Dirty white caravans down our road, sailing.
  Vivas, Cortinas, weaving in their wake.
  With hot, red-faced drivers, horns flattened, fists whaling,
  Putting trust in blind corners as they overtake.
    And it's ``All come willing now,
  Spend a shilling now,
  Stack up the back of your new motor-car.''
  There's home-dyed woolens, and wee plastic (Cuillins?)
  (blessed?) (Cuchulains?)
  [Cuchulain == mythical Irish hero --- wee plastic Cuchulains?]
    The day of the Broadford Bazaar.
    Out of the north, no oil-rigs are drifting.
  And jobs for the many are down to the few.
  Blue-bottle choppers, they visit no longer.
  Like flies to the jampots, they were just passing through.
    And it's ``All come willing now,
  Spend a shilling now,
  Stack up the back of your new motor-car''
  Where once stood oil-rigs so phallic
  There's only swear-words in Gaelic
  To say at the Broadford bazaar.
    All kinds of people come down for the opening.
  Crofters and cottiers, white (wild?) settlers galore.
  [Crofter == farmer renting land]
  [Cottier == farmer renting land]
  And up on the hill, there's an old sheep that's dying,
  But it had two new lambs born just a fortnight before.
    And it's ``All come willing now,
  Spend a shilling now,
  Stack up the back of your new motor-car.''
  We'll take pounds, francs and dollars from the well-heeled,
  And stamps from the Green Shield.
  The day of the Broadford Bazaar.