Dirty white caravans down our road, sailing.

Vivas, Cortinas, weaving in their wake.

With hot, red-faced drivers, horns flattened, fists whaling,

Putting trust in blind corners as they overtake.



And it's ``All come willing now,

Spend a shilling now,

Stack up the back of your new motor-car.''

There's home-dyed woolens, and wee plastic (Cuillins?)

(blessed?) (Cuchulains?)

[Cuchulain == mythical Irish hero --- wee plastic Cuchulains?]



The day of the Broadford Bazaar.



Out of the north, no oil-rigs are drifting.

And jobs for the many are down to the few.

Blue-bottle choppers, they visit no longer.

Like flies to the jampots, they were just passing through.



And it's ``All come willing now,

Spend a shilling now,

Stack up the back of your new motor-car''

Where once stood oil-rigs so phallic

There's only swear-words in Gaelic

To say at the Broadford bazaar.



All kinds of people come down for the opening.

Crofters and cottiers, white (wild?) settlers galore.

[Crofter == farmer renting land]

[Cottier == farmer renting land]

And up on the hill, there's an old sheep that's dying,

But it had two new lambs born just a fortnight before.



And it's ``All come willing now,

Spend a shilling now,

Stack up the back of your new motor-car.''

We'll take pounds, francs and dollars from the well-heeled,

And stamps from the Green Shield.

The day of the Broadford Bazaar.