Bard’s Oration 2003
“Ode tae the Burns Supper”
As January draws tae a close
and thoughts are turnin’, I suppose.
Tae haggis, tatties, neeps and brose
And drinkin’, till we’re comatose,
the Bard’s creations.
It’s wi’ oor cronies, we foregather,
oblivious tae wind or weather,
and strive tae get oor thoughts the gither
as fu’ as puggies;
and listen tae the local blether
address the haggis.
And when the meal is over we,
get doon tae serious revelry.
Wi reamin’ swats and barley bree
all reason gone.
Whilst the Immortal Memory goes on and on.
Tae toast the lasses here, tonight
a local wag they did invite.
His jokes are auld, his quips are trite
but we’re no’ worried
we heckle him, alas, despite,
he’ll no’ be hurried.
There’s toasts, replies and erudition
laughs, mair drink, nae inhibition
One liners wi’ each exhibition
O’ cheerfu’ banter.
And, aye, a really bad rendition
o’ Tam O’ Shanter.
But while ye drink frae nature’s chalice
and get mair fu’ and still mair gallus .
Your wife schemes schemes wi’ perfect malice.
The wicked devil
She’s lost at Bingo at the Palace,
She’ll no be civil.
The rafters o’ the buildin’ ring.
Wi’ drunken singers, wha can’t sing
By this time they’d dae anything,
on rapture borne
Ne’er thinkin’ o’ the heartburn’s sting
they’ll have the morn.
Wi’ auld Lang Syne, the evening ends.
Your homeward way, erratic wends.
You felt courageous wi’ your friends.
But now youre saggin.
One dreaded thought, all now transcends
tae face the dragon!
So you’ll sneak in, she’ll be asleep.
The door went fine, in socks you creep.
As worried as a border sheep,
towards the stair.
Trip ower the brush, she left tae sweep
the kitchen flair.
‘Where have you been, you drunken newt?
Theres cock ‘a leekie doon your suit.
Wi a’ your pals and stoppin oot,
until you’re plaistered.
I’m minded tae gie you the boot
you bloody waster!’
‘Aw gie’s a break doll, dinna shout.
Ah’ve only had a glass o’ stout
and, let me see, around about,
a couple o’ whiskies.’
Its then she gie’s your lug a clout.
Sure drinkin’s risky.
Its tae the spare room, then ye go.
Its three stairs up and two below.
On legs all rubbery and slow
ye reach your haven
Breeks, socks and pants off in one go
while she’s still ravin’
Ye crawl across the flair tae bed,
whilst cursin at the wife ye wed.
your claes around the flair are spread
but still you’re grinnin’.
‘Till roond and roond above your head,
the ceilin’s spinnin
Three times ye get up tae the loo.
The first attempt goes in her shoe.
ye miss the pan wi’ number two.
Three’s no’ a winner!
For in the wardrobe, then, ye spew
your haggis dinner.
When in the morning, you awaken,
head fair stounin’, stomach quakin’.
The annual vow then ye are makin’
ne’er tae repeat.
The wife, doonstairs, fries eggs and bacon – -“‘“
revenge is sweet!
The day wears on tae ease your plight.
By three o’ clock, you feel alright.
A beer at five, you’re really bright
but she’s still crabby!
The next Burns supper’s on the night.
Ah god bless Rabbie!
Ah Rab wha in the heavens does dwell.
I’m sure that ye amuse yersel’
by watchin’ mortals doon here tell
the same auld story
And goin’ through these nights o; Hell
a’ for your glory!