Dalmeny, a village with a green,
A church without a steeple,
A pail o’ shite at every door
And most o’ it on the people.
Sorry, Dalmeny! Blame my mother.
My ould Irish mother was a big admirer of Rabbie Burns and his work. She once swore to me that Rabbie had written a poem about Dalmeny. If you don’t know Dalmeny, it’s a wee village a short distance from South Queensferry, my hometown. Back in Burns’ day, it would have consisted of a few cottages clustered round a largish village green. But its most notable feature was the pretty Norman church in the photo. Burns would have passed through the village on his way back and forth between Edinburgh and the Queensferry passage. Anyway, here on his birthday is that poem, as related to me:
Dalmeny, a village with a green, A church without a steeple, A pail o’ shite at every door And most o’ it on the people. Sorry, Dalmeny! Blame my mother.
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