I couldn't give a toss for the caber
cromach bagpipes sporran or kilt
(a fling's the thing)
and you can stick your dirk in your haggis
up to its bog-wood hilt
yet I'd like to hike through the heather
on happy Sassenach holidays
see the scenery admire the view
along Scottish hilly highways and byways
to pick a pink-purple thistle or two
and should I come upon a hairy Highland cow
on the hoof in a friendly farmer's flink fold
(for protection from the cold)
in no uncertain terms I would declare
"I say to you, hoo noo broon coo?"
och aye no sooner said than done
than perchance from the Caledonian bovine one
the reply too true in a Scots burr would come...
'Moo!'
His name was Mr Hamish MacTavish.
He was a Scot, and his taste was lavish.
Mr MacTavish wrote a posh cookery book
So all Cordon Bleu Chefs could try to cook,
A haggis!
“Fair fa’ your honest, sonsie, face
Great Chieftain o’ the Puddin-race!”
“Address To A Haggis”, Robert Burns, 1786.
(Keeper o’er the Fourth Kingdom)
Robert, Robert, Fourth Kingdom
Gate Keeper.
No Telestial glory
Befits the poet deeper!
Wherefore is thy legacy
Robert Burns, regretfully
Wherefore is thy Haggis?
Thy Puddin’ flees before thee.
Thy Hippopotami give birth
Purple, purple, such deliver
The royal eggplant hatchling
That multiplies the giver!
Celestial porridge is thy claim
As such befits thy story
But no resplendent poet name
Perpetuates thy glory
Terrestial kingdoms blissfully
Reject that higher leaven
But thou hast won, delectably
That Kingdom Fourth of Heaven!
Come hither, thine little Covid face
Puddin’, puddin’, all o'er the place
‘Er thou leapeth, looketh!
‘Er thou jumpeth, deepeth
Verily, verily, weeping weeper,
Look before thou leapeth!
O’ thou dearly beloved Burns
Scotland’s glory
Cheater, cheater, Haggis eater!
Had a wife and couldn’t beater
Stopping by thy Haggis wood
Without a frosty heater.
Jump, jump, jump I say
In thy brine, belly up
Bottom, bottom, bottom shine
Scrub-a-dub-dub
Thy poetry tub,
Darling mine!
Soup a contest,
Thou shall not stray
O' thee and thine alphabet poop
Shall never,
Nor so wickedly ever
Go so far astray!
Weary traveler, eerie ace
Stop and rest thy weary face
No disgrace, 34th place
Win it now
Thy blue-ribbon best
And lose the human race!
Now, say goodnight, crap
Turn on thy vacant stare
Turn off thy thinking cap
Twinkle, twinkle little star
Never stray, never far
From thy happy lap!
Mary Haggis, little clown
With beak like blighted crows
And scary hair all lit aflame
Is where the woodbine grows.
"Mary Haggis" is reprinted here from
PETS GIVEN IN EVIDENCE OF OLD ENGLISH WITCHCRAFT
AND OTHER BEWITCHED BEINGS
(Minneapolis: Sidecar Preservation Society, 2016).
The Haggis is an elusive wee beastie
with sweet tasting meat and two hearts
to defeat. To catch one and feast upon is
a well deserved treat.
Even the most skilled
huntsmen are lucky to catch a glimpse, as it
scurries so fast with its two hearts beating
fast.
Oh the Haggis indeed has a quick witted
heed. It evades all known traps leaving the
huntsman grasping at straws and enraged
through his flaws.
Up the mountain side north
peak the wee beastie retreats, to a den in the
clover once more its all over.
no waste
odd taste
strange dish
haggis
Scotch hype
beef tripe
entrails
pig's tails
fish heads
sweetbreads
offal
awful
January 23, 2013
Chicken breasts with whiskey trace
Stuffed rich with oatmeal
Heart, liver and onion mix
Spiced to ones taste buds
Folded, oven bound
Pepper sauce
Nice!
The last time someone dropped into our pool,
it broke our concentration for crock school.
I didn’t join the food frenzy,
prefer Scots called Mackenzie.
So take this one mates, silk chutes bind my stool!
* For the “To Die for Limerick” contest. Hard to tell crock or gator from this magnification.
The Haggis lives a solitary life
On mountainsides and braes
Foraging, for slugs and snails
Is how he spends his days
But come the rutting season
A change in him you’ll find
He’ll go out searching, high and low
For others of his kind
His plumage changes colour
From brown to scarlet red
A pair of tree like antlers
He sports upon his head
Then if a female he should sense
On hind legs, at full height
Lets out his raucous mating call
In the Scottish summer night
The pair perform their mating dance
In amongst the heather
Then when the dance is over
Go at it, hell for leather
In just six weeks the brood is born
And unlike any other
They suckle at their fathers breast
And not that of the mother
When the weaning’s over
They’ll go their separate ways
Foraging for slugs and snails
On the mountains and the braes
If you find yourself in Scotland
And you hear a raucous cry
Still your heart, be not afraid
Tis just the Haggii
© 22-01-2009
Welcome world as you read this poem
Its about the Haggis
Scottish Highlands they roam
The lowland Haggis with legs the same
Evolution from the Highlands they came
But the truer beasts, rarely in sight
Run through the hills left and right
With one set of legs longer than the other
On the steep Scottish slopes
They don't fall over
With the world in recession
We have a tourist boom
Highland Safari's
Have lifted the gloom
So book now to catch your own
Take a photo, email it home
So come the summer, they hibernate
Get on that plane, before its too late
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