Theh ballad o’theh MacTavish

(In honour of the great Scottish Poet, William Topaz McGonagall)

Twas black as pitch, thess nacht o’nachts
as MacTavish crawsed th’fell,
and theh rain et rained en icy sheets
as eff strayght frae th’gates o’hell,
he clambered o’er theh rowcks and moonds
azee heid towards hez gowal
an theh wind et chilled hem tae theh cowre
an tae the bowen as wehll.

O’er the next hill he ded climb
hez close a sawdden mess
he glowered up at theh louring clowds
The Lord he ded addrress
“Gawd Ah’m shure ye hae yer reasons,
Ah’m shure ye ken wha’s best,
but can ye please lay owf thess bloody rain?
Ah’m sowkin’ tae ma vest!”

Yet ownwood he trudged wi’heavy heart
hez feet awl clagged wi cludge
deep intae thess dark auld nacht,
hez resowlve it didnae budge,
hez sights where set, hez aim wiz troo
an’ didnae need a nudge,
but whis hez dawgedness justified?
Ach, who em Ah tae judge?

He scrambled o’er theh final moond
and rapped apowen theh dooor
an’ as it owpenned stumbled in
an’ fell doon owen theh flooor,
MacTavish stood, took aff hez coat
hez fess wiz offal dour,
“Gi’uz whiskey barkeep,
an’ thehn gi’uz ane mair…”


©2010 M.G. King
Image: David Byrne


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