To the memorie of Robert Burns..
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 haun divine
wis skelp’d oot o’ lyfe,
releasing his wretched painfu’ bodie,
frae wardly stryfe.
There’s them wha thocht oor Rab uncooth
a plooman wi’ a poets mooth
an’ sic a hellish drunkards drooth,
that quench’d the very fire,
o’ maister Nick, the horny deil
wha laid his hoof ‘pon oor young cheil
wi’ his Achillies weakness,
for strong an’ dandy demon drink
slabberin’ in drunken meekness.
But I maun envy Rabs affliction
for his simple doric diction
wards o’ truths an’ nane o’ fiction,
jist honest emotion.
For in the path throughoot his lyfe
when lovin’ some lads ain guid wyfe
his heart by Eros shot,
he wept the tears for lyfes unfairness,
for illicit luve sae sairly hot.
But aye, he was a rantin’ lad,
a lusty thrusty rovin lad,
a laughing winkin’ plooman lad
wha melted hairts.
In fields o’ barley, skies above,
he skelt his seeds in acts o’ luve
wi’ lips sae saft an’ tender,
his trysts were many
wi’ the female gender.
He loo’ed the breist o’ the highland lass,
but tears an’ pairtin’ tyme hae pass’d,
his luve wi’ Celtic maid did last
but for the beat o’ a hairt.
For, t’was bonie Jean, wha’s luve devour’d him,
in swaddlin’ thighs an’ silken sweet quim,
his luve it glowed,
an he gied tae her his Burness name
their luve o’er flowed.
I’ll raise my gless tae the 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.....