Pomes fae the Burrns Nicht

Three poems appear below, two written by HWGE crew, and one presented by Thomo, though not written by him: the author is as yet unknown, but it’s very very close to what The Bard himself would have written: the very wonderful, and touching Ode tae a Fairt.

Big Ronald McCeilidh also wrote at least three poems himself, commentaries on our modern society, as Rabbie might have written them: they were brilliant. Unfortunately, unless Ron cleans his car out, they will never be seen again: a loss to The Arts.

The Silver Army

By Dour-faced Wee John McLaw

I’ve joined the Silver Army
It’s really easy, d’ye see?
Ye jus’ pass the age o’ 60;
Or maybe 55; or even 23!

Our foe’s the greatest ye’ll ever meet
It’s Father Time hissel.
The struggle is: to slow him doon
Or perish i’ th’attempt.

We hae sojers of aal ages
Frae youths tae gadgies grey
We face the enemy tigether
And defy him to have his way!

No for us the Lazy Boy Chair
An’ sleepin in front o’ the telly!
An no for us the KFC,
An’ cultivatin the belly!

Oor sojers a’ are sich brave lads
We dodge Old Time’s fell hond.
For some o’ us, the hair’s nae sae glossy noo
It’s grey – or silver – or gone.

Mind! Oor greatest warriors are’na those
Wi’ muscles bulgin’ o’er a stomach lean,
Ripplin’ their elastic skin
Wi’ the young man’s bonny sheen.

The warriors in oor front ranks
Hae muscles that are wastin’ awa’;
The’or puir owd joints aye give them pain;
The’or skin begins tae show the clay.

Aye! Oor heroes are those who still plod on
It may seem withoot effect…
But they’re nae competing with ye, y’see
They’re defying Time himself.

So when ye see yon owd man,
age 83 or mair,
Gaspin’ doon the lonnen
at barely foour miles tae th’oor,

Think on, young man, wi’ a’ ye’r teeth
An ye’er shining, iron bod:
Think on: there goes a Michty Man: a Hero
I’ the ranks o’ The Silver Horde!



The Game

by Po-faced Big John McWells

When the sky hangs black and the Earth is dead
When all good folk are lain i’ their bed
Then out from their holes come the Corbridge crew
And down from the hills come the Oakwood few
The wild man descends from the Allendale heights
And the Acomb dog, look out for his bites.
And up from the depths come the Hexham trolls
Even a wain frae Newcastle rolls.

They descend on the Bridge like a guttering flame
And all they want is to play in The Game

They enter the hall with a casual air,
They don red bib or yellow as if they don’t care
Cos the teams that are picked are never quite fair
But all they want is The Game

The ball is irrelevant, it doesn’t roll true
There are rules to The Game, they’re irrelevant too.
There are many who start, but finishers few
When they come to the end of The Game

The players are legend, inside their own head;
War wounds are frequent and some end up dead
And sweethearts and bairns with brave tales are force fed
Of the deeds of the men at The Game.

As the mind grows old and the legs won’t run
And maiming the foe isn’t quite as much fun
And we rock in our chair ‘neath the lowering sun
We can sit and remember:
The Game


Ode tae a fairt

presented by the Reverend Davy McThompson
Quite the best poem of The Neet: read it and weep

Oh whita sleekit horrible beastie
lurks in yer belly after the feastie.
Jist as ye sit doon amang yer kin,

there sterts tae stir an enourmous win’.

The neeps n tatties n mushy peas’
stert wirkin like a gentle breeze.
Aye, soon the puddin wi the sauncie face,
will hae ye blawin a ower the place.

Nae maiter whit the hell ye dae,
evva’body’s gonnae hive tae pay.
Even if ye try tae stifle,
it’s like a bullit ootae a rifle.

Hawd yer bum ticht tae the chair,
an try’n stop the leekin air.
Shifty yersel fae cheek tae cheek,
an prey tae god it disnae reek.

But aw’ yer efforts go asunder,
‘n’ oot it comes like a clap o thunder,
ricochets aroon the room,
Och, Michty me! A sonic boom!

God almichty, it fairly reeks!
A hope a havnae shit ma breeks!
Tae the bog ad better scurry…
aw whit the hell it’s no’ ma worry.

Evv’abody roon aboot me chokin’,
wan or twa are nearly boakin’.
At least noo ah’ll feel better for a while,
An ah cannae help but raise a smile.

It wiz him! ah shout wi’ accusin’ glower,
alas too late: he’s jist keeled ower.
Ye dirty bugger!, they shout an stare,
Och, ah dinnae feel welcome here anymair.

“Where’e're ye go, let yer wind gang free”
Aye that sounds like jist the job fir me!
Och, whit a fuss at Rabbie’s pairty,
ower the sake o’ wan wee fairty!