29 MAY 1959, Page 28

Thirteen Lines

That boat has killed three people. Building her Sib drove a nail through his thumb, and died up by Bunged to thc eyes with rust and penicillin. One evening when the Flow was a bar of silver Under the moon, and Mansie and Tam with wands Were putting a spell on cuithes,• she shallied over 4nd tilted Mansic, his pipe still in his teeth, To meet the cold green angels.

They hauled her up Among the rocks, right in the path of Angus Whose neck, rigid with pints from the Dounby market, Snapped like a barley stalk. There she lies, A leprous unlucky bitch, in the quarry of Moan.

Tinkers, going past, make the sign of the cross.

GEORGE MACKAY BROWN