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