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Robert
Burns - for your Burn's Supper
Selkirk Grace
Some hae meat and canna eat,
And some wad eat that want it;
But we hae meat, and we can eat,
Sae let the Lord be thankit.
Address to a Haggis.
Fair fa' your honest, sonsie face,
Great chieftain o the puddin'-race!
Aboon them a' ye tak your place,
Painch, tripe, or thairm:
Weel are ye wordy of a grace
As lang's my arm.
The groaning trencher there ye fill,
Your hurdies like a distant hill,
Your pin wad help to mend a mill
In time o need,
While thro your pores the dews distil
Like amber bead.
His knife see rustic Labour dight,
An cut you up wi ready slight,
Trenching your gushing entrails bright,
Like onie ditch;
And then, O what a glorious sight,
Warm-reekin, rich!
Then, horn for horn, they stretch an strive:
Deil tak the hindmost, on they drive,
Till a' their weel-swall'd kytes belyve
Are bent like drums;
The auld Guidman, maist like to rive,
'Bethankit' hums.
Is there that owre his French ragout,
Or olio that wad staw a sow,
Or fricassee wad mak her spew
Wi perfect sconner,
Looks down wi sneering, scornfu view
On sic a dinner?
Poor devil! see him owre his trash,
As feckless as a wither'd rash,
His spindle shank a guid whip-lash,
His nieve a nit:
Thro bloody flood or field to dash,
O how unfit!
But mark the Rustic, haggis-fed,
The trembling earth resounds his tread,
Clap in his walie nieve a blade,
He'll make it whissle;
An legs an arms, an heads will sned,
Like taps o thrissle.
Ye Pow'rs, wha mak mankind your care,
And dish them out their bill o fare,
Auld Scotland wants nae skinking ware
That jaups in luggies:
But, if ye wish her gratefu prayer,
Gie her a Haggis!
Scottish Poems from No'
Rabbie Burns by Stuart McLean:
A
Hundred of Us Remain Alive
Chorus:
Honest men, let us fight for
freedom,
Let us rise and be a nation once
more,
Honest men, let us fight for
freedom,
But maybe no’ ‘til East Enders
is o’er.
Our history is slowly melting,
Washed away by the anaesthetic
drips,
Of soap operas, computer games,
Instant coffee, burgers and
chips.
The Highland Clearances no
longer fires our rage,
The Declaration of Arbroath no
longer fuels our pride,
Now we only don the kilt for
weddings,
To smile at the camera and kiss
the bride.
For centuries we fought for our
wee bit hill and glen,
Rejoiced every victory and
mourned each cruel defeat,
Now our only rebellious act is
switching channel,
While the wife is watching
Coronation Street.
At Bannockburn we stood strong
and showed our might,
We died at Culloden but not
without a bloody fight,
Now our patriotism is confined
to the football stadium,
Accepting defeat as if it were
our right.
O, Robert the Bruce where are
you now?
Prince Charlie will your wife
not let you come?
Or are there not a hundred of us
remain alive,
Would even give up the telly to
fight for our freedom?
Copyright Stuart McLean
A Gay's a Man for
A' That
Is there for honest policy
That hings its head, an a' that?
The coward politician, we pass
him by -
We dare be queer for a' that!
For a' that, an a' that!
Our ways obscure, an a' that,
Marriage is but the guinea's
stamp,
The gay's the gowd for a' that.
What though on ‘homo’ fare we
dine,
Wear shocking pink, an a' that?
Gie fools their thrills, and
knaves their wives -
A gay's a man for a' that.
For a' that, an a' that,
Their tinsel show, an a' that,
The honest gay, tho’ e'er sae
queer,
Is queen o’ men for a' that.
Then let us pray that come it
may
(As come it will for a' that),
That Liberty and Charity o'er a'
the earth,
Shall bear the gree an a' that.
For a' that, an a' that,
It's coming yet for a' that,
That gay to gay, the world, o'er
Shall brithers be for a' that.
Copyright Stuart McLean
See copying awe
ma stuff and sticking it oan yer ain website or blog - gonnae no dae
that!
Huv a look it this
- it's dead good so it is.
John Logie Baird and
Television : Images Across Space by yon smart guy Dr. Douglas Brown
