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Sràid Bhochanan (Buchanan Street) Ruairidh MacThòmais (Derek Thomson)

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TRACK NOTES

 

‘Sràid Bhochanan’ (7-10) from ‘Sùil air Glaschu’ (Glancing at Glasgow)
The Gaelic version only appears in the recording

LYRICS

Tha na saoghail againn
air iomallan a chèile
is suathadh gann:
tha danns an rathaid
air cruth ùr a ghabhail
is rathad a’ mhorghain
air cruadhachadh gu saimeant.

Ghabh an Naomh Mungo cuairt an latha seo
’s ged a tha mìltean de shràidean a-nis anns a’ bhail’ aige
bha e ’n dùil gum bu chòir dha sùil bheag no dhà
a thoirt air an tè air a bheil A’ Phrìomh Shràid,
ach air eagal gun tilgte air fochaid na mòrchuis
tharraing e leabhar mòr dearg às a phòcaid
is dhuidh e air being ann am meadhan na sràid
a’ cumail an leabhair aig Kelman an àird.

Agus an sin nochd an Naomh Lally
’s e ’na shuidhe gu rìoghail
ann an Rolls-Royce a’ bhaile.
“Bha dùil a’m,” arsa cailleach san dol seachad,
“nach robh càraichean ceadaichte air an t-sràid seo.”
“Ist, òinseach,” arsa mise,
“tha a laghan fhèin aig a’ Chruthaidhear.”

Ge b’ e cò a chruthaich an t-sràid seo
chuir an luchd-siubhail an dreach fhèin oirr’,
gach fear is tè
a’ cur bonn ann an truinnsear na cuimhne
is eachdraidh a’ fàs ’s a’ seacadh
’s i na laghe an siud
air an t-sràid.

 

 

Our worlds
touch at the edge
or hardly touch:
the dance-on-the-road
has taken a new form
and the road gravel
has hardened to cement.

On a certain day Saint Mungo took a stroll
and though there are thousands of streets now in this town
he thought that he ought to give a glance or two
to the one that is called the Principal Street,
but rather than risk being accused of being pompous
he took a large red-covered book from his pocket
and sat on a bench in the midst of the street
holding up Kelman’s novel so that people could see it.

And then on the scene came Saint Lally
sitting regally
in a municipal Rolls-Royce.
“I thought,” said a passing old lady,
“that cars were not permitted in this street.”
“Be quiet, silly,” said I,
“the Creator has his own laws.”

Whoever created this street
its users have put their own stamp on it,
each man and woman
putting a coin in memory’s plate,
while history grows and shrivels
lying there
in the street.




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Copyright © Watercolour Music 2019