| Dirty white caravans down narrow roads sailing
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| Vivas, Cortinas, weaving in their wake
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| With hot, red-faced drivers, horns' flattened fifths wailing
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| Putting trust in blind corners as they overtake
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| And it’s «Oh, come willing now
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| Spend a shilling now
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| Stack up the back of your new motor car»
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| There’s home-dyed woollens
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| And wee plastic Cuillins
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| The day of the Broadford Bazaar
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| Out of the north, no oil rigs are drifting
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| And jobs for the many are down to the few
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| Blue-bottle choppers, they visit no longer
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| Like flies to the jampots, they were just passing through
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| And it’s «Oh, come willing now
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| Spend a shilling now
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| Stack up the back of your new motor car»
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| Where once stood oil rigs so phallic
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| There’s only swear words in Gaelic
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| To say at the Broadford Bazaar
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| All kinds of people come down for the opening
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| Crofters and cottars, white settlers galore
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| And up on the hill, there’s an old sheep that’s dying
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| But it had two new lambs born just a fortnight before
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| And it’s «Oh, come willing now
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| Spend a shilling now
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| Stack up the back of your new motor car»
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| We’ll take pounds, francs and dollars from the well-heeled
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| And stamps from the Green Shield
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| The day of the Broadford Bazaar |