The Scottish Bard ©

The Bard...

Guid evening tae ye chosen few,
wha jine me in this hallowed pew
tae say a ward in prayers few,
for oor lang deid bard,
wha fell, when in his ain young prime
an’ by his makers hand divine
was skelped oot o’ life,
releasing his wretched painfu’ bodie
frae warldly strife.

There’s them wha thocht oor Rab uncooth,
a plooman wi’ a poet's mooth
an’ sic a hellish drunkard's drooth
that quenched the very fire
o’ maister Nick, that horny deil,
wha laid his hoof ‘pon oor young cheil
wi’ his Achilles weakness
for strong and dandy demon drink,
slabberin’ in drunken meekness.

But I maun envy Rab’s affliction,
for his simple Doric diction,
wards o’ truth an’ nane o’ fiction
just honest emotion,
for in the path throughout his life
when lovin’ anither man’s ain guidwife,
his heart by Eros shot,
he wept the tears for life's unfairness
for illicit luve sae hot.

But aye, he was a rantin’ lad,
a lusty thrusty rovin’ lad,
a laughin’ winkin’ plooman lad
wha melted hearts.
in fields o’ barley, skies above,
he skelt his seeds in acts o’ luve
wi’ lips sae tender,
his trysts were many
wi’ the female gender.

He loo’ed the breist o’ the hielan’ lass,
but tears o’ pairtin’ time wad pass,
his luve for Celtic maid wad last
but for a heartbeat,
for, t’was bonnie Jean wha’s luve devour’d him,
in swaddlin’ sighs an’ silken sweet whim
his luve it glowed,
an’ he gied tae her his Burness name
their luve o’er flowed.

So, I’ll raise my glass tae that Communista,
wha saw the grander social vista
frae cottage humble.
I’ll bless his ever outspoken ward,
this plooman coorse, this tender bard
this Scotsman Poet....