Where the Duchray meets the Forth

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My parents used to have a caravan outside Ballantrae. While driving down we would often pass an
 old hermit by the roadside who lived in a cave just outside the town and was always seen wearing
 the same old brown coat, hail, rain or shine. I heard many stories about his former life, some of
them possibly true and there was even an article about him in that great font of factual accuracy,
The Sunday Post. I can’t remember if his name was Sandy or not, but I’ve transported him to the
Trossachs, where the Duchray meets the Forth, a place, which for me, holds many of the
 treasures which I’m sure Sandy knew more about than we do.

 

Chorus

 

 

 

 

 

 

He walks the roads from town to town
No place to call his own
But he’s the king of everywhere
The dry-stane dyke his throne
And no one knows where he comes from
Or where he’s goin’ to
But Sandy owns the hills and glens
And for Sandy that will do

 
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A woolen coat upon his back through sun and wind and rain
 Regardless of the time of year Old Sandy looks the same
And some will pass the time of day but most just pass him by
They just don’t see the man in him or the clearness in his eyes
For he knows the call of every bird and all of natures worth
And he’s seen the treasures to be found where the Duchray meets the Forth

 
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His house has neither walls nor floor his roof’s an open sky
His garden path goes everywhere his bed is where he lies
Some ask themselves from time to time why does he live this way
But Sandy has his reasons and he doesn’t have to say
He doesn’t seek out company, his life’s a single berth
But he’s never feeling lonely where the Duchray meets the Forth

 
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The reds and browns of Autumn and the new green shoots of Spring
A slowly fading rainbow and the blackbird as it sings
A picture lies round every bend that money just can’t buy
And all he needs and all he wants he knows nature can supply
But when the days are shorter and the wind blows from the north
He’ll find a place of shelter where the Duchray meets the Forth

 
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He walks the roads from town to town no place to call his own
But he’s the king of everywhere the dry-stane dyke his throne
And no one knows where he comes from or where he’s goin’ to
But Sandy owns the hills and glens and for Sandy that will do
But when the days are shorter and the wind blows from the north
He knows a place of shelter where the Duchray meets the Forth