Tae A Fert
Joined by a few friends, we do what Scots the world over are doing that day: eating haggis, neaps and tatties and consuming large quantities of whisky.
But the main business of the night is the great man’s work itself. There are staples, like To A Haggis, which must be on the programme but we usually like to ring the changes, with perhaps a couple of lesser-known gems.
Among them this year was the magnificent Tam O’ Shanter – delivered with terror and verve by Mrs P – plus some songs.
One friend – another Cornish-Scottish mongrel – delights in digging out poems with risque titles. Last year he discovered Cock Up Your Beaver, while last weekend he introduced us to Nine Inches Will Please A Lady.
In a slight departure from the tried and tested, this year’s festivities also featured a poem by an anonymous pen, written in the style of Burns. It raised a laugh so I thought I’d share it. As with all Rabbie’s work, it’s best recited by a Scot and always after the main course. I give you... Tae A Fert
Oh what a sleekit horrible beastie
Lurks in yer belly efter the feastie
Just as ye sit doon among yer kin
There sterts to stir an enormous wind.
The neeps and tatties and mushy peas
Stert workin like a gentle breeze
But soon the puddin wi the sauncie face
Will have ye blawin’ all ower the place.
Nae matter whit the hell ye dae
A’bodys gonnae have tae pay
Even if ye try to stifle,
It’s like a bullet oot a rifle.
Hawd yer bum tight tae the chair
Tae try and stop the leakin air
Shift yersel frae cheek tae cheek
Prae tae God it doesnae reek.
But aw yer efforts go assunder
Oot it comes like a clap a thunder
Ricochets aroon the room
Michty me, a sonic boom!
God almighty it fairly reeks;
Hope I huvnae shit ma breeks
Tae the bog I better scurry
Aw whit the hell, its no ma worry.
A’body roon aboot me chokin,
Wan or two are nearly bokin
I’ll feel better for a while
Cannae help but raise a smile.
Wis him! I shout with accusin glower,
Alas too late, he’s just keeled ower
Ye dirty bugger they shout and stare
I dinnae feel welcome any mair.
Where ere ye go let yer wind gan free
Sounds like just the job fur me
Whit a fuss at Rabbie’s perty
Ower the sake o won wee ferty.
