Clyde

Clyde rolls through the Highlands, a silver thread,
Where mist clings to the heather and the lochs are spread.
His waters whisper tales of old clans and wars,
Carrying the scent of peat and distant shores.
In Glasgow’s bustle, beneath the railway’s hum,
Clyde sings a lullaby that never seems to come.
So raise a glass of whisky, smooth and amber bright,
And toast the river that guides us through the night.