It's over four hundred milesFrom the town I was bornTo the town where I found a jobNow each Friday at twoFrom the post office queueI send what I can, my loveI had no wish to leave youNo wish to kiss you goodbyeBut two years on the doleCan erode your very soulAnd we can't afford to cryWell I'm Glaswegian bornAnd a proud Scottish sonWith a wife and three sonsAnd a wife and three sonsTo feedI'm a welder by tradeBut there's nothing being madeAnd a stone can't be madeTo bleedI had two years of tryingWe were paupers of the stateI couldn't take itAnd I couldn't take any moreNo more handouts to the poorI had to leave just to fill up light. . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. . .So I came to the south, not a pound to my nameBut they told me work week in handI was desperate for work, I was treated like dirtIn your great opportunist landBut don't you ever tell meLife is easy on the doorCos it eats at your pride, poverties your prideAnd erodes your very mindThat's not what I saw¶¶¶¶¶¶