Tuesday 17 February 2015

 
 
 
The Haggis Hunt
There’s a mysterious clan in the highlands,       
 Mc haggis their tartan of choice,
For they have hunted the wild mountain Haggis,
Since they were all wee little boys,
They have honed their skills with the claymore,
Their sporrans are big wide and brown,
With lots of the silver dangly bits
Made by silversmiths of great renown,
The haggis is small black and rotund
With legs at the front and the back,
And it scurries about in the heather,
Wherever bad weathers’ on track,
It likes best the snows of the winter
When winds at a gale fore do blow,
And hiding midst boulder and heather
Makes spotting them hard, don’t you know?
The big hunts take place in the New Year,
When the Haggis hunter’s guilds are in town,
Each hunter awash with the whisky
From first footing and the scotches they’ve downed,
Their eyesight at first is quite hazy,
And people in pairs they do see,
And spotting the wild mountain haggis,
Is a challenge on mountain and scree,
The wind is a problem in’t Gorbles,
 So a hot water bottle under kilts all did put,
To keep them all sung and so warm like
So avoiding a frost bitten Butt!
They slowly crept up on the haggis
And cornered the brute near a wall,
But just as the posse were pouncing,
The haggis rolled into a ball,
Away down the hillside it trundled,
Followed by the Mc haggis clan
But the bottles under kilts made them stumble,
And entwined with their legs as they ran
The hunters were soon in a big heap
And the haggis rolled far out of sight
So another year’s hunt was a failure
Caused by drinking whisky far into the night.
 
© Ted Morgan


The Cruellest of all Diseases

The Cruellest of all Diseases
I cannot ask you to help me remember
I cannot ask you to understand
There are times when I do not know you
Even when you hold my hand
I am locked in my little bubble
And though at times there is some memory
I will never be the one you love so
For now you are you – and I am me
Ann Redburn