Third degree Burns
NOW THAT the festive celebrations have slipped away into digital camera memory and the only bit of turkey remaining is the beak, may I begin by wishing readers of this column a very happy, healthy and peaceful new year. Those with a knowledge of classical mythology will be aware that January is the month when the famed haggis gigantus bestrides this fair land like a colossus, stealing the women and seducing the sheep, not necessarily in that order. I refer, of course, to the season of the Burns Supper.
The Burns Supper is a Scottish tradition held all across the civilized world and parts of Perthshire, where the assembled company celebrates the life of Robert Burns in word, verse, music and song. I hope you get - and take - the opportunity to be part of a Burns Supper this year and I place before you now a song I wrote after taking part in one such event a few years ago in Killiecrankie. Any resemblance between anyone who was there and anyone mentioned in the song is the result of a lot of hard work on my part! No, really, that’s not true; it was one of the best I’ve attended and I recommend it to you. |
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The Killiecrankie Burns Supper
(to the tune 'Corn Rigs')
When the Killiecrankie Hall Committee had their night wi’ Burns
There were all sorts of speakers there and all sorts of turns
There was haggis, there was tatties, there was neeps by the plate
And cheese and pickle sandwiches for them that turned up late
The piper wasna’ local, in fact he came frae Kent
But his mother’s father’s cousin was a Campbell by descent
He piped in the haggis to the only tunes he knew:
Highland Cathedral and A Boy Named Sue
Now the master of ceremonies was the local laird
He’d done the job for donkey’s years ‘cause nobody else had dared
He didna’ have a partner, so to keep the numbers square
He brought his golden labrador and tied it to his chair
He read some poems he’d writ himself and hoped we’d be amused
But the dug peed on the wiring, and a’ the power fused
When they got the lights back on, the minister was hoarse
By the time he’d done the Selkirk Grace, we’d had our second course
He introduced the grocer, who wore a ginger wig
Wi’ lenses on his glasses that would keep a lighthouse trig
He went to cut the haggis but he trippit ower the rug
Missed it altogether, nearly disembowelled the dug
Well it let oot sic a roar wi’ the dagger in its wame
Then loupit ower the table taps and set a course for hame
The chair it hit the grocer, and his wig of golden strands
Fell into the trifle dish and went down with all hands
The soprano was an actress who’d been through the local reps
But to reach the highest notes she’d need a pair o’ steps
She got a wee bit dottled as the evening fun wore on
And finished wi’ a sang she cried Jo Anderson, my John
The tenor was a handsome chiel who warbled like a lark
A bit like Paul Robeson, but no’ quite so dark
He said he’d trained in opera with Callas at the Met
But if he’d trained at Powderhall he’d still be runnin’ yet
So Holy Willie said his prayer and Tam o’ Shanter rade
But the keeper o’ the Hall had double booked the Boys’ Brigade
So while this half was singing A’ the Airts the Win’ Can Blaw
The rest were tying granny knots and sheepshanks an’ a’
We sent for the piper to gie us Auld Lang Syne
He was on his second bottle of a cheap Italian wine
He picked up his pipes and - oh my, you should have seen -
Blew into the bag and a’ the crystals turned green
But the Killiecrankie Hall Committee had their Burns Night
And despite their misgivings it went all right
They cleared away the tables, put the haggis in the bin
And made a space for Rantin’ Robin’s Disco to come in
He played us tracks from Acid Cot - Rabbie’s Hip-Hop Hits
But when he cranked the volume up, the ceiling fell to bits
So Jimmy got his squeezebox, aye and Sandy did the same
And several hours later we went toddlin’ hame …
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