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?]
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.