Over
thirty
years
ago,
I
had
a
day"ower
t
top"
with
another
fell
pack.
After
a
long
hard
day
we
ended
up
in
the
pub.
One
guy
told
the
following
story
about
one
of
his
friends.
I
thought
it
might
be
fun
to
reproduce
it
as
a
poem.
The
mist
came
down
a
good
hour
ago
It's
turning
cold
and
the
forecast
gives
snow,
Hunt’s
gone
away
and
isn’t
gain
t
come
back
No
bugger
around
so
I
can’t
have
a
craic.
I’d
ga
down
t
bottom,
but
don’t
knar
where
I
am
Wish
I
were
in
t
pub
or
even
at
yam.
There’s
a
gurt
drop
near
by,
so
I'd
better
sit
tight
Hope
to
god
I
isn’t
up
here
all
night.
On’t
lower
fell
they
soon
will
have
rain
But
on‘t
higher
grund,
its
garn
t
snow
yet
again,
Grass
will
be
slippery
and
ice
on
the
track
All
I
have
agin
t
weather
is
this
auld
plastic
mac.
A
wind
gits
up,
it
moans
in
the
rocks
But
no
view
of
t
hunt
or
that
bloody
fox
Mist
is
blowing
out
now,
over
yonder’s
the
track
T
missus
be
disappointed,
ah’s
on
mi
way
back!
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