The Gala

of the

Bonnet Toun

The Bonnet Toun her splendour all unrolled,

And in that festive day her noble tale retold,

In sunshine sweet, good Nature's gift supreme,

By galaxies in almost endless stream.

The Corsehill Burn, where oft the fathers played,

Whose pools did wat the feet o' weans who strayed

To fish with jelly jar or twisted preen,

That bonnie burn, has named the gala Queen.

A Corsehill laird, with industry instilled,

When Mary reigned, did found the Bonnet Guild,

Which, though its body's lost in dead decay,

Its mighty spirit is alive today.
And noo the public square is mair than thrang,

Of Scotia's fame the pretty children sang,

And on conspicuous platform, high and grand,

The Bonnet Guild and worthy Councillors stand.

An eager silence grips the staring throng,

And hark! the Queen's approach is hailed in song.

Then slow .the regal platform they ascend,

The gracious court in stately bows do bend,

Upon the royal head is placed the crown,

And then the wondrous train parades the town.

The War Memorial they at last surround,

Respect and honour grace that hallowed ground;

Each thinks of lads, the bravest of the brave,

Who fought for Stewarton homes e'en to the grave;

And when our nation's dirge is slowly piped

A host of tearful, tender eyes are wiped;

And well aware of heavy debts we owe

To those who stayed the onward rushing foe,

We turn our thoughts from awful guns' report,

And end the blissful day in happy sport.

The noisy weans, their tinnies a' ashine,

Sit in a paradise of drink and dine;

Half-envying, the aulder folk looked on,

And, laughing, talked of guid auld days bygone.

And what with races, jumps, and greasy pole,

It seemed that Time into a race did roll.

At length to gaudy shows and roundabouts

They filled the air with laughs and joyous shouts,

And then the guid folk hameward trace their ways,

And peacefully concludes a day of days.

Morag               

Stewarton      

July, 1934