The Queen cam up tae Scotland for Her Silver Jubilee;
An’ whitna’ splendid spectacle – the finest you could see.
She rode aboot in carriages,
Accomp’nied by the Duke,
An’ a’ the folk frae miles aroon’
Cam oot tae hae a look.
I sometimes dream that even I micht hae a pairt tae play –
A pairt that means that, but for me, Her plans wid gang agley.
The Queen micht say, ‘We need wur buits,
For fear the glaur micht dirty us’.
Then I appear: She smiles and says,
‘We’re a’ richt noo – here’s Curtius’.
I wish I’d been the constable that stands below the Tron.
I’d ken aboot the traffic lights – tae switch them off and on.
An’ when the Queen cam up the brae she’d see me at the top:
I’d haud back a’ the traffic so She didna hiv tae stop.
‘There’s Curtius’, she’d say, ‘guid man: I hope he’s no’ ower weary.
‘Gin he had no’ been here the noo we’d a’ be tapsalteerie.’
I wish I’d been the handy chiel in Glasgow’s ancient Kirk.
When I wis told the Queen was due, they’d see me get tae work.
Wi’ every eye upon me, I’d step forward, douce an’ grave,
Tae roll the plastic cover frae the carpet in the nave.
‘I canna see’, the Duke observes, ‘a sign o’ stour or stain!’
‘I’m no’ surprised’, the Queen replies, ‘It’s Curtius again.’
I wish I’d played the big drum at the Beatin’ o’ Retreat.
When sodgers march aboot on grass they need tae hear the beat.
I’d watch the big pipe major’s stick, an’ when I’d see it drop,
I’d gie twa mighty wallops so they’d a’ ken when tae stop.
‘There’s Curtius’, the Queen would say, ‘he’s sure tae keep them richt:
‘Without his twa big wallops, faith, they’d bang and blaw a’ nicht.’
I wish I wis an Archer: They’re a’ such weel-daein’ chaps –
Wi’ bows clutched tae their oxters an’ big feathers in their caps.
Gin onybody cheeked the Queen I’d shake him tae the marrow
By takin’ careful aim at him an’ lettin’ fly an arrow.
‘You’ve saved ma life’, the Queen would say, ‘let a’ the trumpets blaw.
‘If you were no’ ma bodygaird I’d no’ come back at a’!