Manura Manya

 

 

 

I have heard men complain o' the job that they're daein',
While they're howkin' the coal or they're diggin' the drain
But whatever they are, there is none can compar'
Wi' the man that stauns shovellin' manura man-ya.

Chorus
Wi’ manura man-ya, Wi’ manura man-ya,
Wi’ manura, manura, manura man-ya.

Noo the streets o' the toon were a' covered aroon
Wi' stuff that wis colourful — golden and broon.
It was pit there, of course, by a big Clydesdale horse,
And they called it manura-manura, man-ya.

Noo I followed its track, wi' a shovel and sack,
And as often as not wi' a pain in my back.
It was a' for the rent, and the wonderful scent
O' manura, manura, manura-man-ya.

Noo I'm feelin' gey sour, for my job's been ta'en ower,
And everything noo is mechanical power:
And the roses that grow have nae odour oh no! —
Nae manura, manura, manura-man-ya.