2003 – “Ode tae the Burns Supper”

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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 celebrations.

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!

 

Bill Hill

January 2003