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
