by Kenny Baxter (2002) In the years when times were hard. Uncle Wullie worked doon at John Brown's yard, And every morn at six no less. He'd rise from his sleep in the kitchen recess In the black lead grate he lit the fire To shave and wash he did aspire And Monday tae Saturday, if ye please He pit oan his boots an his dungarees He would shout oot Jeannie "Get up yer late". And eat his porridge fae a wally plate, Slurp his tea, fae a coronation mug Feed the cat and walk the dug, He'd then make up, his workin' piece, Wi a square slice sausage an a daud o' cheese And if that wisnae quite enough, At his pipe he'd have a 5 minute puff. He'd pit oan his jaicket then he'd staun, For a kiss fae Jeannie 'fore he was gone, An staunin there, wi parted lips He'd pit his haun in his pocket for his bicycle clips, He pedalled solid as a rock, Keepin wan eye oan Singer's clock, He was always oan time an never late, As he goat intae Broon's by the "men's" wee gate, The Queen Mary's launch day came aroon, The king himsel' wid be there soon, As Wullie arrived at the mens wee gate, A Rolls Royce arrived for the launchin' fete. The gateman opened the "Big Gate" wide Doffed his cap tae the man inside, Wullie tried tae follow the Roller thro' But the gateman shouted "Hey there you", "Ye cannae dae that wi ye bike, Tae the men's wee gate son, take a hike", Noo Wullie took it real personnally and with the gateman he argued free, "How's this man gettin thro' he cried While I am tae go roon tae the workmens side" "He works for Cunard "the gateman hums He can enter by the "Big Gate" when he comes " Wullie preened himself with a wicked grin, "I work f'Cunard too so let me in" The gateman, struck dumb by Wullie's cheek, Let him thro the big gate every week, So just one thing afore I go, Tae ma ain fireside a' aglow If you work f'Cunard, you let them know, Don't let the gaffers steal the show
The end