Dirty white caravans down our road, sailing.
Vivas, cortinas, weaving in their wake.
With hot, red-faced drivers, horns flattened, fists whaling,
Putting trust in blind corners as they overtake.
And it's ''all come willing now,
Spend a shilling now,
Stack up the back of your new motor-car.''
There's home-dyed woolens, and wee plastic [cuillins]
[blessed? ] [cuchulains? ]
[cuchulain == mythical irish hero --- wee plastic cuchulains? ]
[[email protected] (jo lobb) explains: broadford is a town on
Skye (where the road that passes dun ringill leaves the main
Road, incidentally) and skye's famous cuillin hills are nearby.
I suppose tourists could be expected to buy wee plastic models
Of spectacular hills .... also, the cuillin hills are ''also
Known as the coolins or cuchullins, possibly after an ossianic
Hero...'', so maybe wee plastic model heroes do make sense, after
All.]
The day of the broadford bazaar.
Out of the north, no oil-rigs are drifting.
And jobs for the many are down to the few.
Blue-bottle choppers, they visit no longer.
Like flies to the jampots, they were just passing through.
And it's ''all come willing now,
Spend a shilling now,
Stack up the back of your new motor-car''
Where once stood oil-rigs so phallic
There's only swear-words in gaelic
To say at the broadford bazaar.
All kinds of people come down for the opening.
Crofters and cottiers, white [wild? ] settlers galore.
[crofter == farmer renting land]
[cottier == farmer renting land]
And up on the hill, there's an old sheep that's dying,
But it had two new lambs born just a fortnight before.
And it's ''all come willing now,
Spend a shilling now,
Stack up the back of your new motor-car.''
We'll take pounds, francs and dollars from the well-heeled,
And stamps from the green shield.
The day of the broadford bazaar.