by Fergus "William" McGonigal
(i)
Ay! Hearken to some lines aboot
Scotland’s best
luved son.
For a’ ye caddie’s gathered here,
Some scrievin’ has
been done.
(ii)
Ah! Rabbie Burns, the nicht we do,
Salute ye and your
work,
Ye Bard of Ayrshire, Ploughman’s friend,
(Rebuked in Mauchline Kirk!).
(iii)
Afore I spak anither line,
There’s something ye
should ken:
These words are nae original,
They’re frae an English pen!
(iv)
(Enough then, folks,
of dialect,
Both tricky and obscure,
Let’s stick to stick
to Standard English,
Or be a dreadful bore.)
(v)
Though born to wretched poverty,
In
Seventeen-Fifty-Nine,
Young Rabbie’s literary talent,
Saw one day he
would shine.
(vi)
But not before he’d spent his youth,
Labouring on a
farm,
Work which left him with a stoop,
Which did his
health great harm.
(vii)
One harvest-time, aged fifteen years,
Young Rabbie spied
a girl,
Nelly was the creature’s name,
She’d put him in a
whirl.
(viii)
“O! Once I loved a Bonnie Lass”
Our Rabbie did
declare,
In writing down this poem, folks,
He’d laid his
talent bare.
(ix)
One Ritchie Broun encouraged him,
To make it as a
bard,
And Rabbie’s work was subsequently
Held in high
regard.
(x)
His Scots-based verse was bought en masse,
And lauded
everywhere:
From Gretna Green to John O’Groats,
From Aberdeen to
Ayr.
(xi)
To Edinburgh he took himself,
Where those who
knew all said,
He was the match of any scribe,
(And far more widely read!).
(xii)
His standing in society,
Belied his humble
birth,
The rich, the poor: all understood,
His true poetic
worth.
(xiii)
Our Rabbie had worked wonders with
The state of
Scottish poesy,
But in the world of Scottish song,
Things were far
from rosy.
(xiv)
A passionate supporter of
This quickly-fading
art,
He wrote a song or two or three,
But that was just
the start.
(xv)
Hundreds of songs in all he wrote,
While others he
preserved.
Was triumph as a lyricist
Ever more deserved?
(xvi)
But Rabbie saw such things atop
His lofty
reputation,
Which led him to a revolutionary
Inclination.
(xvii)
His bosses and his friends agreed:
They didn’t like
his stance,
But Rab’s support lay squarely with
The goings-on in
France.
(xiii)
As if he hadn’t done enough,
In poems, words and
song,
He stood beside the downtrodden,
Denouncing what was
wrong.
(xix)
Which sealed forever, Rabbie’s place,
As Scotland’s
favourite son:
Now loved at home and loved abroad,
Loved by everyone.
(xx)
The gloomy night was gathering fast,
Despondency now
ailed him,
At thirty-seven, Rab breathed his last,
As health
completely failed him.
(xxi)
And so, tonight, let’s drink a dram –
Though there’ll be
no returns –
On this the day that he was born:
Mr Rabbie Burns!
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