Freddy Anderson

b. 1922    d. 2001

Photograph: The Victoria Bar, Glasgow by Stuart Eydmann c1984.

From a typescript dated 27 June 1968. Dedicated in handwriting to Mick Broderick it tells of the spirit of a long dead regular returning to the Scotia Bar, Glasgow and remembering the characters and escapades of old. It is a great snapshot of the folk revival of the time and mentions quite a few well-known names and lots of lesser ones – unless you were around at the time. It’s quite long and no doubt will find its way into a ‘collected works’ of the poet so it would be inappropriate to give here in full. I’m sure, however, no one will object to me quoting the opening lines:

The Auld Scotia

The year two thousan’ an’ fifteen,
An aged man leaves Glesca Green
An’ slowly then on weary feet
Stops for a breath in Stockwell Street,
Frae his eye there draps a tear,
Rememb’ring frien’s o’ yesteryear – O lang, lang syne.
The ancient tenements are gone:
Beneath the brig Auld Clyde flows on,
Tho all around a brighter scene
Arises where drab shops had been in his young day.
Now frae a house across the way,
There sallies forth a kindly lad
Enquiring why he looks sae sad.
The bearded one but shakes his head,
“I’m thinkin’ now o’frien’s lang deid.
Upon this site Auld Scotia stood,
An’ ach, I’m in a dreamy mood,
As my waderin’ thought recalls
The host within these vanished walls.
For here on mony a Saturday,
The low roof rang wi’ laughter gay,
An’ ah, how merry they could be,
These lads frae yaird an’ factory!
But this was no your common pub
O’ boozers swillin’ at the tub,
Or domino or flyin’ dart…. “

This poem, from a copy of Scotia Folk, concerns P.M. Harold Wilson:

SONG OF A FLEA (with apologies to the genuine breed)

Our dearly-beloved ex-P.M. Wilson says he is retiring while he still feels “as fit as a flea”. I therefore dedicate my poem to him. The flea in this instance is both irish and Shakespearean and for that reason is pronounced ‘flay’.

Our Prime Minister ‘arry feels fit as a flea,
Aye no bloody wonder I hear people say,
For in the flea circus called Parliament House,
His antics have always been that of a louse.

A clever wee parasite he now feels secure,
Having thrived for so long on the blood of the poor,
The son of a chemist in a nation of mugs,
He ended, a pedlar of political drugs.

Ramsey MacDonald was his idol they say,
Yes, one wasa rat and the other a flea;
The called themselves “Labour”, By Christ, what a joke,
You’d need salt to swallow that pig in a poke.

He now has resigned after ‘serving his time’,
He’s fattened himself and he feels in his prime,
But look at the nation and what can you say,
Of the legacy left by ‘arry the flea.

The poor they grow poorer, the school-meals are cut,
He puts us ‘in Europe’ and we’re stuck in a rut,
He soft-soaped Rhodesia, helped Ulster aflame,
And treacherously tarnished the Socialist name.

Oh, the papers all praise this magnificent flea,
For the louse served the bosses so well in his day,
But sensible people won’t swallow their tripe,
And ‘arry the Flea can put that in ‘is pipe.

Don’t weep and don’t cry if you feel Harold’s loss,
There’s thousands more like him to arse-lick the boss,
As the great Swift once said we’re not short of that item,
We have fleas upon fleas and so ……….infinitum.