At the mouth of the Tweed, sat right bonny Berwick
A Northumbrian beauty was she.
With castle and bastle, keeping Reivers barbaric
At bay, from the Bear and Wych tree.
An envious eye, noted her form and fare
When Kings Malcolm and Owen, took a liking there.
With military might, against Utred they battled
Longbows they launched, their pipes they rattled.
Slaughtered and butchered, all the English in sight,
And those left plundered, ended up with the Blight.
Berwick was traded for 10,000 pieces,
So Richard could fund the crusade and his leases.
She was cherished by William, with-his royal stamp,
Whereupon Halidon Hill, Edward’s soldiers did camp!
Many times, did Scots and Saxons collide,
At the centre was Berwick, split across the divide.
The Tweed was the border, that royal marauders
Fought over, and over, and over, and over.
13 times back and forth, between Saxon and Scot
Until King James, arrived at the spot.
Where he brought arch enemies, together on the Brae.
A union that, for now; remains, today.
He rode south, on the road to be crowned,
To England’s seat of power, he was bound.
He declared the old bridge, too medieval and no good.
At risk of flood and made only of wood.
So, masons and labour, they gathered their strength
A Bridge Master’s tool to measure its length.
And built a stone bridge, 15 arches she spanned
All tempest and squall, for centuries withstand.
Elizabeth the Firebrand, she sealed round the town,
Fortified walls, so they wouldn’t come down.
Cromwell, a church he had built for the people,
But a puritan’s heart – meant no bell, no steeple.
A gent, by the name Jimmy Strength – he was known,
Carried pony on his back, not even a groan.
A literary legend came calling, he was called Charlie Dick.
He regaled his tales; of Pip and Pickwick
At the Kings Arms Inn, up there on Hide Hill
His yarns he performed; to pay for his bill.
John, Paul, George and Ringo
Twisted and shouted by Caesar’s Bingo!
The Fab Four, on their way to Auld Reekie
Stopped for some nosh and a much needed leaky!
The 60’s were swinging, the ale houses brimming;
A few ales sunk, and the whole town was singing!
A festival town now, with culture and arts.
She has earned a special place, deep in our hearts.
The cockles have sweetened many a child’s smiling face,
Sweet scraps, called ‘Cowes Muck’, of its time and place.
Trails of Barleycorn and Lowry, Micro-pub beer,
Walking walls, riding bounds, promenading the pier.
Following the Bandits at Speedway, riding track round
Cheering the “Lone Rangers” at Shielfield ground.
The players are english but the game is a Scot.
It’s just how it is, no conspiracy, no plot.
For Berwick her heritage is both north and south –
She still sits on the old border, at the River Tweed’s mouth.
