Yesterday the rage burned
today the tide’s turned.
With forked tongues
you speak Tannahill’s name
but you’d ignore him still
if he was born again.
You’d wave Wilson off
with cheerful glee.
While sitting on
the establishment’s knee.
Excluded, rejected,
suicidal, dejected.
His body found
in Candren Burn
Too young by far for
an unsanctified urn.
He whispers to me
from times goneby
As together we ask
Why oh why?
Radical roots under
the streets of Paisley
Unlike my friend
deaf ears won’t phase me
The martyrs rise
a radical revival
blossoming still
for our survival.
So many tales
still to be told
a Paisley pattern
of the brave and bold.
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