Poor Wee Jockey Clarke

Oh, poor wee Jockey Clarke
He sells the News and Star
He whistles and he sings
As he paddles through the glaur
Of all newspaper sellers
He's the best of all the lot
If he'd only make a jacket
Out his father's old coat

Well, Jockey's father took a dram
As you may understand
He was a tyrant to his wife
And a plague unto the land
And oft times by the neighbours
He was called a drunken sot
For his little bitter bairnies
Are neglected and forgot

Yes, says Jockey to his mother
"Lod, woman, I do think shame
You'd think I'd ne'er a father
Nor a mother or a hame
My clothes they are so ragged
Not a hale stitch have I got
Would you try and make a jacket
Of my father's old coat?"

Oh, the jacket it was made
And it was uncommon braw
It was a grand protection
Against the rain and snow
The pouches in particular
Oh, Jockey's mind did please
They would hold a stane of tatties
With the greatest of ease

Oh, says Jockey to his mother
"Lod, woman, I do think shame
You'd think I'd both a father
And a mother and a hame
My clothes they are so neatly
Not a ragged stitch I've got
Since you've made me up the jacket
Of my father's old coat"