" It's no go the gossip column, it's no go the Ceilidh, All we want is a mother's help and a sugar-stick for the baby.

Willie Murray cut his thumb, couldn't count the damage, Took the hide of an Ayrshire cow and used it for a bandage. His brother caught three hundred cran when the seas were lavish, Threw the bleeders back in the sea and went upon the parish.

It's no go the Herring Board, it's no go the Bible, All we want is a packet of fags when our hands are idle.

It's no go the picture palace, it's no go the stadium, It's no go the country cot with a pot of pink geraniums, It's no go the Government grants, it's no go the elections, Sit on your arse for fifty years and hang your hat on a pension.

It's no go my honey love, it's no go my poppet; Work your hands from day to day, the winds will blow the profit. The glass is falling hour by hour, the glass will fall for ever, But if you break the bloody glass you won't hold up the weather."

(Bagpipe Music, 1938)