Robert the Bruised

by Alex

( Inspired by a visit to Bruce’s Monument at Bannockburn when slightly under the influence)

The statue stons there cast in bronze.

( The Bruce is sittin’doon)

His battleaxe still in his hons

That malkied Big de Bohun.

Proud Edward Scots had aye despised

But Bruce – he wis nae traitor.

His name’s noo courage symbolised –

King Edward’s ?……. a potato!

That granite jaw and stoney gaze.

Ah fell beneath his spell

He frichtit tough guys in thae days –

Ah’m petrified masel’.

Ma pulse wis raised. It wis hard tae bear

Ah felt ma hert strings tremlin.

His hert is gone. The rest lies there,

In the Abbey of Dunfermline.

Starin’ oors or even langer.

Can this be a dream am huvin?

Has Bruce a doppleganger

Wha’s residin’ ower in Govan?

A bloodstained bandage roon his brow,

His semmit o’ chain mail.

Nae Daily Record – yet somehow

The likeness still prevails.

A driftit aff intae a dwam

O’ warm hallucination.

Nostalgic visions gently swam –

A hame win fur wur nation.

We’ve eecked that oot noo mair or less

Near seven hundred years,

Until we got oor next success

When David Sole appears.

It wis a rare fecht wi’ the boys in white,

Wi’ roses on their chest.

The Scots geid them an awfu fright –

They cam aff – second best.

Near Bannockburn the English stood

Prepared tae gie us battle.

They didnae like wur attitude

Nor wur stealin’ sheep and cattle.

Before the “kick aff” wis declared.

A knight ca’ed Big de Bohun

Sneaked up on Bruce while unprepared –

( He wis even bendin’ doon!)

” Jock sitting ducks! Forget the truce!”

He’d sworn tae bag his quota.

He charged the unsuspectin’ Bruce,

Wha wis posin’ fur a phota.

The Bruce heard pounding horse’s hooves

De Bohun had missed his chance,

When swifter than Mc Colgan moves,

Rab juked beneath his lance.

He sprang onboard his trusty steed.

(It wis nearby chewin’ grass.)

He wrapped his airms aroon it’s heid

And spurred it on the ass.

High in the stirrups Noble Bruce,

Stood proud and flexed his muscles.

His countenance turned deepest puce-

( Suffused wi’ red corpuscles.)

” Hoad Oan!” Bruce cried “That’s aw ah need,

De Bohun ……………. Ye’re jist a baddie!”

He brocht his axe doon on his heid

And split him like a haddie.

Thus perish cheats wha seek their fame –

Reviled dishonoured niaffs.

They’re split doon like a fitba game

( Twa seperated halves.)

Dismounted Bruce egged on his force.

His face wis wreathed in smiles.

( It’s guid tae get doon aff yer horse

And less sair on the piles.)

An English lookout cried ” I say

What’s coming o’er yon hill?

They’ve reinforcements for the fray.

Let’s go, We ‘v e had our fill.”

The Saxon host knew deep despair.

Their general lamentit.

He’d bust his specs and mussed his hair.

( His helmet wis a’ dentit.)

The English scarpered in alarm- they

Thocht there’s millions in that nation.

( It wis jist oor tartan army

Wi’ anither pitch invasion!)

A haematoma roond his eye.

In frnt a missing tooth.

Nonchalent – He sooked a pie –

Oor hero Robert Bruce!

Kirk o’ aw denominations

Rang bells tae spread the news.

There wis joy and celebrations

And drams and Irn Brus.

Bruce’s weapons are on show

In the Kelvingrove Museum.

A guy a met wanst telt me so

Ye can walk right in and see ’em.

The axe noo sports a brand new heid.

A new shaft fitted too.

Not wid – but stainless steel insteid.

It looks as guid as new!

The tartan of the Bruces

Is navy blue and black,

Tae symbolise the bruises

He sustained in thon attack.

Youse may think this story fantasy

And fu o’ “porkie pies.”

But ah tell youse a’ a man like me’s

No known fur tellin’ lies.

We know each passing century

Some details might get lost.

My source is good. – You must agree

Ah read the Sunday Post.

                                                                              Andy McGowan

27th January 2024

                                                                      (The bard wi’ the lard.)