Ode to Bobby MacLeod
by Andy Stewart
Ode to Bobby MacLeod
Over there in the west,
In the place he loves best,
Far away from the fleshpots of glory,
Lives a man – with a smile,
For the title’s erstwhile –
I call Provost of Tobermory!
(Well, why not? – for ye ken
That the foremost of men
And women, I’m not chauvinistic,
To this title are due, and dear Bobby that’s you,
If the Mull yins will be realistic)
You can call if you wish
To the Hotel Mishnish
And enjoy hospitality’s fineness
You may eat every treat
Of both seafood and meat,
Or conversely drink yoursel’ min’less
Now I’ll tell you quite fair
I have never been there,
But I know those who have
And believe me –
That those who’ve been to it
Never did rue it
And in praise of it constantly deve me!
Well now here’s an example
To give you a sample
My brother-in-law they call Dixie –
(Och now surely ye mind him,
For when you could find him
He’s dance on your show, like a pixie!)
Nineteen years are now spent
Since his wife and he went
For their nuptials the Mishnish was set –
Now he went there with glee
But you take if from me
That he hasn’t recovered yet!
I don’t mean to imply
Any reference sly
Or a slight on love’s memoried treasures
All I’m meaning to state
Is the influence great
On one’s fate by outsizeable measures!
(But that story is in parenthesis –
Or if grammar is not quite your racket,
That wee tale is enclosed
Whether poem-ed or prosed
At the end my dear friend with a bracket!)
In more general terms
Or in measure of ‘therms’
Or of ‘heat’ if you like
It’s no matter!
The Mishmish generates
A heat that equates
Far above that required to bile watter!
Now I’m sure this is so
For some fellows I know
Who went there and for funning were scheming
They told me straight out
And their word I don’t doubt
That they all came away steaming!
I’ve heard others disclaim
That Edinburgh’s claim
That her Festival’s best is the story –
‘Not at all’ they insist
‘If you say that you’ve missed
The wan held at Tobermory!”
So oor Bobby can boast
That he’s quite the mine host
In his island north-west of the Clyde,
And the poet might sing
That he reigns like a king
With his Jean as his Queen
At his side
Well, that’s part of the tale
But my duty I’d fail
If an insular picture I drew
For he’s known far and wide
Furth his own countryside
And as such now is honoured by you!
In a musical way
There is none can gainsay
That his talents are fruitful and grand
Whether solo you quote him
Or otherwise note him
As leader of many a band!
Now since life’s tiny start
Music beat in his heart
And I could quote you chapter and letter
But everyone knew
That as young Robert grew
He would simply get better and better
When he was a baby
But, truthfully, maybe
This story’s a tall yin, ‘tis said
He didn’t prattle to play with a rattle
But blew on a chanter instead
Well that’s maybe a story
But in Tobermory
They’re given to exaggeration –
Not that that’s a surprise
For you must realise
That they’re fond of a wee sensation!
But there’s nae doubt aboot it
And you can’t dispute it
Since he’s made the warl’ tae tak tent,
And if he’ll pardon the phrase
I now use in my lays
As a lad he was music’lly bent!
First the pipes he did learn
For he’d finger and blow a sweet tune
And the notes that he made
When the chanter he played
Were all classified – “Chust sublime”
(Not like me! When I tried
I was sorely despised
By an old aunt – a dragon I’d class her
When the bagpipes I’d play
Oh, Andy, she’d say –
You’re really a chanter-wrassler!)
Well the pipes he did master
In time that was faster
Than most men wad ever aspire
But you’re in for more shocks
For he turned to the box
An’ proficiency soon did acquire
Ay, that much an’ more
For this young laddie swore
How would blend all he’d learned together
And the sound that he made
When his new music played
Was as sweet as the scent of the heather
Ah yes, true to his word
A new style we heard
Like the lilt of the lark in the morn
And such gracenotes did steal
In Strathspey, jig and reel
That the sound of the West Coast was born
He’s laid by a great store
Of records galore
Since the days when he started to play
And his name now is heard
As a household word
No matter wherever you stray
On both stage and wee screen
Our Bobby’s been seen
And I weel mind our years together
For Bobby and me were there on TV
In a Club that they called the White Heather
Now he’s fond of the waves
And spends hours on his boat
On the western waters of hame
But the waves of the air
Knew his musical flair
As the radio brought him more fame
Now, like Shand, yes like Fitchet
We’ve honoured before
This man has original talent galore
What are years but time gained
Or a number attained
And a part used from talent’s great store
Well’ the years come and go
And the cast in life’s show
Take the centre of stage and depart
Yes – there’s some have their flings
And go off to the wings
For the public is fickle to art
But there’s some can sustain
The place that they gain
Through great diligence, talent and time
And the longer they stay
At the top, people say
As they said long ago – “Chust sublime”
Bobby’s one of these men
And I fear that my pen
And the poor sundry words of this bard
Can never relate you
A talent so great
Or sum up in their rhyme your regard
But I’m pleased to attest
That I have done my best
And I’ll tell you that I’m surely proud
To be with you this day
When we honour and say
You’re right welcome here
‘Maestro MacLeod’ !!
Box and Fiddle
September 1982
Over there in the west,
In the place he loves best,
Far away from the fleshpots of glory,
Lives a man – with a smile,
For the title’s erstwhile –
I call Provost of Tobermory!
(Well, why not? – for ye ken
That the foremost of men
And women, I’m not chauvinistic,
To this title are due, and dear Bobby that’s you,
If the Mull yins will be realistic)
You can call if you wish
To the Hotel Mishnish
And enjoy hospitality’s fineness
You may eat every treat
Of both seafood and meat,
Or conversely drink yoursel’ min’less
Now I’ll tell you quite fair
I have never been there,
But I know those who have
And believe me –
That those who’ve been to it
Never did rue it
And in praise of it constantly deve me!
Well now here’s an example
To give you a sample
My brother-in-law they call Dixie –
(Och now surely ye mind him,
For when you could find him
He’s dance on your show, like a pixie!)
Nineteen years are now spent
Since his wife and he went
For their nuptials the Mishnish was set –
Now he went there with glee
But you take if from me
That he hasn’t recovered yet!
I don’t mean to imply
Any reference sly
Or a slight on love’s memoried treasures
All I’m meaning to state
Is the influence great
On one’s fate by outsizeable measures!
(But that story is in parenthesis –
Or if grammar is not quite your racket,
That wee tale is enclosed
Whether poem-ed or prosed
At the end my dear friend with a bracket!)
In more general terms
Or in measure of ‘therms’
Or of ‘heat’ if you like
It’s no matter!
The Mishmish generates
A heat that equates
Far above that required to bile watter!
Now I’m sure this is so
For some fellows I know
Who went there and for funning were scheming
They told me straight out
And their word I don’t doubt
That they all came away steaming!
I’ve heard others disclaim
That Edinburgh’s claim
That her Festival’s best is the story –
‘Not at all’ they insist
‘If you say that you’ve missed
The wan held at Tobermory!”
So oor Bobby can boast
That he’s quite the mine host
In his island north-west of the Clyde,
And the poet might sing
That he reigns like a king
With his Jean as his Queen
At his side
Well, that’s part of the tale
But my duty I’d fail
If an insular picture I drew
For he’s known far and wide
Furth his own countryside
And as such now is honoured by you!
In a musical way
There is none can gainsay
That his talents are fruitful and grand
Whether solo you quote him
Or otherwise note him
As leader of many a band!
Now since life’s tiny start
Music beat in his heart
And I could quote you chapter and letter
But everyone knew
That as young Robert grew
He would simply get better and better
When he was a baby
But, truthfully, maybe
This story’s a tall yin, ‘tis said
He didn’t prattle to play with a rattle
But blew on a chanter instead
Well that’s maybe a story
But in Tobermory
They’re given to exaggeration –
Not that that’s a surprise
For you must realise
That they’re fond of a wee sensation!
But there’s nae doubt aboot it
And you can’t dispute it
Since he’s made the warl’ tae tak tent,
And if he’ll pardon the phrase
I now use in my lays
As a lad he was music’lly bent!
First the pipes he did learn
For he’d finger and blow a sweet tune
And the notes that he made
When the chanter he played
Were all classified – “Chust sublime”
(Not like me! When I tried
I was sorely despised
By an old aunt – a dragon I’d class her
When the bagpipes I’d play
Oh, Andy, she’d say –
You’re really a chanter-wrassler!)
Well the pipes he did master
In time that was faster
Than most men wad ever aspire
But you’re in for more shocks
For he turned to the box
An’ proficiency soon did acquire
Ay, that much an’ more
For this young laddie swore
How would blend all he’d learned together
And the sound that he made
When his new music played
Was as sweet as the scent of the heather
Ah yes, true to his word
A new style we heard
Like the lilt of the lark in the morn
And such gracenotes did steal
In Strathspey, jig and reel
That the sound of the West Coast was born
He’s laid by a great store
Of records galore
Since the days when he started to play
And his name now is heard
As a household word
No matter wherever you stray
On both stage and wee screen
Our Bobby’s been seen
And I weel mind our years together
For Bobby and me were there on TV
In a Club that they called the White Heather
Now he’s fond of the waves
And spends hours on his boat
On the western waters of hame
But the waves of the air
Knew his musical flair
As the radio brought him more fame
Now, like Shand, yes like Fitchet
We’ve honoured before
This man has original talent galore
What are years but time gained
Or a number attained
And a part used from talent’s great store
Well’ the years come and go
And the cast in life’s show
Take the centre of stage and depart
Yes – there’s some have their flings
And go off to the wings
For the public is fickle to art
But there’s some can sustain
The place that they gain
Through great diligence, talent and time
And the longer they stay
At the top, people say
As they said long ago – “Chust sublime”
Bobby’s one of these men
And I fear that my pen
And the poor sundry words of this bard
Can never relate you
A talent so great
Or sum up in their rhyme your regard
But I’m pleased to attest
That I have done my best
And I’ll tell you that I’m surely proud
To be with you this day
When we honour and say
You’re right welcome here
‘Maestro MacLeod’ !!
Box and Fiddle
September 1982