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GENTLE GIANTS	<<Back Next>>
The cover for this album includes extensive sleeve notes about the history of the Clydesdale horse by Robin Laing, who was responsible for bringing this album together. THE LAST TRIP HOME Davy Steele and John McCusker A've ay worked on farms and fae the start The muckle horses won ma heart, Wi' their big broad backs they proudly stand, The uncrowned kings o a' the land, An' yet for a' their power and strength, They’re as gentle as a summer's wind. CHORUS : So steady boys walk on, Oor work is nearly done, No more we'll till or plough the fields, The horses' day is gone, An' this will be oor last trip home, So steady boys walk on. You'll hear men sing their songs of praise, Of Arab stallions in a race, Or Hunters that fly wi' the hounds, To chase the fox and run him down, But none o' them compare I vow, Tae a workin' pair that pulls the plough. CHORUS A’ the years I've plied ma trade, An’ a’ the fields we've ploughed and laid, I never thought I'd see the time When a Clydesdale's work wid ever end, But progress runs its driven course Noo tractors hae replaced the horse. CHORUS As we head back our friends have lined The road tae see us one last time, Not one o' them will want tae miss, The chance tae see us pass like this, They'll say they saw in years tae come, The muckle horses' last trip home. CHORUS
WHAT’S WAITING FOR YOU Tom Clelland Brush your weary dreams away, Brace your spirit, face the day. It's for this tough old world you're cast. What's waiting for you'll no go past Eighteen hands, as God allows, You haul the cart, you draw the plough Through summerburn and winterblast. What's waiting for you'll no go past. Chorus So fare thee well thou lowland towns. Crack of dawn - we're outward bound, Pastures new and fresh green grass What's waiting for you'll no go past. You're roped to harness, rack and rein, Though silver ribbons grace your mane. From smiddy steel to burnished brass, What's waiting for you'll no go past. They'll take you where the oceans roar To streets of Cleveland, Baltimore. Big cities shine like polished glass. What's waiting for you'll no go past It's toil and trouble, work and woe, Will it every day be so ? 'Til peace and rest shall come at last, What's waiting for you'll no go past. HEAVY HORSES Robin Laing Heavy horses, see how they stand Leaning ahead, shoulder to the land, Heavy horses, Oh the mighty Clydesdales Long may they shine And the line Never fail. Sometimes I see one, in a slow-motion dream, By misty blue hills where the Clyde's just a stream; Pulling a plough, stepping with grace, A hard-working friend with a good-natured face. Heavy horses… I often wonder if you ever heard The whispering charms of the Horseman's Word, Or late in the day, when the light would fail And bothy men shared cornkister tales. Heavy horses... A world in transition, stepping out of its past; Old ways are fine, fine, fine but old ways don't last. And the furrow you turned grew seedlings of change, As you carried us on into the industrial age. Heavy horses... So here's to the Baron, Blaze and Bold Stride, Footprint and Star, Hiawatha and Clyde. The ribbons they wore and the prizes they won; The leather and chains that creaked in the sun. Heavy horses... Long may they shine and the line never fail. THE LAST CLYDESDALES Archie Webster Come aa ye young ploughboys that list tae ma tale, As ye sit roun the tables aa drinkin yer ale; I’ll tak ye aa back tae a far distant day, When I drove the last Clydesdales tae work on Denbrae. There were twa bonnie blacks wi white faces and feet, In the hale o the roond they had never been beat; [i.e. the whole neighbourhood] An ye’d look gey far twix the Forth and the Tay, For tae match thae twa Clydesdales, the pride o Denbrae. They were matchless in power in the cairt or the ploo, An’ ma voice and ma haund on the reins they weel knew; There was only ae thocht in their minds but obey, My twa gallant Clydesdales, the pride o Denbrae. But the time it wears on, an the winters grow cauld, An horses, like men, can dae nocht but grow auld; But I mind o them still, as it were yesterday, For I drove the last Clydesdales tae work on Denbrae. GONE ARE THE STRONG ONES Ewan MacVicar Gone are the strong ones I knew in my day Broad backed, big legged, not much to say They did their work well though they got little pay We’ll not see their likes any more I grew up on a Highland farm with Dolly, Jock and Dick Dick would take us into town to meet the train from Wick Slow and safe along the road, tik tak tik tak tik Counting every flower along the way Dolly was so good with bairns, through I was only nine I worked her with trace and long rope at the harvest time Loop the rope around the rick and pull it into line So Jock and Dick could haul the hairst away Jock was a big one, a truebred Clydesdale brown Thick hair and heavy feet, perfect for the plough He’d pull from dawn to sunset, on any kind of ground The Clydesdales earned their oats and hay The Clydesdale horse was bred, they say, to carry armoured knights I learned that at Newmore School, and teacher’s always right They’d take so long to get up speed they’d be late for the fight But they’d smash down anybody in their way But one year the grass sickness hit the North full hard It killed so many horses, it raged near and far Sally, Jock and Dick went to the knacker’s yard A tractor towed them away THE BARON O’ BUCHLYVIE Alan Cairney CHORUS For he looked sae braw taller than them a’, Whitna size powerful and wise, Aye weel dressed wi a barrel o a chest, He was the Baron O Buchlyvie. Now the crowds all came for mighty was his name, Far and wide across the countryside, Strong and proud the darling of the crowd, He was the Baron O Buchlyvie. And when he marched in the grand parade all the menfolk cried, Here comes the king of champions, And all the ladies sighed. CHORUS. Now the folks came down from every heiland town, Up from the south his name on every mouth, From the east and west they came to see the best, He was the Baron O Buchlyvie. In the pubs they`d dwell wi tales to tell, Of his strength and might far into the night, And every man would raise a dram, To the Baron O Buchlyvie. They`d toast his pedigree with the Barley Bree, In the Rob Roy Inn fair foo, Whils`t others gaed doon the Main Street, And filled the Red Lion too. CHORUS He had a famous son who`s work was never done, Dunure Footprint was never one to stint, And Bonny Buchlyvie later did arrive, To boost the Baron O Buchlyvie. But then one day such a tragedy, As his latest love he wooed, The mare lashed out and kicked him, And broke his leg in two. So they put him down though it saddened half the town, The mighty Clydesdale king had had his final fling, And to Kelvingrove his muckle skeleton they drove, To show the Baron O Buchlyvie. CHORUS But we mind him braw taller than them a’, Whitna size powerful and wise, Aye weel dressed wi a barrel of a chest, He was the Baron O Buchlyvie. CHAMPION Billy Stewart Chorus Pull the plough pull the cart pull the strings of my heart And I will miss you when you’re gone when you’re gone From the metal shoes you wear to your flowing mane of chestnut hair I’ll miss you when you’re gone when you’re gone I’m a plough boy on the farm and I wake up every morning To the crowing of the cock with the sun I come to where you stand a gentle giant of the land And I know another working day’s begun Chorus Then I come to where you stand a gentle giant of the land With your harness made from leather, brass and chain And you stand there fully dressed like an elder in his Sunday best And we will walk the furrows once again Chorus When you’re harnessed to the plough you’re as graceful as a Clipper now. That sails the seven seas from coast to coast When the virgin ground you break and lines of symmetry you make The Champion of Clydesdales is your boast Chorus But now your time is passed this working day will be your last And no more will you toil beneath my hand Your harness will hang slack all you’ll feel is warm sun on your back And I’ll miss my companion of the land SAMSON DREAMS Chris Rogers Long long time they’ve worked together Through wind and weather, side by side Honest toil for those who need them Who keep and feed them from the soil But when the working day is over Samson dreams of running free Of jumping fences and of flying like the wind Delilah knows to let him be Day by day they haul and carry No time to tarry, such a heavy load Speed the plough and guide the harrow Straight as an arrow, then down the road But when the working day is over Delilah dreams of running free Of chasing rainbows and of dancing on the sand Samson knows to let her be Light and steel serve to remind us That love and kindness show the way Blood and bone have finer fettle Than oil and metal, come what may And now the working day is over Both can dream of running free Of quiet shelter and of lazing in the sun And all the world will let them be PRINCIE AND JEAN C. Corrigal Ah’ll sing ye a song o’ a canty auld body, A kenspeckle figger was auld Wattie Broon, A trustworthy hand at the Mains o’ Drumcloddie, Sin’ the day he began tae work there as a loon, And syne there as baillie he proved himself canny, His work conscientious, particlar and clean, Till a’e day his maister said, ‘Wattie, ma mannie, Ye’ll tak’ the third pair, they’re ca’d Princie and Jean’. And in a’ bonnie Scotland there wasna a human, So happy as Wattie wi’ his dandy pair, He sune held his ain wi’ the rest as a plooman, And, oh, was he prood o’ his gelding and mare! A grand pair o’ blacks, no’ their like in a hunner, Wi’ coats o’ a rich glossy ebony sheen, And at plooin’ matches for years worthy winner, For grooming was Wattie, wi’ Princie and Jean. So Wattie aye bided content wi’ his duties, Bit life’s fu’ o’ changes as a’body kens, Decrepit auld age claimed the baith o’ his beauties, And tractors began tae appear at the Mains, A steerin’ wheel Wattie just widna be grippin’, He wrocht on as a orra man – didna compleen, Bit a’body noticed puir Wattie was slippin’ Doonhill, he was pinin’ for Princie and Jean. And noo he’s awa’, a’ his trauchles are ended, A God-fearin’ body that aye did his best, His life was a sermon, the mourners a’ kent it, On Tuesday last week when we laid him tae rest, And we a’ had a thocht, though we didna divulge it, As wi’ hankies we dabbit the tears fae wir een, That if He wha was born in a manger so wills it, They’ll be waitin for Wattie – his Princie and Jean! DAVID AND GOLIATH Robin Laing Goliath was a Clydesdale Horse Nineteen hands and four feet across A champion of his day He ended up in Glasgow town hitched to a brewery dray Goliath was a popular horse He was carrying beer of course And men pricked up their ears For the hammer fall of Goliath’s hooves and barrels of fresh brewed beer Goliath he was stubborn and thrawn Looking for feet to trample upon With a wicked smile on his face And Davy the drayman frequently found his feet in a dangerous place David and Goliath The drayman and his horse Every day except the Sabbath On the streets of Glasgow from Barlinnie to St Georges Cross Then one day – sad to say Old Goliath passed away And was sent to the knacker’s yard But Davy asked for one of the hooves that had made his life so hard Goliath’s hoof was big and roundTwelve inch across and weighed four pound It made a fine ashtray And Davy the drayman emptied his pipe inside it every day David and Goliath… Now Davy’s wife was a decent soul But the burnt hoof smell she could not thole She said there was nothing worse And she put her foot down Davy found harder than a Clydesdale horse So Davy put the hoof in to boil To fertilize his allotment soil And his roses that year were grand Thanks to the feet of a horse and a wife and a drayman’s loving hand David and Goliath… BOXER’S STORY John Malcolm It was in England’s pleasant land So the story goes Manor Farm was run down By the farmer Mr Jones He didn’t mend the fences The fields were full of weeds The barn roof was leaking He wasted all the seeds His animals were starving And they could take no more One night as Jones was lying drunk They burst the storehouse door The farm hands tried to stop them Lashing with their whips But they were forced to run away From butting horns and kicks Now horses pigs cows and sheep Hens and ducks and geese The farm dogs and the farm cat Agreed to live in peace They vowed to live as equals And work and share the farm And from then on in no animal Should ever come to harm Boxer was the carthorse A huge eighteen hands tall The strongest of the animals Did more work than them all But the pigs had all the cunning And began to rule the roost Though all were to be equal Some were more equal than most Now you may not believe me Say how can this be true But it’s already happening And it could happen to you Now the head pig was Napoleon A big fat Berkshire boar Who came to power through tactics You’ve heard that somewhere before? And fading dreams of equality Diminished through the years And returning was hard labour Secrecy and fear But boxer never questioned His duty to obey And held fast to his motto To work harder every day He liked to work and do it well His joy to work for others The smaller creatures on the farm His sisters and his brothers A faithful friend is the heavy horse With a heart as pure as gold And none more so than Boxer As the years they took their toll His hide began to lose its shine This worker true and honest Looked forward to retirement And the pension he was promised Each day five pounds of wholesome corn And fifteen pounds of hay A field that he could ramble in And pass his autumn days But these promises were empty For the years he’d worked so hard His reward was to be shunted off In a van to the knacker’s yard Now you may not believe me Ands say how can this be true But it’s already happening And it could happen to you HECTOR AND BESSIE Alan Reid When I was a tousy, freckled lad we would visit Uncle John Wi’ his ruddy cheeks and muckle lugs on his ferm at Ritchie’s Loan Every year he got his finest duds and his bonny Clydesdale pair Wi’ his bunnet hingin’ jaunty they would set oot for the fair They would set oot for the fair Each horse wis braw and handsome ,they had sinews weel defined Each collar decorated and the colours they were fine Hector was the chestnut and Bessie was the roan The baith o’ them majestic steppin’ oot fae Ritchie’s Loan Steppin’ oot fae Ritchie’s Loan Hector stood at sixteen hands , his neck was arched and long His ribs were bent like barrel hoops, his back was straight and strong Bessie she was smaller , her legs were stout and straight She could labour a’ the ‘oors God made and by her side her mate By her side her mate My uncle had a neebor and they met up at the fair And he wagered fifteen guineas he could best Carmichael’s pair So they harnessed up the horses ,each team tethered tae a ploo And when they got the nod tae start twa pairs began tae pu’ Twa pairs began tae pu’ Just then the heavens opened and the rain came pourin’ through And ma uncle John got drookit and the field was turned tae glue But soft he spoke in Bessie’s ear and gamely she ploughed on And wi’ Hector by her every step the match was easy won The match was easy won Each time I see a Clydesdale noo' I mind on uncle John He came rollin’ hame quite late that night but his bunnet it was gone Though he was rough and ready man and his workin’ life was hard He aywis had a gentle way wi’ the horses in the field Wi’ the horses in the field We are stewards of the ocean, we are tenants o' the land We can use the power of sunlight, we can harness wave and wind There's a wheen o' different answers for the problems that we face But let’s not forget the Clydesdale he's the honest working horse Each Hector and each Bessie they have a part to play And every humble horse should have his day THE PLOO’IN MATCH G.S Morris and J.S Kerr Words to follow THE DYING PLOUGHBOY Rev. R.A. Calder The gloaming winds is sighing saft, Aroon my lanely stable laft, and frae the skylicht dusky red, The sunbeams wander ower my bed. The doctor left me words o’ cheer, But something tells me death is near, My time on earth has nae been lang, but noo’s the term and I maun gang. Ah me, it’s but a week the morn, Sin’ I was weel and hairstin corn, As fu’ o’ health as blithe and strang, As ony ane amang the thrang. But something in my breist gaed wrang, A vessel burst and blood oot sprang, And ere my sun was in mid skies, I laid me doon nae mair tae rise. Fareweel my nags, my bonny pair, I'll never yoke and lowse ye mair, Fareweel my ploo, wi you this hand, Shall turn nae mair the fresh red land. Fareweel my freens, and parents dear, My voice again ye’ll never hear, Fare weel for aye thou settin sun, My day is ower, my work is done. I've served ma maister weel and true, And weel deen work I dinna rue, But yet forby I micht hae striven Tae win the fee and arls o’ Heaven Oh has the Maister got my name? And shall I get a welcome hame? Thou who does help in need afford Receive me in Thy bosom Lord THE DAY WHEN THE HORSES COME BACK Matt Armour When I left the school, barely twelve years of age, I had to find work for we needed the wage To haud wi’ tradition and keep me from harm ‘Twas decided that I would be fee’d to the farm. So, in that summer, I signed at Crawhill If youth was still on me, I’d be working there still. I was happy up there as a lad e’er could be And the Wilsons o’ Crawhill were aye kind to me. In the barroom you cry me a puir used-up man, Who drinks as he thinks of the days that are gone I put up wi’ your laughter; I smile at your cracks As I wait on the day when the horses come back. At first it was redding and scraping the yaird Jumping and turning at every man’s word. At the end of long hours, the best job tae dae Was tending and caring for Bluebell and May, Twa muckle great Clydesdales, eighteen hands height That were yokit at morning and workit till night. Of a’ things at Crawhill that I mind the day It’s the kind eye o’ Bluebell, the sweet breath o’ May. I served my time, was made up tae the ploo But the tricks that I won then are nae use the noo. Nae mair darkling stables, nae brass-jangling tack And the horses are pensioned on the pasture out back. Now it’s diesel and oil and the smell o’ the smoke A rank-going reek that wid gar a man choke There are gauges and glass bits like ye’ve never seen And how can you talk to a great dumb machine. I saw you smile at the sight of the oil Tae ease all our labours and end all our toil Fareweel to poverty, welcome to wealth And it lay in the sea and no’ in the earth. So, ye all went and ye quitted the land, Said I was daft – I could no’ understand The promise o’ plenty and where the future might be But goldmines in oceans mak’ sma’ sense tae me. Now I hear the rumours flying about That your big, black bonanza of oil will run out. You’ll come back to the land and you’ll fare none the worse, But which of you kens how to talk to a horse. Now the young laddies, wi’ an eye on the farm Come by the bar and they buy me a dram. They close in by the ingle and aye listen tae The auld tales o’ Bluebell, the stories o’ May. Nae mair now ye cry me a puir used-up man Wha drinks as he thinks of the days that are gone I’ve put up wi’ your laughter, I’ve smiled at your cracks As I wait on the day when the horses come back. Now I’ll see the day when the horses come back. THE LAST OF YOUR LINE Dave Gibb Born into this world of your mother’s pain I saw you stand for the very first time Will we ever see your like again? Or will you be the last of your line Will you be the last of your line? You were bred for the strength you would bring to the toil To take the load off the working man And with gentle grace you bore it all Your power was his to command You’d dip your head and take the strain Of the coach or the cart or the plough But your time is over now Born into this world of your mother’s pain I saw you stand for the very first time Will we ever see your like again? Or will you be the last of your line Will you be the last of your line? When it seemed your power had tamed the land Did you see how the times moved on You were never enough for the wants of man His need for your gifts had gone History just passed you by And you watched as it rolled along Your glory days were gone Born into this world of your mother’s pain I saw you stand for the very first time Will we ever see your like again? Or will you be the last of your line Will you be the last of your line? The feather feet rise and the feather feet fall As you pound the earth and you pull the plough Your work was hard and your days were long Now your working days are done Now you’re pulling carts at the county shows People stare amazed at your size And you’re all dress up in your ribbons and bows In the hope of a winner’s prize But you know your worth and you’re marking time You’re playing a patient game Your time will come again Born into this world of your mother’s pain I saw you stand for the very first time Will we ever see your like again? Or will you be the last of your line Will you be the last of your line? THE CLYDESDALE HORSE Ewan McVicar and P4 class Biggar Primary School with Ms Forbes Whup and whoa, off we go, turning up the ground. The seagulls fly to follow us, they come from miles around. The Clydesdale horse, the Clydesdale horse Together we will work Strong white hooves, muscular back, a brown mane down his spine, He ploughs the fields and pulls the carts, and does his work just fine. We scare away the wee field mice, when we break their nests. Wee sleekit cowerin beastie – I forget the rest. At harvest time the big combine comes to cut the corn. The team works hard till the farmer’s wife blows the dinner horn. In the stable there’s a necklace, made of stones with holes. They will keep the witches out, and protect the foals. When our work is over, I clean him with the comb.He sleeps in the stable, and I go hirplin home.