Tam the Chancer

(With due credit and apologies to Rabbie Burns)

Auld Glesca late in the eighteen hundreds,
tenements, satanic mills and shipyards.
Hard drinkin men, wifes sittin at hame,
nursin their wrath tae keep it warm.

And so Halloween night finds oor Tam the Chancer,
at Garngad Road in Middleton's boozer.
Swallyin Guinness and Johnny Walker,
come chuckin oot time, he's the last tae stagger.

The streets are dark, empty and still,
alang the pavement, up the hill.
The full moon above casts light so dim,
he watches it, it watches him.

As he climbs up Tharsis Street it's gettin eerie,
nae sound, nor soul tae make him cheery.
At Rhymer Street he fumbles in his jaikit,
a swig fae his hauf-boatle, then intae his back poackit.

Oan Garngadhill he stoaps fur breath,
thinks of his ancestors who, before their death,
like him stared up at that same moon thinkin,
"Ah really need tae gie up the drinkin."

He suddenly needs tae take a leak,
a secluded place he must urgently seek...
Toonheid Church all gothic and holy,
it's tall spire beckonin - aw holy moley!

Tam, seldom wan tae visit the kirk,
climbs ower the gate and roon the back.
He relieves himsel as nature intendit
then goes tae leave quite contentit.

But a noise he hears, an his attention's drawn,
tae a windae nearby that seems tae be glowin!
A sober man wid up and beat it,
but the whisky makes him act the eejit.

He staggers ouwer tae the church's gable,
and through the windae he can discern a table.
A group of figures, faint, ethereal,
sit in a circle, faces invisible.

They're focused oan wee boaxes afore them,
each wan flickering wae information.
They're tappin keys - piano? telegraphy?
Tam cannae recognise the technology.

He disnae know it, but he's stumbled ye see,
intae a cyber-séance from 2003!
For under the towering Townheid steeple,
there's a Time Team visiting from Scotland's People.

These folk fae the future track doon the deid,
tappin intae the past, they're a pretty strange breed.
There's wan wae an accent that's distinctly American,
wan wae a shamrock, another wearin a sporran!

There's a man that comes ouwer as being quite honest,
an a wummin wae an apple, she's no like the rest!
The others Tam struggles tae make oot in the gloom,
but then the Guinness geez him away wae a boom!

They aw look up, startled an that!
the searchin's ouwer, they huv a hit.
"Look ther - at the windae!" They see Tam lurkin,
except for the apple wummin, who cannae see nuthin!

"Whits yer name? Tell us aw!" they cry,
"when wir ye boarn an when will ye die?
Dae ye hiv any weans? Hiv ye been merrit afore?
whit did ye work at? Come oan, tell us more!"

Tam remembers his faither, Tam the Loon,
"Never say nuthin son, an never write nuthin doon.
Fur thers people oot ther who'll use it against ye,
they'll pester the hell oot ye, even efter ye dee."

Tam leaps fae the windae, makes a breenge fur the gate,
but the cyber crew follow in hot pursuit.
They float through the air aw ghostly and chill,
as he takes aff like the clappers doon Garngadhill.

As he passes the convent of the wee Sisters of the Poor,
he glimpses the statue and cries "Will ye help me fur sure?"
But the holy-lady just smiles, and wae a shrug she cant hide,
says "Ah'm sorry Tam, but yer oan the wrang side!"

In Rosemount's back coort he remains briefly hidden,
the team fae the future cannae see him in the midden.
Fish bones an peelins, boatles an ash,
when Tam thinks it's aw clear he leaps oot fae the trash.

But they're oan him in seconds, right oan his heels,
as he runs through a close, trippin ouwer pram wheels.
He stauns oan a cat, it gives the screamin haw maws,
attackin Tam's bahookie wae paws, jaws and claws.

Doon Millburn Street Tam's beginin tae tire,
a quick glance behind him confirms the situation's dire.
His pursuers are screamin, dangerously near,
hell bent oan catchin him, they're intentions unclear.

Hands grab at his jaikit, but he pulls hisell free,
but he knows his times up unless a solution has he.
He remembers a tale of witches and watter,
details escape him but that doesnae matter.

The canal's doon the hill, that's wher he must head
It's a race against time, the apple wummin takes the lead.
She screams at him "Stoap! We jist want tae be friends."
but Tam isnae hivin it as he avoids the deid ends.

As the White Brig approaches ouwer the Monkland Canal,
he makes one final surge an geezit his all.
The wee wummin breenges, seeing his plan,
she grasps his back poakit, grips something cauld in her haun.

Tam clears the Brig ouwer the oozin canal,
but is stunned by a loss - His hauf-boatle! His pal!
He stoaps an turns beelin, facin his foes,
"Geeze mah boatle, ye fiendish so an so's!"

They smile in defiance as they start tae move near,
then in a flash - they aw disappear!
The boatle it smashes, glass shattering aroon,
Tam looks doon at the wreckage in the light of the moon.

He believes his plan worked. "The running watter it did it."
But he disnae realise - that they jist ran oot of credit!
And in the glass lying broken, glintin sadly in the dark,
he sees that the label reads - Cutty Sark!