Rabbie Burns ©
Marc R. Sherland
It's not that I dinna like yer auld Burns,
It's jist I quiston yer motivs an plans,
Sometimes yer description great insight turns,
Yet sometimes boggy mochit sinks an stans.
Each wooman yer fancied yer telt her lies,
That constant luv, wid breeng hir only joy,
Yit all the time yer dallied, no surprise,
Yer weans an bairns roond legs silla employs.
An then yer soshal conscience it wis guid,
All men as equals I can't disagree,
Yet yer consided whit I never cuid,
Slave overseer as a joab for thee.
An then yer wer a tax maun, I can't see,
Hoo yer squared that one in yer sauncy heid,
Fer puir men made yer famus, set yer free,
Tax maun is a bound maun, I wid be deid.
Yer joggled tha reeligis hypocrits,
I wid be clappin staunin on ma seet,
Cheerin yer oan tae all tha soondist bits,
Yit yer ner puled goad aff, that made me greet.
Still, an here's the thing that I want tae sae,
Yer put oor language on tha maps o' earth,
Eenglish folk, ther faces turned shades av grey,
As oor puir naishun got credit an wirth.
So aw in aw, I think yer made tha grade,
Champion'd tha wirld yer saw in glory,
Cawed it as it wis, a shovel a spade,
An revelled in tellin a quare story.