The Laird of Northfield
The Laird of Northfield was a young strawberry blonde
Who of playing and singing was awfully fond,
He wanted a lassie his braw hoose tae share
And maybe one fine day, to gie him an heir.
Oh the hoose it was splendid, if chilly and damp,
He’d restored it himsel’ wi’ his own lairdly stamp
With its auld painted celilings and turrets sae round
He was sure the right lassie would shortly be found.
Across the Atlantic a ladie did dwell
At his tablehead he thought she’d look well
She was pretty and clever and not at all auld
And northern enough tae survive in the cauld.
With trews, no’ too garish, and colourfu’ tie
He wooed her wi’ charm and a glint in his eye
And multiple talents and fine erudition-
His plan to entrap her soon came tae fruition.
But back at Northfield the years hurried by
For frantic activity made the time fly
The growing o’ vegetables, apples and floors
And the selling o’ crisps in the weekdays for hours.
There were parties a-plenty and whisky and wine
The chatter was witty, the banter was fine
The music melodious, the food it was good
It had practically all that a lairdly house should.
But at last the time came to make new festive plans
And to summon his friends back to auld Prestonpans
When at last a young Lockie was well on the way
We were celebrating the laird’s fiftieth birthday!
