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by Dave Knapschafer

Creag An Turic
The lord was nearly finished,
his creation almost done.
He considered all was not quite right.
So much of it was wrong.
The list was checked one by one.
Corrections must be made.
The final task would show them all.
This one would set the grade.
"Scotland I shall call this one."
Her colours white and blue.
Her spirit as a rampant lion,
her anger so red and true.
The Rangers will be of MacLaren blood.
None finer the job to do.
Their emblem a boar of solid rock.
The rest to bow in review.
      Dave K. 10-4-11

Moor and thistle
heather and glen.
How is this love
I so possess for
a land which I
have never seen?
The skirl of pipes
a song from above.
such a lift to heart,
the essence of life
and love.
      Dave K. 10/4/11

Voted greatest Scot of all time.
After Wallace, Bruce and MacLarens fine.
His love for Alba remains steadfast,
respect and admiration still unmatched.
Author, patriot and poet true.
His love of music a song writer too.
Countless opinions ahead of his time
alienated friends "He's lost his mind".
Troubled bard with demons his own.
A lovely talent, to generations on loan.
Treasured life so short before his fall.
The pride of Scotland, a gift to us all.
      Dave K. 10/4/11


by Richard Behling

Limericky Burns
On the rhymes of old Burns I've done percolating
Prosey grace notes and trills rather stimulating
While it's still so dang hard
To decipher the Bard
His reknown I have found is a venerating

Rabbie's eye was so keen on wee mousie
When his plough blew to heck her poor housie
Winter's cold is- as then-
Far beyond man's small ken
And his life, more than not, gets all dousie

The eild lessons o' Shanter are variegated
Tipsy Tam went astray 'cause he hesitated
When Ol' Scratch and his clarks
Danced in fine cutty sarks
Trusty Meg was the vehicle designated

Where's an end to the Clan Holy Willie?
Over life casting spells oh so chilly?
All around, pompous tools!
Honest men as their fools
Deadly serious stuff- not so silly!

Some pretend that dear Rabbie was celibate
And deflect any charge of "indelicate"
But the Merry old Muses
All such thought disabuses
And demand scurvy writers prevaricate

In an ode for his misbegot child
There is nothing un-tender or wild
He simply tried harder
To right ill-timed ardor
We all pray that young Miss Bessie smiled

While 'tis true that sweet Rabbie did sanitize
Sometime odd verse for viewing by many eyes
Still, he kept some good stuff
(Oh, you know- without fluff)
Which is wholly unneedful to now revise

The Bard speaks of things nat'ral and human
With such an incisive acumen;
Wha's ne'er craved the old pinch
To... ah... measure nine inch
If such be your gift, then please do, man

Almost all of the old rhymes are bawdy
And they show human nature is "naughty"
But the blasted Victorians
Were such repressed stentorians
The loud critics came off stuffed and haughty

The man's lustre is bright, no be tarnished
Weary, time-worn accretions of smarmish
To a Louse, To a Mouse
To a Brace of Fat Grouse [invented]
Remove all of those layers of varnish

Rabbie�s rhymes are oft viewed as spontaneous
But his words very seldom extraneous
As in great works of art,
They took time, they took heart
But the Haggis Ode? Extemporaneous!

So a toast- To fair conviviality
And wha' brings us to this sociality
May this eve be a feast
Where we will, at the least,
Guard against so great vice, Bacchanality
      Richard Behling, January 2012 Burns Night


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