Friday, August the 27th, 2004

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On the Bonny Bonny Banks

On the bonny bonny banks of the foul old loch, where a dredger plied from shore to shore, I saw my true love pluck some furze and place it in her hair. My true love was a wandering lass of a clan that herded cows, and she broke her back when she had a mishap with a trampoline. For her folk herded cows through the seasons long, but they also jumped and leaped. They would wander into the market square of a town down in some dale, and they'd bounce up and down and gambol about wearing coats of many hues. And the songs they sang! Oh, the songs they sang were as strange as strange could be. I remember one that went “Vienna—it means nothing to me”. All caked and painted were their carts, yellow, green and blue. But my true love's cart was black as pitch, as black as the raven and crow. I stand in the hills in an icy gale wondering where will my true love go? Green grow the rushes-oh, on those bonny bonny banks.