MARCH DUST
A stourie wave o’ fine March dust,
In seedhill road has made a fuss,
Mixed wi’ rain it’s turned tae glaur-
It maist wad sink a man-o’-war.
On the narrow kerb and on the road,
A buddie can scarcely keep dry shod,
When to jump a hole you make a dash,
Ye always get a dirty splash.
Frae early morn till late at e’en,
Boots and shoes are never clean,
While through the glaur puir buddies wade,
They’re much in need o’ the Shoe-black Brigade.
