Burns Night

Since this is the day on which the poet Robert Burns is celebrated, I have posted a poem in which I endeavoured to write in his style, though I could never hope to reproduce the Scots vernacular. I wrote the poem some years ago in an effort to win a bottle of whisky. Perhaps I should have chosen a less obvious subject for the poem.

 

Uisge Beatha

I gaze upon these mountain waters,

Smoothing crags o’er which they tumble.

A timeless, tireless force of Nature

Leaving mortals feeling humble.

Each plunging stream ploughs to the Nith

That swirls and sways its seaward slide.

And Man could no more halt those surges

Than he could the ebbing tide.

Whisky glories in the triumph

Man and malt distils and treasures.

Oh, how he’s tamed these crystal drops,

Tempting tongues wi’ golden measures.

 

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