"I should know better but I can't say no"
'Night Owl' is my favourite Gerry Rafferty song; while from the Stealer's Wheel songbook it's 'Star'.

In my younger, nomadic days it seemed that every big English town had its quota of young fellows down from Glasgow and environs; chancers, neds, wee bauchles, tough nuts and hard tickets. On the lookout for the main chance, for a 'brek', 'screwin' the heid'. Some were on the fiddle, some on the rob, and some on the beg. You'd meet them around the social security where you could read their slogans on the walls, "Tongs ya bass', 'Drummy'. Or outside the bookies waiting for a fellow-Jock to have a big winner and take them for a bevvy.
Whatever their chosen field of endeavour they were mostly broke and of no fixed abode. 'Doing a skipper', 'dossing in derries', the chosen way of life must have taken its toll. Life expectancy in Glasgow is pretty low, but for those exiles it must have been short and not at all sweet, unless they lucked into an entry into the settled community, or gave up the struggle and returned home.
Maybe some sociologist made a study of this particular sub-culture and a version of their story lies in some university library. If not it's probably too late now.
The reason for this peek into the past is that every time I hear Gerry R's 'Baker Street' the 'Glesca Boys' come to mind.

Light in your head and dead on your feet
...
This city desert makes you feel so cold
It's got so many people but it's got no soul
And it's taken you so long to find out you were wrong
When you thought it had everything
...
You used to think that it was so easy
But you're tryin', you're tryin' now
...
But you know he'll always keep movin'
You know he's never gonna stop movin'
'Cause he's rollin', he's a rollin' stone
...
The sun is shining, it's a new morning,
You're going, you're going home.

Gerry R. was a busker in London at one time, no doubt he knew whereof he wrote and sang. Perhaps this anthem is the only memorial of those Glaswegian émigrés.

Now Gerry Rafferty is gone. Requiescat in pace, as we 'wine-grapes' used to say.