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Tabbed by Jack Dingler
weaseldog2001@yahoo.com
From Alex Beaton's 'In The Scottish Tradition'
http://www.alexbeaton.com/

Doon the Watter
Iain Ingram

C (x32010@1)                               F (133211@1)     G (320003@1)     CMy (x32010@1)father worked for buttons in a wee dry salters shop
                      F (133211@1)           GBut (320003@1)we were young and didnae have a care
    F (133211@1)                              C (x32010@1)          AmOur (x02210@1)shoes were scuffed and worn, our dungarees a' torn
    D (xx0232@1)                            GOur (320003@1)sloppy joes they wirnae fit to wear
                                  CNoo (x32010@1)me and ma wee brother we were headaches to my mother
    F (133211@1)                            E7And (020130@1)dirty for the best port o' the year
        F (133211@1)                             C (x32010@1)             AmBut (x02210@1)she had us clean as whistles in our kilts and co-op sandals
     G (320003@1)                             CWhen (x32010@1)we went down the watter for the fair

Chorus:
C (x32010@1)                               F (133211@1)              CAnd (x32010@1)we're sailing doon the Clyde, sailing doon the Clyde
                                  GAnd (320003@1)headin' for Kilgreggan in the morning
     C (x32010@1)                     F (133211@1)           CThen (x32010@1)on to Rothesay Bay we'd leave on Saturday
                                     GC
To catch the Jeannie Dean frae Crigendoran

The summertime was all I'm sure that kept my father gain'
A time that he enjoyed as much as me
The family a' the gither we didnae mind the weather
He'd laugh and sing and bounce us on each knee
'0 toora loora liddey ah finish work on Friday'
His troubles seem to vanish in the air
Ah but noo he's gone forever like the steamers on the river
That went sailing doon the wafter for the fair

The golden age of paddle steamers sadly disappeared
And summertime has never been the same
Those days of river cruisin' that slowly we were losing
An era that will never come again
For now we fly to Malta Majorca and Gibralter
France and Spain and sunny Italy
A' the kids a' think it's heaven like the Clyde for me at seven
But the days of doon the watter's gone for me