Oh, sister 1 (Memoirs of Robert Brown i)

Ah wis born Robert Henry Broon

A Scot fae Glasgow that moved tae London toon

It’s no like there wisnae much work goin’ aroon’

But the polis were efter me an’ ah didnae fancy goin’ doon

So there wis nae point in stayin’

An’ ma poor wee maw wis always at the chapel prayin’

And moanin’ tae Father Beast

Well, that’s what ah called the dirty priest

His real name wis Father Boyce

A man wi’ an unhealthy interest in pre-pubescent boys

Like that time when ah wis ten an’ ah went for a piddle

The sleekit wee celibate couldnae resist a wee fiddle

That wis the first time an’ definitely the last

But let’s jist leave it at that as it’s aw in the past

So back tae what ah wis sayin’

Aboot the trouble ah wis in an’ how ah widnae be stayin’

Ma maw an’ the priest had a wee meetin’

Efter she ran oot o’ the hoose wi’ her face stained fae greetin’

“Oh, Father Boyce!” she’d sobbed. “Ah have tae shop him tae the polis. Ah don’t have a choice.”

“Calm yer fears an’ dry yer tears, Mrs. Brown,” he’d told her. “We’ll send the lad tae London town.”

“But how wid it help tae send him doon there?” she’d asked him. “Jist merr waifs and strays. He widnae have a prayer.”

“Ah know a man that could take oan Rab if he’s prepared tae steer a hansom cab.”

That’s how it went

Ah tried tae resist but they were baith hell bent

Ah wis given some money an’ a reference letter

An’ told that things wid soon get better

So, withoot merr fuss or delay

The very next day ah wis oan ma way

Doon tae the Smoke tae see this bloke

It wid be an understatement tae say that life wis bleak

An’ the job ah wis offered only lasted a week

Ah have tae tell ye that it wis me that quit

Sixteen hour shifts an’ then hame tae a flea pit

Naw, that wisnae for me

An’ for that simple reason ah’m sure ye’ll agree

It wis the time o’ the reign o’ Queen Victoria

An’ life for the workin’ class wis far fae euphoria

Aw strugglin’ tae make ends meet

So many homeless oot in the street

But ah wisnae prepared tae sink

An’ wan night in the East End a went for a drink

Wan o’ these dingy wee places

Frequented by rogues wi’ scars oan their faces

And scores o’ whores wi’ unsightly sores

That wis where ah first met Nancy

“Two shillings or three?” she said to me. “Two for the usual and three will get you whatever you fancy.”

Ah’d jist taken a slug o’ beer an’ she caused me tae choke. “Away ye go, hen,” ah told her. “Ah’m jist aboot broke.”

“Then buy me a drink an’ I’ll ’elp you out of danger. This ’ere pub ain’t safe for a stranger.”