Scottish Poems

for Poetry Competition in Scottish Week

P7 - ADDRESS TO A HAGGIS 

Fair fa’ your honest, sonsie face, 

Great chieftain o’ the pudding-race! 

Aboon them a’ yet tak your place, 

Painch, tripe, or thairm: 

Weel are ye wordy o’a grace 

As lang’s my arm. 

The groaning trencher there ye fill, 

Your hurdies like a distant hill, 

Your pin was 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 sleight, 

Trenching your gushing entrails bright, 

Like ony 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; 

Then 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 make her spew 

Wi’ perfect sconner, 

Looks down wi’ sneering, scornfu’ view 

On sic a dinner? 

Poor devil! see him owre his trash, 

As feckles as wither’d rash, 

His spindle shank, a guid whip-lash; 

His nieve a nit; 

Thro’ blody 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 mak it whissle; 

An’ legs an’ arms, an’ hands will sned, 

Like taps o’ trissle. 

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!

P6 - TO A MOUSE 

Wee, sleekit, cow’rin, tim’rous beastie, 

O, what a panic’s in thy breastie! 

Thou need na start awa sae hasty, 

Wi’ bickering brattle! 

I wad be laith to rin an’ chase thee, 

Wi’ murd’ring pattle! 

I’m truly sorry man’s dominion, 

Has broken nature’s social union, 

An’ justifies that ill opinion, 

Which makes thee startle 

At me, thy poor, earth-born companion, 

An’ fellow-mortal! 

I doubt na, whiles, but thou may thieve; 

What then? poor beastie, thou maun live! 

A daimen icker in a thrave 

‘S a sma’ request; 

I’ll get a blessin wi’ the lave, 

An’ never miss’t! 

Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin! 

It’s silly wa’s the win’s are strewin! 

An’ naething, now, to big a new ane, 

O’ foggage green! 

An’ bleak December’s winds ensuin, 

Baith snell an’ keen!

Thou saw the fields laid bare an’ waste, 

An’ weary winter comin fast, 

An’ cozie here, beneath the blast, 

Thou thought to dwell-

Till crash! the cruel coulter past 

Out thro’ thy cell. 

That wee bit heap o’ leaves an’ stibble, 

Has cost thee mony a weary nibble! 

Now thou’s turn’d out, for a’ thy trouble, 

But house or hald, 

To thole the winter’s sleety dribble, 

An’ cranreuch cauld! 

But, Mousie, thou art no thy lane, 

In proving foresight may be vain; 

The best-laid schemes o’ mice an ‘men 

Gang aft agley, 

An’lea’e us nought but grief an’ pain, 

For promis’d joy! 

Still thou art blest, compar’d wi’ me 

The present only toucheth thee: 

But, Och! I backward cast my e’e. 

On prospects drear! 

An’ forward, tho’ I canna see,

I guess an’ fear!

P5 - Ae Fond Kiss

Ae fond kiss, and then we sever;
Ae fareweel, and then forever!
Deep in heart-wrung tears I’ll pledge thee,
Warring sighs and groans I’ll wage thee.
Who shall say that Fortune grieves him,
While the star of hope she leaves him?
Me, nae cheerfu’ twinkle lights me;
Dark despair around benights me.

I’ll ne’er blame my partial fancy,
Naething could resist my Nancy;
But to see her was to love her;
Love but her, and love forever.
Had we never lov’d sae kindly,
Had we never lov’d sae blindly,
Never met—or never parted—
We had ne’er been broken-hearted.

Fare thee weel, thou first and fairest!
Fare thee weel, thou best and dearest!
Thine be ilka joy and treasure,
Peace. enjoyment, love, and pleasure!
Ae fond kiss, and then we sever;
Ae fareweel, alas, forever!
Deep in heart-wrung tears   I’ll pledge thee,
Warring sighs and groans I’ll wage thee!

P4 - Mrs Nae Offence

(by Gregor Steele)

We cry her Mrs Nae Offence –
That’s whit she likes to say,
Afore sayin somethin awfie,
Then heidin on her way.
“Nae offence, but see yon skirt ye bocht,
It maks ye look gey fat.”

“Nae offence, ye’re like a standard lamp
When ye wear yir new blue hat.”
“Nae offence, but see yir perfume,”
She whitters like a doo,
“It minds me o thae yellae cubes
Ye get in a laddies’ loo.”
“Nae offence, but see yir hairdo,
Ye must hae been a mug
Tae fork oot twenty quid for that –
Ye look like a Pekingese dug.”
It fell upon ma granny
Tae pit her in her place.
Gran skelped her wi a brolly, sayin,
“Nae offence, but shut yir face.”

P3 - Twa-Leggit Mice

(by J.K. Annand)

My mither says that we hae mice

That open air-ticht tins

And eat her chocolate biscuits

And cakes and siclike things.

Nae doubt it is and awfu shame

That mice should get the blame,

It’s really me that rypes the tins

When left my lane at hame.

But jings! I get fair hungert

And biscuits taste sae nice

But dinna tell ma mither fo

r She thinks it is the mice.

P2

Scottish Rain

(by Tom Bryan)

Gets in yer neb, lugs,
Unner thi oxters tae.
Oan yer heid, in yer een
Til ye’re drookit ken?

An it’s aye cauld
An ages sidie-ways.
Whit, warm rain?
Nae here (mebbe in Spain).

Woke up this mornin,
Crawled oot o bed,
Keeked oot thi windae pane
Aw naw! Rainin again!

P1 - Mince and Tatties

(by JK Annand)

I dinna like hail tatties
Pit on my plate o mince
For when I tak my denner
I eat them baith at yince.
Sae mash and mix the tatties
Wi mince into the mashin,
And sic a tasty denner
Will aye be voted ‘Smashin!’