This poem is dedicated to the celebration and memory of Robert Burns.
It has been written phonetically and is therefore awash with spelling errors this has been a deliberate act however, that is to aid and abet the pronunciation of the piece.
Non "native" speakers are therefore given an opportunity to experience the "tongue" rather some abstract lesson on spelling.
It is the pronunciation of these words that is key to its appreciation or non-appreciation dependent on your viewpoint.
Purists will loath it, however this is a small price to pay, they have my permission to rewrite it for themselves if it troubles them that much.
Hail Rabbie! Please enjoy, all the best, Baba.
Rabbie, son ye'd be so prood wi broadest grin an glintet ee
Thare's coontlis folk aroon the wurld wha raise a gless tae thee
An aw thae folk aroon oor globe, nae oads thaer mithir tung
Thae unerstaun yer meenin, aw thae things yer wurds hae sung
A common man, ye're wan o' thame, the same cloath an the threed
An unerneath us aw, ye shoad, wur jist a singul creed
Yer wurds an open windae tae that thing thae cau the sowl
Ye kent whit maks us laf an greet, ye kent whit maks us scowl
Ye up an deed too yung ma freend, whit hid ye left unsayd?
Whit ither verses wid ye write, whit mare wid ye hae plaid?
Ye spied that thing o' beauty whar we ithers spied a thoarn
The wurld wid be a dorker place if ye hid no bin boarn
Ye've made us rich, us Scoattish bairns, we hail the sun o' Airshur
So hail tae thee ma kinsmin, we bow tae thee, the maystur
We'll raise a gless o' cheer ma freend an wish ye aw the best
Happy birthday, man o' men, ye shoorli hae us blessed
Rabbie, son, you’d be so proud with broadest grin and glinting eye
There’s countless folk around the world who raise a glass to thee
And all those folk around the globe, no odds their mother tongue
They understand your meaning, all those things your words have sung
A common man, you're one of them, the same cloth and the thread
And underneath us all, you showed, we’re just a single creed
Your words, an open window to that thing they call the soul
You knew what makes us laugh and cry, you knew what makes us scowl
You up and died too young my friend! What had you left unsaid?
What other verses would you write? What more would you have played?
You spied that thing of beauty where we others spied a thorn
The world would be a darker place if you had not been born
You’ve made us rich, us Scottish children, we hail the son of Ayrshire
So hail to thee, my kinsman! We bow to thee, the master!
We’ll raise a glass of cheer my friend and wish you all the best
Happy birthday, man of men, you surely have us blessed