Boundary

The pavilion of the cricket ground
Is not the greatest place to be,
When Edinburgh greys and rallies round
And sticks on eighty-four for three,

And from boundaries untouched the bat
As distant seems to empty seats,
And fielding Durham man the sun that
On the numbered bleach-blue saltires beats,

And all so very English! Warm beer
And rambling boyhood, blueberry-thick;
Sweet apple pie and clotted cream rear
A checker-cloth scent, and make me sick.

How wonderful, then, to be born here,
When the option is being born there!
To name everything you grew up near,
And expect other people to care!

And seven-years whisky with blood blent,
And to sugar your porridge with salt,
To have others mimic your accent,
And josh that it isn't your fault;

How bottle and glottal and flailing
Turn to sawdust and pulp in your mouth;
To take petty pride in detailing
All the folk who they can't claim down south;

To swell like a toad upon telling
Of the things that are done or might do;
Rabbie Burns! Wattie Scott! James Kelman!
That Wullie Shakespeare, whaur's he noo?

We invented telly, nurtured brains,
Chased Hadrian back to bloody Rome,
Ate Edward, built bulbs, thought up the trains,
And went We!-We!-We! all the way home.

But still, to sit in silent stands and stare,
And think Come on ye Scots!, and ballot blame
For not being better, for being there,
Seems a very English sort of game.

Thomas Clark