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
* * *
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.