I Came tae be. How? I didnae ken!
I was too young an’ it was up a Lowland Glen
Twas on this day, as sure as Beasties are Timorous, Hen
And People Spake as I do, then!
I was Born on Land, though could have drowned
Wi six brithers and sisters running around
My Father was a Farmer, so he ploughed
My Mither, Agnes Broun, into the ground
I headed up the family, such a curse
When Father died and went o’ in a hearse
He taught me Latin, French and, aye, some Verse
And Even English writing, which was worse!
Then Off I strode to farm some flax for tartan sash
A livelihood you’d think wou’d be quite rash
I’d Strike a match to that, and cut a dash:
The Faxen Mill burn’t down , and so’d my Cash
So wi my brither Gilbert went to farm
An that scheme failed fae all that, nae great harm!
I found a way to write and speak wi charm
An soon had Jean Armour upon my arm!
Great Love in such a raucous, lovely way
To up the aisle and ever onwards play
Sing songs and write them too ‘till pleasures stray
That Marriage was a Scots Wae Hae day!
Such wondrous words flow out when you’ve a bird!
My Many garbled Scots you’ll all hae heard!
Ma Poems published – that was quite absurd
Cas nae-body could understand a word!
While writing to mae girls or wanton Lust
I hae to pay my due, as all men must
Cause though I’d kindle Nationalistic rust
Twas Tax collecting where I earn’t my crust
Along the way I met some girls and wine
And scribbled epitaphs from line to line
Aquaintances in haystacks are quite fine
Much Poetry was all fae All lang Syne
A love of Freedom made me what I am
The French revolting at that time began
An though some thought me anti-Englishman
I joined the army as a patriotic British fan
So Red Red Roses are about my pride,
Not just of girls but keeping legs astride
when Rabbie Bruce was off tae battle ride
More Scots fought on the other side!
I ha twelve children in ma days
An been free-mason too in secret ways
We all love drink and company that strays
Yet on the Sunday off to Kirk and Prays
So if you please, or not, I’ll still chastise
A sinner criticising all your lies
If such as don’t exist resist such eyes
I’ll make up words and — hyprocratise!
A final word, I’m no quite finished yet
For at such dinners meat is often set
Wi Haggis, neeps and tatties – these I bet
Will toast my name…. and poems ye forget!