Big Daisy

by Alex

We twa hae rin aboot the braes

And pu’ed the gowans fine,

In “Auld Lang Syne” so Rabbie says.

That floor’s name’s jist like mine.


Ah wonder how that cam aboot –

How Mc Gowans cam tae be.

So I went back and rooted oot

Oor ancient family tree.


Wha stertit oot oor family name-

That first son o’ “Big Daisy”?

Ah fund oot in ma granny’s hame,

Tho’ her memory wis hazy.


The tale took place in Glasca Toon

Lang syne twa thoosan’ years.

Noo wheest .Be quiet and cuddle doon

And please – lend me yer ears.


“Big Daisy wis a “chucker oot.”

She worked in the Locarno.

The toughest fechter there aboot –

A female Marciano.


Bella Houston, Mary Hill

Are well kent Glesca dames.

Big Daisy’s not, but I still

Feel she should hae greater fame.


Boadicea, Joan of Arc

Led armies intae war.

Big Daisy ( jist like Cutty Sark)

Wis feared baith near and faur.


She dwelt near whaur the Rangers play.

Her face wis blue wi’ woad.

Her offspring tae the present day

Are blue nosed yet Bi’ Goad.


Ae nicht when she wis in her cups-

(They were fifty double D!)

A scout cam in tae wauk her up.

He bade her come and see.


Sez he “Oor sentries shot the craw.

There’s fleets o’ Roman galleys,

Unloadin’ at the Broomilaw.

We‘re ower run wi “Tallies.”


She ran there – eager fur the frae.

Some men fell in ahint.

She’d hud twa ither fechts that day.

Her knuckles were a’ skint.


Wi curlers stickin’ oot her hair,

She made a fearfu’ sight

Her baffies wur her only pair.

She’d ladders in her tights.


“Noo wha’s in charge?” She roared aloud.

“He must be daft or barmy,

Tae think that ony foreign crowd

Could beat the “Tartan Army.”


“I represent the power of Rome.

We have conquered far and wide.

And now we’ll make ourselves at home,

In this dump beside the Clyde.”


“Dump? Dump? – Are youse insane?

Ye must hae loast yer marbles.

This land is oors and oors alane-

Frae Maryhill tae Gorbals!”


“Ye really mean tae tell me –

Yez huv cam tae rape and pillage,

Unless we bow an’ bend the knee.

An’ haun yez ower wur village?”


“The Pax Romana is devine-

Bespoke Armani claes-

And pizza pies and Tuscan wine –

Spaghetti Bolognaise.


Italian talents are immense.

We have singers like Caruso.

The “Gers” have got a crap defence.

We’ll sell you Amoruso.”


“We dinnae want Armani breeks

That cover up wur knees.

Oor kilts are a’ the claes we seek.

We like tae feel the breeze.


An’ we don’t want yer fancy scoff,

Or your Chianti wine.

We much prefer a nip or hauf

An’ Irn Bru’s jist fine!


Ye may weel say we’re artisans

We want nae silks or satins.

So ye can stuff yer Parmesan

An’ tak awa yer Latin.”


“Rome will treat you like a maw.

She’ll bring you education

And keep you safe with Roman Law –

Protect you from inflation.”


“Yer politics we jist abhor.

Awa an’ toss yer caber!

We’ve heard the same auld lees afore-

Frae Tories an’ frae Labour!”


The leader’s name she could not tell.

His men just called him Dux.

She roared “Ye’d best defend yersel.

Come oan pit up yer jukes.”


By single combat we’ll decide

Which of us wins the day.

If ye can win – then yez can bide.

You lose — Ye sail away.”


She threw her glove in the leader’s face.

The combat was decided.

The Roman troops cried out “Disgrace!”

(She’d left her fist inside it.)


She juked beneath his swings wi’ speed.

She avoided murderous blows.

She straightened up and her big heid,

Destroyed his Roman nose.


His courage was not faulted

Although his nose wiz gory.

He’d been viciously assaulted,

Like Lot’s wife in the story.


His chauvinist illusion

On which the weaker sex is,

He lost in the confusion

When she punched his solar plexus.


The tears streamed doon his ruined face.

They soaked his winter woollies.

She waded in wi’ fierce grimace

An’ kicked him in the goolies.


That wiz the final “Coup de Gras.”

He wiz right oot the gemme.

The Picts cried oot a loud hurrah

Fur that maist “Fatal Femme.”


The referee wiz coontin’ now

V111,… 1X,…. X.

The Roman champ was beat and how-

Felled by the “weaker sex.”


The Romans groaned wi’ deep dismay.

The Picts wur goin’ crazy.

Their champion had won the day.

The victor was ……. Big Daisy!


The Picts caused Roman heids tae dance.

The Romans lost their courage.

They knew they did nae stand a chance

Wi’ guys weel fed on porridge.


Defeat for Rome frae guys in kilts

Wis sair. ( They’d lost but few scraps.)

The Picts roared oot some rude insults,

Then peltit them wi’ screwtaps


They fled, that host of Roman men.

They sailed back tae the Tiber.

An’ swore they’d no go back again,

Tae get “Kicked right up the Khyber.”


Their captive leader took the huff.

The Picts first geid him laldy.

But he was made o’ sterner stuff.

A hero wiz Capaldi.


In time, he quite forgot his men,

His hame far ower the watter.

He settled doon in Rutherglen

An’ learn’t the “Glesca Patter.”


He played in goal for many years

Wi’ skills learn’t in San Siro.

The saves he made drew Pictish cheers

He wis a local hero!


He helped Third Lanark win the cup.

A long held cherished dream.

Then took his pals back tae his shop,

Fur chips an’ “Icacream.”


He left his marks where ere he stayed.

Jist look an’ ye can see ‘em

Oor cinemas hae Roman names displayed –

La Scala . Colliseum.


Big Daisy hud a whean o’ weans

When she hung up her gloves.

Her gene pool and her name remains

In the city which she loved.


Ah’ve noo explained oor family tree.

The Mc Gowans’ ancient glory.

Tho’ Goldilocks had only three —

There’s forebears in oor story. 

Andy Mc Gowan

22nd January 2022