The bakin' at oor village show's the
best ye've ivver seen.
Fowk come frae far an' near, frae
ilka airt.
But listen till I tell ye a' aboot
ma guid aul' freen,
An' the tale o' Mrs Purdie's aipple
tert.
Pair Mrs Purdie took it as an unco
fashious slight
That her pastry nivver seemed tae
mak' the grade.
For the judges didna even cut a
slice tae hae a bite
O' the aipple tert that Mrs Purdie
made.
It wis in an' oot the freezer wis
Mrs Purdie's pie,
Sma' wunner that ma freen wis losin'
hert.
It nivver won a mention an' the
judges passed it by.
Whit could be wrang wi' Mrs Purdie's
tert?
'I doot,' said Mrs Thomson, 'that
the judges must hae kent
Her d'oyley' (upon which the tert
wis laid).
For in ivvery flooer show roon aboot,
the plate wis evident
Wi' the aipple tert that Mrs Purdie
made.
Last spring the frost had nipped the
blossom: aipples there were nane.
Dame Nature cam' tae Mrs Purdie's
aid.
For naebody had ony fruit, an' so it
stood alane,
The aipple tert that Mrs Purdie
made.
Her aipple tert wis nae the best,
nor wis it yet the worst.
But by itssel' an' in a class apairt.
Sae the judges had nae option an'
they had tae pit it first
And gie the prize tae Mrs Purdie's
tert.
She wis a happy wumman: she wis
quite puffed up wi' pride.
Ower the triumph that pit ithers in
the shade.
He'd be mentioned in the paper,
tellin' fowk the coonty wide
O' the aipple tert that Mrs Purdie
made.
The show wis ower: she picked it up
and went tae tak' it hame.
'We'll hae this tae oor Sunday tea.'
she said.
An' she proodly gethered up the
winnin' ticket wi' her name
Aside the tert that Mrs Purdie made.
Bit then, pride aften gangs afore a
fa', o' that I'm shair.
She drapt the plate, an' crash! Awa'
it gaed.
It lay in near a hunner wee bit
pieces on the flair,
The aipple tert that Mrs Purdie
made.
