Town cottage holds rich history
Mine of information
One highlight of Renfrewshire Doors Open Day was my visit to Robert Tannahill’s Cottage in Queen Street in Paisley’s West End.
Badly destroyed by fire in 2003, the historic cottage was reopened last year, thanks to dedicated efforts by members of Paisley Burns Club, the TannahillMacdonald Club and other groups.
The cottage was presented to Paisley Burns Club in 1935 by Miss Margaret Robertson of Sunnyside.
Crossing its threshold was like stepping back into time when Paisley proliferated with weaver-poets whose fame earned the town the literary reputation of “a nest of singing birds” with Robert Tannahill, the leading chorister.
Robert’s father, James, built the cottage in 1775 for just over £ 60, including a booze bill of £1.14s.5d for the workmen.
The room to the right of the entrance was the workshop with four looms.
Standing in the loom corner where Robert honed his weaving skills, I sensed
Derek Parker knew many of Paisley’s secrets – the grimy and the good.
He wandered every corner in search of the clues that would unlock Renfrewshire’s rich history.
These tales were shared with readers in his hugely popular Parker’s Way column.
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his poetic presence.
Indeed, it was the place where he penned his finest works while sitting at the loom and gazing through the window to the kitchen garden outside.
One of his most beautiful poetical songs was Gloomy Winter’s Now Awa, inspired by visits to the Gleniffer Braes and sung by Crathie Choir for Queen Victoria at Balmoral Castle where she celebrated her 55th birthday on May 25, 1874. More poignant was the living room across the passage.
It was there poor Robert’s lifeless body was brought home from the culvert which carried the Candren Burn beneath Paisley Canal where he was found drowned on May 17, 1810, aged 36.
And it was from that room the coffined body of Paisley’s greatest poet was carried at the head of the funeral procession to his final resting place at nearby Castlehead Church graveyard.
The hallowed atmosphere during my cottage visit was intensified by recentlyreleased CDs playing lovely songs written by Paisley’s prince of poets during his all-too-short life.
Again the mavis sang “amang the birks o’ Stanely shaw” and the greywalled cottage echoed to the rafters with the ghostly voices of the “unco happy Five Frien’s wi’ drappies in their e’en” belting out the words of their favourite bacchanalian ballad: “We’re a-noddin, nid nid noddin, we’re a-noddin fu’ at e’en.”