Oh Robert Rasciauskas what is the translation word for ‘shit’?
Are you perchance from Europe, the Lithuanian bit?
Or maybe your forebears from that poor land did come,
To escape their poor lives which were very humdrum.

You have come a long way since those far off days bleak and drear,
When your ancestors made their way over here.
Their poor broken English you have put in the past.
With your knowledge of syntax, grammar and vocabulary so vast.

So now we have a Lithuanian Anglo Saxon as well
The last of which upon you let your mind overdwell
But at much as you struggle and however you might.
You should never use words that rhyme with might.

To be a true and loyal subject of Her Gracious Majesty the Queen
You should refrain from and never give in to venting your spleen.
A straight back and stiff upper lip is what is required here,
Understatement is better than expletives so clear.

So come Robert Rasciauskas, we can tell by your handle
That to true sons of our soil you can’t hold a candle
But what’s in a name? I don’t really know.
But if you use words like that you must be a cazzo.

I snapped back into a fully conscious state and tried to relate the poet’s work to the sentimental Victorian obsession with tragic affairs. Then i started to giggle – and I haven’t stopped giggling ever since.

The poem must be read out loud, with a distinct Scottish accent, to generate tear-jerking disbelief and giggles.

McGonagall was fond of putting all sorts of factual information into his poems, most of which was true. When I add notes to the poems, I aim for 100% accuracy – so yes, the old pier supports are still there. Not only did they use the old bridge as a handy platform from which to build the new one, they even reused some of the old girders in the new structure. There’s nothing new about recycling.

Here’s a picture of the new bridge today, alongside the remains of the old one.

I’ve never been to Scotland. (I’m in the USA.) Is the accompanying story about the disaster still correct, i.e. do the old pier supports still stand in the river?

I burst into tears. The blunt force with which McGonagall delivers the awful truth pierces my chest and wounds my heart. Occasionally, I read it out loud to a few friends, and most of us are invariably cryi9n before the first stanza is over.

Never forget the last sabbath day of 1879, which will be remember’d for a very long time. Never.

The dead swans lay in the stagnant pool.
They lay. They rotted. They turned
Around occassionally.
Bits of flesh dropped off them from
Time to time.
And sank into the pool’s mire.
They also smelt a great deal.