The Walkin Twa

Ah, ti climb the hill, ti see a stane, never wis it done in vain.
The glacier stane, a massive sight,
it’s perched on an edge, with a dreadful, fearful, unforgiven ledge.

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A wumman in pink darted about, clofting a massive bit of sewn cloth,
it would try an catch the wind, trying ti tak her doun,
doun ti the distance grownd.
The stane wid nae abide, nae fabric wid clad its strappin side.

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Twa men passed by and saw, the wumman entangled way the stane and awe.
She spoke of a tale between the mountain and hill,
and of a giant way great stane-throwin skills.
From away up high on Ben Ledi’s tap,
the giant hurled it 3 mile, nae sweat ti their brow.
It burled, it spun and wis buffered by wind,
till it lay doun on a mound, a hill, a wee bit o grownd.

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I’m nae sure of the wumman in pink,
but the stane looked gid,
adorned way the cloth, doun under its rugged chin.

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Fir me and me pal, we come here to awe,
at the huge erratic glacial bolder,
picked up from bedrock far aff,
dragged across the land,
where the giant glacier drapped it, right here, right here
here, where it’s sat still, beyon all human will.