‘The wind is howling,
Jings its cold,
The rain is teeming down.
I’ll shelter in this doorway
In the middle of the town.
They say that it’s a northerly,
For me it’s pigging cold.
When I was wee I never cared
I must be getting old.
Come on Sineag pick me up
Before I die a death.
I’ll stick my face inside my coat
And feel the heat come from my breath.
My baldy head is nipping
With hail stones bouncing off,
“Your toorie’s on the sideboard”
My wife will surely scoff.
This Western Isles weather
Will surely see me die,
Standing here in the town
In the middle of JULY!
© Copyright 2000