Gary, the landlord of Ye Olde Mitre Inne, my fine local in Barnet, north London, asked me to read a few verses for Burns Night. Well, I’ll do anything for a large Laphraoig.

Not being Scottish, I was not going to try to do justice to any of Robert Burns’s own works, so I wrote my own limerick tribute to him – focusing on the humorous and lewd side of the poet’s work, of course.

The rude poems referred to can be found in a collection called the Merry Muses of Caledonia  – further info and link to PDF of them here: Merry Muses of Caledonia

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There was a Scots poet named Burns

Not all of whose verses one learns

Besides Auld Lang Syne

He wrote the odd line

That dealt with more earthy concerns.

He came from the county of Ayr

And penned many verses so fair

On liberty, life

And why his new wife

Did not have hair growing down there.

Burns wrote and wrote, once he got started

Some serious, others light-hearted

An ode to a mouse

And one to a louse

And one to a woman who farted.

As well as high verse, I’m afraid he

Wrote stuff that is rather more shady

He reckoned he knew

The feminine view –

Nine inch, wrote Burns, will please a lady.

He died of a rheumatic fever

Not 40, but quite an achiever:

Not just Red Red Rose

Which everyone knows

But – less famous – Cock Up Your Beaver.

So dress in your best bib and tucker

And come to the pub with your mucker

And let’s drink a toast

To Gary, our host

And the poet who gave us The Fornicator.

Mick Twister