Remembering the days of Old Whifflet Dear Editor

My late father (Miller Grant) was born in Coatbridge, and going through his papers, I discovered this old poem.

It carried the name of Douglas Longmuir; it is entitled Old Whifflet and probably relates to the 1930s. The most of us are local born, when Whifflet was a place Where everyone was known to all and each a well-known face. Tho’ many changes we have seen, fond mem’ries still remain Of dear old landmarks, folks and things we’ll never see again. When anything was wrong with us the local doc was summoned McPhail, he was the doctor then, and after him came Drummond. McNab’s the chemist shop supplied all kinds of potions To cure our ills with wonder pills and many magic lotions. You went to buy a postage stamp, Miss Whitehouse was the face; One look at her was quite enough to put us in our place. And yonder, dear old Whifflet Brig where hundreds crossed each day; The London trains went fleein’ past and whistling on their way. McGillvery had a corner pub where men went fur a hauf And them that had a gaffer’s joab were looked on as a toff. We’d buts n bens and single ends and Jeanie Reevie’s store For purns o’ threat and potted head and nicks and nacks galore. McMillan’s pawn shop proudly stood in front of Watson’s land With watches, jugs and wally dugs a wee bit second hand. And Johnny Iron’s cobblers shop, a landmark in the street; He saved our soles when full of holes and put us on our feet. When Andrew Hutton’s butcher’s cairt was often seen around And Maggie Farquar sold her plums at sixpence a pound; Then Dovie Irvine’s tottie scones were bought in big supplies And Ferguson’s were famed afar for their big juicy pies. We’d Graham plumbers down the road and grocers William Low; At number three, the weemen met and blethered in the Co. And Pollock’s chip shop, what a taste, the fish was aye a whupper; We smacked our lips in blissful joy and scoffed a big fish supper. The Garden picture house was there, we queued up at the door, Then big fag ends and orange peel would decorate the floor. And each enthralling episode we followed in our time; From Chaplin down to Rin Tin Tin, we thought they were sublime. In winter days when fires were low, a voice that pleased our soul Was Willie Nicol with his cairt and loudly shouting “coal”. They say a big tree blossomed here, a landmark from afar; It’s still a haven going strong, the famous Big Tree bar. The flocks attended Gibson’s Church, St Mary’s and Garturk To sing His praise in many ways and do their Christian work. The scenes and sounds once more among old Whifflet’s loyal friends; With these few words I bid goodbye and now my poem ends.