We sail down the river and out into the beautiful surroundings of the Firth of Clyde. Passing Dumbarton Rock, with
its Castle on the top. This is where Mary Queen of Scots as a child, spent her last night, before being safely transported to France, where she matured to become an intelligent
and beautiful woman, marrying the Dauphin, Francois, who was to become King, but then that's another story.
Splish-splash, splish-splash, splish-splash, splish, the little Paddler battles against the force of the in-coming tide.
There are children on the top-deck with their Mammies, throwing crusts of bread into the air, which the seagulls are swooping
down on, and catching the tasy morsels in mid-air.
Down below deck, in the engine-room, the Engineer is toiling with the oiling of a coiling, while the boiler-man is
boiling in his boiler-suit, all sooty, and attending to the normality of his duty.
Up on deck, the gulls are still a-busy, sending messages of thanksgiving to the people down below, one of which lands,
with a sickly-splatter, slap-bang on the head of the Harry Lauder type guy, who had just emerged from the smokey atmosphere
of the saloon-bar.
Splish-splash, splish-splash, splish-splash, splish. The Paddler is approaching Rothesay Bay.
A drunk, in the saloon-bar, shouts, 'Gi'e us anither ane.' The chanter, the Harry Lauder type guy, mistaking his call to
the barman, as that of someone wishing an 'encore,' begins singing;
'Maxwelltown Braes are bonny, where early fa's the dew. 't was there that Annie Laurie gied me her promise true'
The drunk shouts, 'Hey, you wi' the seagull's shite on yer heid. Gonnae shut yer face, ye'll make it effin' rain.'
Splish-splash, splish-splash, splish-splash, splish...
Continue...
