth and understanding
Wi’ forthrightness and courage, determination not withstanding
But we’d come to find Wee Smeekies plot an’ say a word or two
And think about him lying there in his red and white and blue
His dying wish, a Rangers strip to replace the funeral shroud
For Smeekie was an Ibrox man, o’ that he was fair proud
And he was in this churchyard lying somewhere underground
Yet hunting through “God’s acre” no trace of him was found
We were checking every tombstone, trudging up and down
Then when glancing to the left I detected Camsie’s frown
Then the frown disappeared and he started to scowl
His shoulders hunched forward, he stared to prowl
The searching continued, the hour was getting late
I thought we’d found Smeekie when I heard a shout from Pate
“A funny thing” says Camsie, “I’ve examined every stane
There’s something very odd out here I canny we’el explain”
I watched him quite intently, he was serious as he spoke
“No finding Smeekie’s one thing, but I’ve lost my Uncle Jock!”
I’ve checked every single headstone, he’s nowhere to be found
I was here when he was buried, when they put him underground
Cams was mystified and flummoxed, worse than he had feared
His Uncle Jock and Smeekie couldnae baith have disappeared
Ye hear some awful stories, and you’re filled with morbid dread
Grave robbers in the darkness, digging up the dead
A shiver went through my body, I looked up tae the skies
As I thought about the butcher and his local home-made pies
Sleep well in Auchtergaven, sleep soundly in your bed
Steer clear of your necropolis, your ‘city of the dead’
Strange things may be happening up on your Boot Hill
Which looks at first a picture so peaceful and tranquil
May be hiding awful secrets of ghouls and bloody vampires
Bogeymen, werewolves or blazing human bonfires
Have close at hand a crucifix, eat garlic for good measure
And put them in your coffin if the hereafter you treasure
Now Rangers men and crucifixes don’t mix very well
But keep at bay the vampires or you could end up in Hell.
Copyright Calluna Publishing 2003