A small family lived in a Scottish cottage.
On a spot of land amidst cliffs and sand
Which they could boast
Was among the most beautiful on the Scottish coast.
One day the boy came to his dad
Tapped his shoulder, then the reply
“Whatcha want, lad?”
“Ya know all ya favorite shirts ya hang up by the bay?”
“Aye” said the father.
“The seagulls pooed on them,” the boy announced in dismay.
“How bad is it?” the father asked.
“The white ones are all black and green
they’re rubbish now and can’t be cleaned.”
“If you wore them, you’d be the smelliest in the village.
Worse than Old Man Glenny, who reeks of rotten cabbage.
Anyway, da, I thought that you should know.
Before you went down there to see ya ruined clothes.”
“Aye,” said the father, not the least bit confounded.
“Tell me my lad, whatcha doin’ about it?”
The boy now knew he had a chore,
Of scrubbing poo down by the shore.
He spent all day and did his best,
To save the shirts, a nasty mess.
He brought them to his dad at last.
“They all clean now?” his father asked.
“Yes dad, the job is done.
Ya shirts are saved and can be worn.”
“Show me, lad, I want to see.”
And the lad held up a tattered tee,
Was white and grey and gull-poo green.
The boy smiled wide, his father nodded.
They supped and slept then in their cottage.
And the next day when the boy arose,
He saw the line of father’s clothes.
Bright white without a stain upon them.
The father’d solved the gull-poo problem.
The next day the boy came to his dad
Tapped his shoulder, then the reply
“Whatcha want, lad?”
“Ya know ya crab cages I set to the south?
“Aye,” said the father.
“They’ve washed up too far—into Miss McGee’s house.”
“How bad is it?” the father asked.
“The crabs are loose, scuttlin’ round her kitchen
Clawin’ at her all her biscuits—and toes not to mention.
When I left several more had taken her bed
And she screamed ‘cuz a big one had latched to her head.”
“Aye,” said the father, not the least bit confounded.
“Tell me lad, whatcha doin’ about it?”
The boy grabbed a rake and a mallet and ran
Back to poor Miss McGee with his best-thought-out plan
He did all he could to shoo the crabs out
Even bludgeoned the one ‘pon her head with a clout.
He returned home just before the sun set
Father asked, “Are all the crabs out her house yet?”
“Yes, Dad, every last one,” he replied.
The boy supped and slept with his father inside.
The next day he arose and looked out to see
His father giving goods to appease Miss McGee
She walked off dabbing her wounds with a tissue
The father it seemed had settled the issue.
The next day the boy came again to his dad
Tapped his shoulder, then the reply
“Whatcha want, lad?”
“Ya know where the shore meets the cliffs with the crags?”
“Aye,” said the father.
“There’s a hungry man shipwrecked in nothing but rags.”
“How bad is it?” the father asked.
“The man’s bleeding with sores, he’s practically naked
And he’s chewing his hands like their strips of fried bacon
He’s so mad and thirsty he’s drinkin’ seawater
And shoutin’ to no one “‘tis a fine porter!”
“Aye,” said the father, not the least bit confounded.
“Tell me lad, whatcha doin’ about it?”
The boy took some water and bread to the beach
Giving them to the man who devoured them each.
The boy came home, marking his part complete.
The father asked, “Lad, did ya meet the man’s needs?”
“Yes, he’s all better,” the boy’s pride strongly shown.
The father patted his son, and went out on his own.
Then returned with the man, all bedraggled and beaten
Washed his wounds up, gave him much more to eat then
Clothed him with pants and a clean, white shirt
Tucked him into the bed, so he no longer hurt.
He was peacefully sleeping when the boy went to check
Seems his father had righted this man who was wrecked.
Two days later the boy came once more to his dad
Tapped his shoulder, then the reply
“Whatcha want, lad?”
“Ya know how I help to get mum out of bed?”
“Aye,” said the father.
“This morning she whispered she’d stay there instead.”
“Aye,” said the father, a little confounded.
“Tell me lad, whatcha doin’ about it?”
The boy went to his mum with some water and ham
Placed a rag on her head and held her weak hand
Told her ‘bout the silliness down by the shore
Made her giggle a bit so he told her some more.
The boy came to his father and told him she’d laughed.
“Ya did the best thing, I’m proud of ye lad.”
The boy hoped that day they could all laugh together.
“Won’t ya go to her, da, and make it all better?”
The father spent all of his day with his wife
The next day they gathered to remember her life.
At the mass the boy sat and kept his head down
Said nothin’ to no one ‘til his dad came around.
He looked up at his father, his small spirit conflicted.
And asked his dad plainly, “Why couldn’t you fix it?”
His dad shook his head, he seemed quite confounded.
“Ya do yer best when you can’t do much about it.
If I said I’d no doubts, I’d be a liar
But to trust it’s now fixed, requires faith in who’s higher.”
Many years passed, as did the father
The boy grew to a man and had his own daughter.
One day she was fishing for cod by the sea
Caught a seagull instead, who she attempted to free.
It was flapping and flailing and squawking about
She couldn’t release it, called her dad with a shout.
When he got there her worry was deep for the bird.
So he held her, and it, and made them assured.
“I wanted to fix it and free it,” she cried.
“Ya got it to shore,” he joyfully replied.
Then the father lifted her chin off her chest
And said “My daughter, d’ya do ya best?”
She wiped her tears and responded “Yes.”
He held her cheek, with a warm caress.
“Then trust ya father, to handle the rest.”
