David Fotheringham - "Can You Remember"	Alex Forsyth - "My Uncle Jock"
Jacqueline Cargill - "Memories of the Past"	Celia Craig - "Gurden Herber"
CAN YOU REMEMBER. A poem by David Fotheringham   Sadly David has passed away since I placed his poem on the web site.Also Shiela and Aileen his sisters are no longer with us and this is a permanent reminder of David and his familywho along with another cousin Isobel were like brother and sisters to us after the death of our mother. Especially Shiela who used to practice her hairdressing skills on us. In those days jut after the war all the kids of my age went around with what was termed bowl clips, ie an enamel bowel was placed over the head and what was below was cut off. So had you visited then you would have thought we were all children of the three stooges. Those were the days.     Did you play Catty and Batty and Kick the Can, Buy sweeties at Bannermans and Lizzie Ann, Sit on the Gurlin stairs wi'your pals for a yarn, Or boil buckies in a tin at the back o'the barn. Have you sailed a corker in the big pool, Or made a catty's tail wi'odd bits o'wool, Did you ever make your own poddly wand, Catching poddlies at the Gutty was just grand. Did you ever climb up the apparatus pole, Or play treacle ower the warehole, Have you flown aeroplanes at the quarries, Or scrambled for pennies when somebody marries. How often did you cross the widden brig, Runnin up and doon when playing at tig, Fa'en smokies-you surely remember the taste, Wi' hordes o' bairns nothing went to waste. You might not remember who was on the throne, But you'll mind Jimmy Cook and the "I'm Alone", The Margaret Dawson and the Maggie Law, And countless fishing boats that are noo awa. Miss McIntyre and the Friday Band of Hope, (With marvellous pictures in Cinemascope?), No, it was slides projected on to the screen, From Dovey and his magic lantern machine.	Memories to cherish and things to forget, Like those open middens-I can still see them yet, And we must not forget who cleaned them of course, Andrew Clink and Queenie his faithful old horse. Remember the dances in the village hall, Wi MC Andy Simpson always on call, Take your partners for the Patternelly, Happy days before advent of telly. How often did you pull the lifeboat oot, (Not everyone got checks who were hanging aboot), The new dykes are still there but they'r not very new, And the Partin Roadie is overgrown noo. Jockie Fergie, John Corner, theres lots more to say, Georgina's parrot squawking "Frankie" all day, Mac-the stationmaster-thers no station -no train, People and places only memories remain. But if you can recall just a few of those things, And enjoy happy thoughts remembering brings, Then all I can say is very plain to see, You were surely brought up in Gourdon -the same as me.
Alex Forsyth - "My Uncle Jock" This is a poem written in the 1950s by the late Alex Forsyth of Granton Gardens Edinburgh about his uncle ( my maternal grandfather John Fotheringham," Deddie Jock") which I found recently hidden away in the covers of a book. Just a tribute to a grand old man, a man whom we hold dear, Who has reached the age of eighty five, this coronation year. He’s set an example to us all, a credit to our race, And if we had more like him , the world would be a better place. For all his life ,let it be said, he always played the game, Throughout the years, good times or bad, he’s always been the same, And life was not always easy for old folks just like him, And at times down there in Gourdon , things were mighty grim. For many a hard luck story has my father told to me, Of the fight they had in times gone by , to wrest a living from the sea.	Of the hardships and the poverty, and the struggle to survive, But he won through and Im proud to say, today he’s eighty five. He has no grand or fancy airs, no bluster or false pride, He’s been the family mainstay, a true and faithful guide His step’s still brisk, his eye still keen, on his face a cheery grin, I only hope at eighty five I’ll be the same as him. Just a humble honest fisherman, with a heart of purest gold, Lets thank him now for all he’s done, now that he is growing old And who is this man with virtues rare, as steady as a rock Why he ‘s one of natures gentlemen, yes, that’s my uncle Jock.
Memories of the Past by Jacqueline Cargill (grand-daughter of John 'Sergeant' Cargill)
Gurden Herber by Celia Craig   Fin I wis a lassie in Gurden It wis doon at the herber we’d be The hale lang, glorious summer, Watchin the boats comin in fae the sea.   Harvester, Reaper and Happy Return, Star o’ Bethlehem, Quest an aa But the best o them aa wis the Trustful, My father, the Skipper sae braw.   Past the auld, curvin horse-shoe braakwater Syne landin their catch on the pier Then  salesman, and merchants cam clusterin roond At the fish market, maakin a steer.	Yellow oilskins, blue een and a smile, My father wis in fae the sea. The partans and labsters were landit Wi maybe a fry ti wir tea.   It wis gey cauld and dreich in the winter My mither wis baitin the line Fin a gale drove the Trustful  past Gurden And she thoucht that my father she’d tine.   Soakin weet, they had made the next herber Then hame, safe and sound in his bed. Eneuch o thae coorse, drublie winters Bring back glorious summers instead.