Robert Burns, Scottish Poet (1759-96), A Topical, Poetic Tribute On His Birthday, 25th January

To The Pig Flu ¬†(by Jim Masson) As I sit listenin’ in the dwindlin’ ¬†licht, Wi’ mi hart poundin’ wi’ a its micht, I sneeze and snotter wi’ a helluva cal’, That’d mak ye wunner if at a’, Ye’d survive the Pig Flu that’s gan aroon, Sippin’ honey an’ whisky frae a spoon. Aye, it’s nae that easy tae shak the cal’. They tell me if yer nivir ill, Yer immune system will brak its back, [caption id="attachment_19422" align="alignright" width="200" caption="Robert Burns... who died of consumption at an early age."][/caption] Otherwise ye’ll nae last a craic. Wi lungs exploding and heid astray, An’ eyes a waterin’ and gan aglay, Ye cough an’ splutter and spread yer germs, Spreadin’ yer contagion for ithers’ harm, An’ feelin’ sorry for yersel In a richt, God forsaken hell. It’s not the way tae follow aefter, But raise yer spirits tae the rafters, An’ rejoice with John Barleycorn, Tak’ a sup this pleasant morn, Remember aye that pigs are preecious And bacon chops are but weel delicious. The flu may nae be but a wee distraction If life’s big game of interaction, An’ even Rabbie had a sniffle, Aye, bit the maun ne’er gave a piffle, But ance he did but quietly moan, An’ let out a passin’ groan. Alas! He ploughed on oe’r road and mire, Ne’er headin’ the rain or fire, He lived his life with twa guns bleezin’, Ne’er a maun to go down sneezin’! Ne’er heading sickness till ae dark day, When the Lord came ‘n took him away. So the moral o’ this tale’s quite plain, When ye’ve got the flu, jist dinnae complain, Cause moaners will see as they cough an’ transpire, Auld Nic , the de’il will leap oot the fire, An tak you deep doon in Pedition, Where ye’ll sweat fore’er in hell and damnation. ………………………………………………………….. John Barleycorn- whiisky. Auld Nic – the devil. Perdition – hell.]]>