by Bruce Clark Dick
When tattie-bogles wings they sproot,
and fae the fields, they a flee richt oot.
Tae terrorise, the local sheep,
wi heids o grinning muckle neeps.
They circle aboot, up Smiddy wid,
We ken, the bogles, will dae nae guid.
They unlock the latch on the fairmers gate,
and mak the coos, fir mulkin late.
It’s choir practice, in the village ha,
The practice is open, tae ane an aw.
The bogles think they will try thir hand,
and at the back the bogles stand.
If you’ve never heard, a tattie-bogle sing,
My god man! It’s a terrible thing.
They wail,an shriek, at the tap o thir voice,
the pair choir maister, he hud nae choice.
Wi the help o the verger, an a farmir’s big boot,
they collared the tattie-bogles, an threw them a oot.
They protested, complained, they didnae get a chance,
perhaps, they could sing at the next village dance.