The Falkirk Wheat Sheaf Pub ©
A long way from your homeland, but Christmas is still the same.
The wind still blows the heather, as the Gillie tends the game.
Thistles with their heads bowed, seem to beckon home.
The Scot who wandered blithely, over the churning foam.
But call at the cheery Falkirk pub, they will remove that frown.
And treat you all like royalty, even without a crown.
There’s Linda polishing glasses, and Rose keeping the fire warm.
While Donna feeds the Parrot, who looks at Tam wi’ scorn.
”Squaaaaaark? wha divvant serve Sassenachs in this pub, but in yer case we cuid mak an exception?
An’ cos yu scribbled aw this junk, we invite ye ti this reception?”
“Wheehoo!” Aye, that’s what Christmas is all aboot, if yuz want ti ficht aw year,
but tak yin day aff fi Christmas, an’ let aw yer hair hang out”
If you notice all the kids at tea, their laughter melts your heart.
They grow so quick and time flies by, too soon they have to part.
But they will remember this Christmas day, and their kids will do the same.
Rejoicing that long ago another kid was born and Jesus was his name.