Our corn it rots in wet fields: aye lad
yer brethren’s long time buried sorn.
A green moss creep, o’er mindedness sad
Wi’ sepelition’s white starkly scorn..
Take ye a spade dig me a grave:
raise divots, downside rowan’s tree.
A coming will see, cold solstice knave.
Its drôle wish is death’s better o’ me.
Sell our cow, when I’m gone-
wi’ our wee plot o’ land.
Pack yer things in my sturdy kist chest.
Give no more than last wave o yer hand
and sail away o’er seas wi’ the rest.
To lands, where corn, it grows so high
and gold’s dug by a dinged guerdon.
Weep ne’er ye a tear or give sounds to sigh:
or think yer Scot’s birthright: a burden.
Mor.
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Regis
I think the Scot’s divot may have preceded even Golf, it was a term mainly used in peat cutting and roofing on the highland shielings (summer grazing huts)
Though there is a strong possibility that your very own Donald Trump may have put a new inflection on the word, in the term
“That he’s a reet Divot”
Big smile,
Mor.
This one touched my heart and put a tear in my eye, for it tells the story of many poor Scotsman who had to leave the country because conditions are so bad that one could not make a living from the infertile, perennially wet, too small, parcels of land. Wise advice from the father and a great adventure for the son.
Ron
but what I do I'm a-likin'.