POEM TITLE
The Ballad of Bo'ness Betty
POEM
Watching the news, feeling more and more down;
war, COVID 19, and politicians for clowns.
I turn off the telly, thinking, “Screw this lot,
I’m off for a drink at the Lobster Pot.”
As I head on my way to Blackness Square,
the harr creeps from the bay as I’m almost there.
It’s getting on for late but should still be open.
Some company, some chat, is what I’m hoping.
As I walk on through the darkening night,
the cheery Pot looms into sight.
The door’s ajar, the lights are on,
though the bar is looking strangely forlorn.
As I contemplate having a whisky or wine,
I feel a shift and twist in time.
The tables are empty, apart from two men.
They turn their heads, “Come! Join us then.”
“My name’s Rabbie, this here’s Rob.
Perhaps you can help us finish this job.”
The table’s covered in papers and ink.
Rabbie raises a glass and gives me a wink.
“We’re collaborating on a joint wee Ballad.
At the moment though, it’s still pretty pallid.
Rob dreamt up Jekyll; me, an ode tae haggis.
I think we need more help from Bacchus!”
He lifts a bottle and pours me a drink.
They raise their glasses, “slainte!”, and clink.
“So what’s this Ballad about?” I ask
Says the other called Rob, “Tis a disagreeable task.
Tis the history here of Bo’ness Betty,
found washed ashore at Abercorn Jetty”.
He points his pen at a carved figurehead.
Her wooden gaze gives me the dread.
Quips Rabbie, “Aye guid ship Elizabeth lost her heid.
Went cuckoo wi’ captain and crew aw deid.”
At this there is a groaning and creaking.
To my horror, Bo’ness Betty starts speaking,
“Dinnae jest Mr Burns of lives that are lost
to a watery grave, forever storm-tossed.
Same for you Rob Stevenson, keep my history unwrote.
My story is tragic. I’m nay anecdote!
Ye twa should ken better being lang deid yer sels!
Now get ye aw gone before ‘last-call’ bells.”
As Betty looks down from her place on the plinth,
I feel her cold stare and try not to flinch.
Her revelations on the Rab’s have given me the fear.
I down my glass and I’m out of here.
Now watching the news I keep a perspective
That night at the pub has left me reflective.
I’ll return to The Pot in daylight, for lunch.
Making sure my companions are a living, breathing bunch.
I’ll look at Betty with a newfound respect.
A washed-up survivor, when all else was wrecked