Rumncoke mentioned this on 15 Oct 20.

Lyrics copied from a blog, here, and tweaked a bit by me, to agree with what Robin Lang seems to sing. The blog has a recording, and so does Spotify.


THE GHOST WI’ THE SQUEAKY WHEEL
Written by Tom Clelland
As recorded by Robin Lang on “The Water of Life” (2003)

Now, Wullie was a fearless man.
When other fellows turned and ran,
He’d shake the shiver from his hand
    And stand up straight an’ weel.
All superstitions he disdained
As spooky stories fit for a wean
Till he met a phantom o’ his ain,
    A ghost wi’ a squeaky wheel.

The bells had claimed the old year end.
Wullie’d been first-footin’ friends.
Blithely turnin’ home again,
    He took the river road.
The moon was full with frosty bite,
The water deep and still and iced,
His breath like silver stars at night,
    No living soul abroad.

CHORUS: Now, blended whisky’s power is slight.
Guid malt could face the deil,
Should you meet on a winter’s night
A ghost wi’ a squeaky wheel.

Past Crossford Park and village sign,
The iron brig and wall behind,
The silver birch and the old hedge line,
    Wull sauntered worry-free,
When in the distance came a great
Sound that made him stand and wait,
Like the swinging o’ some hellish gate,
    A rasping, rhythmic gree.

Wull stood transfixed as it drew near,
The squeaking growing ever clear,
A piercing echo through his ear,
    From the depths of Hell it rang;
An’ a sight that gripped him tae the marrow:
A figure, ghostly grey and hollow,
A grisly shape that pushed a barrow
    Wi’ the face of old Boab Lang.

CHORUS

“Well, Boab,” said Wull, and showed no fear,
“It’s unco strange tae meet you here.
We have nae met these twenty year,
    Mony an Auld Lang Syne.”
The ghost looked Wullie in the eye
An’, in a mournful voice, did cry:
“Beware, puir sinner, born to die!
    Be ready for your time!

“We all must pass, each single yin,
Our earthly pockets filled wi’ sin,
That drags us doon and draws us in
    To this world and its sorrows.
Damned selfishness breeds despair,
Transgressions greedy, cruel and sair—
We a’ hae sins, but I had mair,
    Enough to fill this barrow.

CHORUS

“The Clyde, the burn, the Nethan River
Bind me on this road forever.
Runnin’ water I can never
    Cross nor bridges breach.
Between these points, traverse I must.
These chains and torture serve me just,
But the worst is this infernal rust
    And this old wheel’s hellish screech.”

Says Wull, “Ma freend, I cannae judge.
I’ll try help you wi’ your drudge.”
But the barrow Wullie couldnae budge
    Like it were solid steel.
“But I have the very dab,” cries he.
“The finest whisky’s what you need.”
And his good malt Wullie freely gied
    An’ poured it on the wheel.

The whisky stopped the squeakin’ dead.
The ghostly figure smiled instead.
The screechin’ ceased in Wullie’s head,
    And silence once more reigned.
Wull crossed the bridge at Hazel Burn,
His good deed done, his sleep well earned,
An’ he watched the ghost as he did turn
    And started down again.

CHORUS TWICE