Stewarton

50 Years ago

By Christina Currie Mackie

Taken from the 1997 Bonnet Guild Festival Guide

Auld Stewarton toon, o' bonnet fame, whaur in my youthful days,

Wi' dear auld comrades I could name, I roamed your banks an' braes;

Since then I've travelled faur afield, an' ower rough places ran,

But I ha'e toddled back again to whaur I first began.

But, 0 dear me! ye widna think it was the same wee toon,

As in the days when I was young an' romping up an' doon,

The neibours noo are no' the same, I fain wad let ye know,

As they were then in Darlington some fifty years ago.

The auld toll hoose is there, but, ah! the gates are noo awa',

Whaur fairmer buddies paid the toll to genial Danny Shaw;

An' weel I mind the wintry nichts, when coming frae the toon,

Feared to pass the auld meal mull, an' glowering a' aroon'.

Nae 'buses ran alang the street, nae motors an' sic stuff,

We had the auld mail coach nae doot, an' it was fast enough;
The womenfolk of Stewarton then had never seen a talkie,

Their picture was baith day an' nicht a peekie belt an' bauckie.

They hadna muckle pleasure then, their life was full o' care

Ae day of joy in a' the year, an' that was Marymass fair,

Wi' bairns a' busket trig an' braw, taking the self-same airt,

To Wullie Sim's whaur they were a' well packit in a cairt.

But are we ony better noo wi' caurs an' prams an' all,

As when we nursed the dear wee wean rowed in a guid warm shawl?

An' weel I mind when to oor hoose a new arrival cam',

We walked it weel by Andrew's wheel an' doon by Deans's Dam.

We reared some noble women an' some handsome braw big strapping men,

But, O! there's no the poverty that they were faced wi' then;

Indeed, I widna like to see the auld days bak again"

Things are a wee bit better noo for man an' wife an' wean.

For forty years I've done my best to put my thoughts in rhyme,

Yet here I sit and ponder still o'er things that sour my mind;

The day will surely come when man will not be serf an' slave,

But like a man he will demand return for what he gave.

Our kith an' kin we loved sae weel some fifty years an' mair,

The kind auld couthy canty folk lie in the faimly lair;
For 0! this world is but a stage, an' we maun play a part,

An' in the great performance get a crushed an' broken heart.

The things in life we tried to grasp aye vanished frae our view,

An' those which we detested most neither scarce nor few;

Through a' the ups an' doons o' life, sometimes wi' little cheer,

We struggle on to do our bit in actions most sincere.

Farewell, Stewartonians, farewell; my writing days are done;

This is my parting gift to you, 'twill welcome be to some;

For fear I ne'er may write again, just place this wee bit screed,

Where generations yet to come may pause awhile an' read.

For I am noo gaun doon the brae, the road that leads to rest,

Whaur I shall meet companions sweet, the dearest an' the best,

An' clasp each other by the hand, friends as well as foes,

An' sleep together at the foot, in peaceful calm repose.