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Poem	In all the pubs from Troon to Ayr Grandfather's father would repair With Bobby Burns, a drouthy pair, The glass to clink; And oftenwhiles, when not too "fou," They'd roar a bawdy stave or two, From midnight muk to morning dew, And drink and drink. And Grandfather, with eye aglow And proper pride, would often show An old armchair where long ago The Bard would sit; Reciting there with pawky glee "The Lass that Made the Bed for Me;" Or whiles a rhyme about the flea That ne'er was writ. Then I would seek the Poet's chair And plant my kilted buttocks there, And read with joy the Bard of Ayr In my own tongue; The Diel, the Daisy and the Louse The Hare, the Haggis and the Mouse, (What fornication and carouse!) When I was young. Though Kipling, Hardy, Stevenson Have each my admiration won, Today, my rhyme-race almost run, My fancy turns To him who did Pegasus prod For me, Bard of my native sod, The sinner best-loved of God - Rare Robbie Burns.
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