It was simple to do, joining on a big queue.
At the stop we expectantly stared.
When a caur did appear, to a brief muted cheer,
you'd have started to grow a wee beard.
This caur, known to toffs as a tramcar,
boasted dyed blond conductress in slacks.
'Inside only!' The gallus one bellowed.
Upstairs, strode us youngsters, in packs.
Caurs ran to The Cross, where the drivers got lost
and they ran to the mills and the schools.
You could skip paying fare to near anywhere,
in my hometown where anarchy rules.
If attempting a quick running exit,
your conductress might stifle such hope.
Two dings on her bell and an ear splitting yell!
'Hi you! We've no started tae stoap!'
When asked, 'dae yese go tae the Barrowland,
tae the Barrowland Ballroom, by chance?'
The conductress replied with this classic aside.
'Naw wur caur is unable tae dance!'
I remember these immortal lines well.
Twixt conductress and surly wee nyaff.
It was more of a threat than a warning,
grimly uttered, 'come oan you - get aff
Americans knew them as Street Cars.
Showering sparks from the overhead wire.
To a young Scottish lad who was quite tramcar mad,
They were chariots, real 'Chariots of Fire!'