The Auld Broon Troot
by Sandy Thomas Ross

The auld broon troot lay unner a stane,
Unner a stane lay he,
An he thocht o’ the wund,
An he thocht o’ the rain,
An the troot that he uist tae be.

A’m a gey auld troot, said he tae hissel,
A gey auld troot, said he,
An there’s mony a queer-like
Tale A cuid tell
O’ the things that hae happened tae me.

They wee-hafflin trooties are aa verra smert,
They’re aa verra smert, said he,
They ken aa the rules
O’ the gemm aff by hairt,
An they’re no aften catched, A’ll agree.

They’re thinkin A’m auld an they’re thinkin A’m duin,
They’re thinkin A’m duin, said he,
They’re thinkin A’m no
Worth the flirt o’ a fin
Or the blink o’ a bonnie black ee.

But A’m safe an A’m smug in ma bonnie wee neuk,
A’m safe an A’m snug, said he,
A’m the big fush that
Nae fusher can heuk,
An A’ll aye be that – till A dee!