Pat M'Carty ~ Rhymes of an Antrim Farmer

I came across this collection today.

These are Rhymes written by an Antrim Farmer, one Pat McCarty. 

I felt sure readers would enjoy exploring this site.

Pat M'Carty ~ Rhymes of an Antrim Farmer

Tha Garry Kat

Tha Garry Kat

Oul North Antrim noo haes got a kat, 

Nae ordinary moggie wha lies on tha mat, 

But a big blak thing that ates yer sheep, 

An gaes intae tha Garry an haes a sleep. 

Noo this big boy haes bane sa far an wide, 

An appears jest at wull alang tha dake side, 

In Conagher moss twa polis got a sicht o' him, 

Thae said he luked weel an wus in guid trim. 

Tha USPCA follaed him for a brave while, 

Ower monies a moss, feil, sheugh an stile, 

But this moggie niver staps for mair nir a minit, 

He's aff in a flash lake a flay doon yer simmit. 

Thers yins that wud sweer that he haes a brither, 

That wus sa' near Bushmill in a feil fu' o' heather, 

An oul boy frae Bogey sa him rin ower tha tap feil, 

Saes tha kat dinnae fool him for its surely tha deil. 

Noo tha hale cuntry side is oot efter this Kat, 

For he haes become famous thers nae doot o' that, 

He haes run rings roon them aa for monies a dey, 

An nae odds o' tha toonlan sure hae aye gets away. 

Noo maesel A think haes lakely o' tha blak airt, 

An micht turn intae a burd or a doag or a kert, 

An whun tha wunther comes tae tha oul Garry 

Sur tha kat in these airts wull nae langer tarry. 

by 'Tha Poocher'

The Puma's Tail - or Tale?

The Puma's Tail - or Tale?

Just a few lines from the "Puma" hoping this finds you all well, 

Just lately all this attention has this Puma's nerves shot to hell, 

It started one idyllic evening as I went for a stroll 'as you do', 

Alas ! I was seen by a farmer, who started a hullabaloo. 

Next day as I went for my breakfast 'I fancied the ear off a ewe', 

Well such a crowd of police and reporters 'one could hardly believe the to-do', 

As you know this was just the beginning I was harried by air and by land, 

I was chased to the bridge at 'Burn Gushey' by men in a white Transit van. 

To elude these intrepid intruders, I thought, I'll visit my cousin in Clare, 

In my haste I forgot 'was I in for a shock' t‚was the week of the Oul Lammas Fair, 

The tailback it stretched to Moyarget this spoiled my weekend by the sea, 

And as I went for a rest in Clare forest some-one took a photo of me. 

Now, this when it got to the news-desk it started the cat-hunt anew, 

Some folk just kept 'mum' some said, "can't be done" and decided of 'me' there is two, 

The experts they said, 'most unlikely' for a 'moggy' now 'that's quite a hike', 

But in you I'll confide, I come from a pride, of Pumas who ride motor bikes. 

Will you please spare a thought for the Puma, do not sit in judgement in haste, 

Although a chewer of ears, I did not wish to be here, and for mutton I've quite lost my taste 

As I write from this secret location I know I might sound a 'right prat', 

But to avoid confrontation and my own ruination, I am one vegetarian cat. 

by 'Moggus Garrybogus'

The Poocher's Reply

The Poocher's Reply

A hae read tha rantins o tha 'Kat' himsel, 

An he disnae fu' me wae hes tunge sae swell, 

For the English he scrieves in, brecks nae delph wae me, 

For Am nae doser A wisnae boarn at tha fit o' a tree. 

A ken weel eneuch what he's tryin tae dae, 

Wae his big wurds that maist folk jest cannae sae, 

He's tryin tae sweetyba‚ tha puir fermers an aa, 

As if he had niver committed nae crimes ava. 

An he'll shane larn that tha guid folk frae roon here, 

Dinnae fa' for sich tak an wull no leeve in fear, 

For thae hae aa cum thegither wae yin thocht in mine, 

Its time that North Entrim sa' tha last o yer behine. 

Sae cum on ye boy ye' hae sense whun ye ir still free, 

A hae a listen tae mae wurds an advice that A gie, 

Tak yersel an yer 'brither' bak hame tae yer lair, 

An stie in tha Garryboag ir tha sweet forest o' Clare.

 

An sae noo tae conclude A hae this jest tae sae, 

Yer naw invited tae roon here for yer tay, 

A hae naethin but respect for tha folk o Bogey an aa 

For A wus boarn in Benverdin jest ayont the Wee Ha‚

 

by 'Tha Poocher'

Garrybogus Two

Garrybogus Two

(this time it's personal!)

Oh! Poacher man your so unkind, 

To slight me so, but never mind , 

My feline feelings you have hurt, 

With comments dastardly and curt.

 

And quite outrageously uncivil, 

To liken me unto your "divil", 

By such talk I am misunderstood , 

The "Phantom of the Garry wood " 

My grace and beauty you may trace 

The epitome of feline race, 

I emplore you Sir if you don't mind, 

Don't point your gun at my behind. 

The Poacher" takes the game of others, 

Beneath the skin Sir, are we brothers ? 

The sport the thrill at worst affray, 

We both thus far have got away. 

When winter nips as soon it might, 

Do not forget this Puma' s plight, 

While you in slippered feet recline, 

I shiver in a land not mine. 

So watch your telly sip your wine, 

Oh! don't mind me, misplaced fe-line, 

Or for old Puma spare a thought, 

I did not come here I was brought.

 

by 'Moggus Garryboggus'

The Hunter

The Hunter

I WAS HEADING FOR THE 'YUKON',
WITH A SHOVEL AND A PICK, 
WHEN A RIDER OVERTOOK ME, SAYIN‚, 
I HAVE BRUNG YOU WORD FROM 'DICK',

OLE‚ DICK'S STILL ON THE FIDDLE, 
WELL! I AIN'T SURPRISED AT THAT, 
THEN HE SAID PLEASE COME TO ANTRIM, 
AND CATCH THE 'BOGEY CAT',

WELL I GUESS I OWE THE OLD GUY ONE , 
SO I TURNED THE MULE AROUN‚
AND BACKTRACKED DOWN THE 'DAWSON TRAIL',
DESTINATION 'BOGEY' TOWN. 

YOU SEE I USED TO BE A HUNTER, 
THEY SAY OF SOME RENOWN, 
SO THAT 'PUMA'S' ASS I MEAN TO KICK, 
NEXT TIME HE COMES AROUN. 

MY WALLS ARE HUNG WITH TROPHIES, 
EXOTIC BEASTS ADORN, 
A BIT FORLORN WITH JUST ONE HORN, 
I STUFFED THE UNICORN. 

I WRESTLED WITH THE 'YETI', 
IN THE MOUNTAINS OF NEPAL, 
WITH A FOREARM SMASH I SETTLED HIS HASH, 
HE NOW STANDS IN MY HALL, 

ON THE SUNBLEACHED 'SERENGETI' PLAINS, 
THE LIONS BREATH I TOOK, 
NOW HE'S MOUNTED ON MAHOGANY, 
TO GRACE MY CHIMNEY NOOK. 

OF POLAR BEARS I HAVE A BRACE, 
OF GRIZZLIES TWO OR THREE, 
AND A GREAT WHITE SHARK, ALL BITE NO BARK 
IS HERE FOR ALL TO SEE. 

I SCOURED THE PLAINS FOR BUFFALO, 
WITH THE BLACKFOOT AND THE CREE, 
MAE FETHER COME FAE GUNYUCK, 
AN MAE MA'S A CHEROKEE . 

SO NIGHT- NIGHT MR PUMA, 
I WILL SOON BE ON YOUR TRAIL, 
AND ON JOHNNY KENNEDY‚S PETROL PUMPS , 
I'LL HANG YOU BY THE TAIL. 

WHO AM I YE MICHT WEEL AX, 
AM I THE SPIRIT O THE NIGHT, 
OR SOME OUL DOTIN EEJIT, 
WHA TAKS A LOAD O' RUBBISH . 

by 'THE PICT'

The Puma's Plea

This Big Cat must be a female, cause she says here, she "could never trust a man"!

The Puma's Plea

I AM FREEZING IN NORTH ANTRIM, 

IN MY MAKESHIFT FOREST LAIR, 

AND FITFULLY I DREAM OF HOME , 

AND WISH THAT I WAS THERE. 

OH YES, I ONCE WAS WANTED, 

AS A PET, A RICH MANS WHIM, 

HOW I WISH THAT AS HE TREATED ME, 

SOMEONE NOW, WOULD THUS TREAT HIM. 

I MUST EAT SOON OR I SHALL DIE, 

MY NATURE IS TO KILL, 

BY MAN I'M SHUNNED, A MURDERER, 

THE HUNT HAS LOST IT'S THRILL. 

YOU SURELY SEE I MUST RETAIN, 

MY FREEDOM WHILE I CAN, 

I NEVER CAN SURRENDER, 

FOR I COULD NEVER TRUST A MAN.

by 'Felis Concolor'

A Rebuke tae tha Poocher

The Big Cat clearly wasn't everybody's idea of fun!

A Rebuke tae tha Poocher

A met an oul fermer wae a face lake a lantern 

As A wus trevillin roon aboot North Antrim, 

Saes he, "Ir ye tha Poocher wha writes yer Rhymes 

Fae week tae week in tha Bellymoney Times".

Saes I, "Heth that A am", an reached oot for his han, 

But A cud see me bein there wus mair than he cud stan, 

A jest thocht tae masel whut A micht hae dane 

But deed it wusnae lang tae he did explain. 

Saes he, "Is fermers dinnae tak tha Big Kat licht 

An aff coorse you toon yins aye think yersels richt, 

For yersel an Garry Bogus, tha Hunter an tha lake, 

Wud bae better if yese wud jest button yer bake. 

For tak it frae me if yese kent onything ava 

Yese wud shut yer big mooths if ye velue yer ja, 

For wur tha fermers wha if loasin oor sheep 

An its is an naw youse that's een niver sleep." 

Sae wae that A slid aff wae mae kep in mae han 

For tae me it wus wise whun still able tae stan, 

For A think A hae larnt thon fermers naw slow 

An maesel a'll ony write aboot sumthin‚ A know.

by 'Tha Poocher'

Puir Oul Pooshey

Hmmm ... I wonder, does Tam sound just a wee bit like Sean Connery, perhaps?

Puir Oul Pooshey

I'M THINKIN‚ BOYS THE KATS GYE QUATE, 

DAE YE THINK DAE POOSHIES HIBERNATE, 

I NIVER KNOW'D THE LAKE AFORE, 

MAYBE HE HAE'S TANE A SNORE.

WILE SCUNNER'T HAE'S HE GOT DEPRESSION, 

IN A SORTA FELINE POOSHY FASHION, 

IS HE IN A STATE O' CAT DELIR-I-UM. 

AN EFTER MALES MAN TAK TWA VAL-I-UM.

EFTER SCOBIN‚ TURNIPS AN SOOKIN‚ SOORUKS, 

HE RUN AWA WAE TWA WEE ERACKS, 

KNOCK‚T THEM IN HIM SPITTI'N FEATHERS, 

BURIED THE BONES AMANG THE HEATHER,

CRYED HIMSEL SOME LATIN NAME, 

TOUL THE FOLK THE MICHT THINK SHAME, 

AN‚ HUNT NAE MAIR THE FOREIGN POOSHEY, 

ROON THE BREWS O' OUL BURN GUSHEY.

THON OUL POOCHER RIZ A ROW, 

SAID THE POOSHEY HE WUD COW, 

HE‚LL TRACK HIM BETTER COME THE SNOW. 

HE MICHT, BUT MINE YE I DON'T KNOW.

THE PICT SAID HE WUD KETCH AN STUFF HIM, 

THE POOSHEY MICHT DRAW AFF AN CUFF HIM, 

HE'S HUNTIN DEYS ARE BY LANG SYNE, 

FOR KEREEDLIN' EFTER THEM FELINES.

SO COME ON RHYMERS LET IS HEAR YE, 

TAE THE TIMES I MEAN TAE STEER YE, 

LET IS HEAR YOUR BIT O‚ CRACK, 

AN LAKE BIG ARNIE "I'LL BE BACK"

By 'Tam the Santer'

The Melancholy Collie

Get down Shep!

The Melancholy Collie 

I AM A BONNIE SHEEPDOG, 

MY WHOLE LIFE IS UPSIDE DOWN, 

'CAUSE MY ONE TIME HAPPY MASTER, 

NOW FOREVER WEARS A FROWN. 

I AM PRACTICALLY REDUNDANT, 

AND I SUPPOSE IT MUST BE SAID, 

THERE'S NOT MUCH ROUNDING UP TO DO, 

WHEN THE SHEEP ARE IN THE SHED. 

YOU SEE MY CHARGES USED TO GRAZE, 

QUITE NEAR THE GARRY BOG, 

BEFORE THAT BLOODY PANTHER CAME, 

AH! JUST ONE MAN AND HIS DOG. 

OH! DAMN AND BLAST THAT MANGY BRUTE , 

COAT AND SOUL AS BLACK AS NIGHT, 

OR PUMA BEIGE OR SANDY BROWN, 

WHO GAVE OUR EWES A FRIGHT. 

I'M GETTING FAT AND OUT OF SHAPE, 

FROM LYING ON THE MAT, 

MY CAREER IT LIES IN RUINS, 

AND FOR WHAT ? A BLOODY CAT!!. 

SO SLING YOUR HOOK "YE SLEEKIT BASTE", 

IM AFRAID THAT'S HOW I FEEL, 

AND LET ME GET SOME PRACTISE, 

FOR THE TRIALS AT LOUGHGUILE.

By 'Shep'

Big Cat Mae Thoom

Big Cat Mae Thoom

I'm sittin' here mae lane in the moss, hunker't doon in a stank 
Feart tae move fae whur I am, joost keekin' oot ower the peat bank 
Hoo's a boady aspose't tae cope, corner't here agin thoor will 
Wae a' the orders comin' in, an I canna get peace, tae mak still.

Ivery whur yae luk there polis, an a' kines o' boadys wae guns 
Whirlybirds fly'in oot ower yer heid, hokin' through iv'ryboadys grun 
Folk oot wae battery lamps, ye'd think they'd naithin' better tae day 
Hoo's a' honest boady lake me gan tae get the still up an barmin away.

 

Some say thoor a'oot there lukkin' for a serious big baste o' a cat 
But thoor naw foolin me, aw naw, fur I ken fine weel what thoor at 
Thoor efter mae still, an the finest oul whusky t'wus iver lipp't bae man 
Fame't roon the worl an farther, made only as a countryman can. 

I larn't it fae mae oul folk who wudnae gee the government thoor bill 
Takin' awa a workin boadys pleasure, och! I can hear mae granda still 
Taxin all a boady daes an every bite an sup he puts intae his mooth 
If it stud for him it'll stan for me an mine ye that's the truth. 

They kin luk a' they want tae for them cats, be they broon or black or blue 
I'll fill mae orders fur the dacent folk what wae Christmas comin' noo 
An as fur mangy cats an the stories an the folk wha started this farse 
Tak yer nebs ootae whuns an rashes an stick them in the stillmans poakit. 

by 'Aqua Vitae'

How Quaint

You'll need to read this one with a posh North Antrim Accent!

How Quaint

I AM MAJOR TIM PONSONBY BLUNT,

THE MASTER OF BURN GUSHEY HUNT,

"CHARLIE FOX" IS MY USUAL QUARRY,

BUT THIS PUMA YOU SEE,

MIGHT BE WORTH TWO OR THREE,

AND I'M TOLD ARE DELICIOUS WHEN CURRIED.

SO IF YOU REQUIRE, 

I SHALL CLEAR THE ENTIRE,

COUNTRYSIDE OF THIS OUTLANDISH BRUTE,

"BASSET HOUNDS" AT THE READY,

NOW STEADY LADS STEADY,

AND TWO "POMERAINIANS" TO BOOT.

YOU MIGHT FIND THIS STRANGE,

BUT I DO LIKE A CHANGE,

FOR TRADITION I CARE NOT A JOT,

YOU MAY THINK I'M QUITE MAD,

'CAUSE I HUNT ON A QUAD,

MY DEAR WIFE SAYS I'VE QUITE LOST THE PLOT.

YOU SEE HORSES AND ME,

WE HAVE NEVER AGREED,

AND I CAN'T STAY ABOARD ONE FOR LONG,

THAT TRADITIONAL "GET-UP",

DEAR ME WHAT A "SET-UP",

I PREFER STEEL TOE'D BOOTS AND A THONG.

COUNTRY LIFE IT HAS CHANGED,

"IS THIS FELLOW DERANGED",

DEAR FRIENDS I WILL SAY ONLY THIS,

THIS RED WINES TWENTY PROOF,

THE WHOLE TALE IS A SPOOF,

AND IT'S ONLY ME TAKING THE - - - -,

by Lover of Books & Reader of Men

Birds Ee Veiw

Maybe it's not only Big Brother who's watching you!

Birds Ee Veiw

I'M SITTIN' UP THIS SYCAMORE, 
AN‚ I'M WATCHIN' ALL ABOOT, 
FOR THEY TELL ME THERE'S A PANTHER 
IN THE PLANTIN' LUKKIN' OOT. 

BUT I'M DAMN'T IF I CAN SEE HIM, 
FAE MAE PERCH AWA UP HIGH, 
AN' BOYS I DAE NAE MISS MUCH, 
ON THE GRUN OR IN THE SKY. 

YE SEE BOYS I'M A BUZZARD, 
AN' MAE EEN IR BRAVE AN' GUID, 
AN' GEEN THE BOYO IS STILL IN THERE, 
BAE MAE SOWL HE'S BRAVELY HID. 

I HAE BEEN WATCHIN FOR MAE DINNER, 
ROON HERE THIS WHEEN O' YEARS, 
AN' I HAE YIT TAE SEE A PUMA , 
OR A PANTHER ABOOT HERE. 

BOYS NOO YE NIVER HARD ME SEYIN, 
THAT THERE'S NAW YIN ON THE LOOSE, 
BUT IT'S ODD THE WYE I MISS'T HIM , 
WHUN I WUDNAE MISS A MOOSE. 

I HAE SA' THE GHAIST O' TOBER MOOR, 
GANN DRIFTIN' OWER THE FLOUGH, 
I HAE SA' BENVERDINS LADY, 
AN' THE WITCH O WILE GLENTOW. 

I SA' THE THINGS THAT GAR THE FOLK, 
PU' THE QUILT OOT OWER THOOR HEID, 
BUT I NIVER SA' NAE LION BOYS, 
O' ONY CLASS OR CREED.

By 'The Watcher'

Bad News Trevills Quick

Even 'Nessie' got in on the act!

Bad News Trevills Quick

I'VE JOOST HAD A LETTER FAE "NESSIE" 
WHA LIVES AS YOU KNOW 'OWER THE SHEUGH', 
SEYIN, WHA'S THIS DAMN'T CAT, THE IMPUDENT BRAT, 
BOYS, OUL 'NESSIE' WUS KICKIN UP ROUGH. 

NESSIE SEYS, NOO, DINNAE YOU THINK , 
I'M JOOST RISIN A STINK, 
I'M SWEEMIN‚ HERE NEARLY IN TEARS, 
AN‚ I'M NAW JOOST RANTIN‚ ABOOT SOME CAT IN A PLANTIN‚ 
I'VE BEEN SCARRIN‚ THE FOLK HERE FOR YEARS.

FOR YEARS AT MAE PRANKS I HAE SCARR'T VISITIN‚ YANKS, 
WHUN I STUCK MAE HEID OOTAE THE WATTER, 
THEY PEEL'T ELBAS AN SHINS AS THEY TORE THROUGH THE WHINS, 
ACH! BOYS I LACH'T WHUN I SA' THEM AL'SCATTER. 

NOO NESSIE'S THE NAME AN' ELUSIVES THE GAME. 
AT JOOKIN' I CLAIM AL' THE FAME, 
WHUN THEY AL' THINK I'M DEID, I JOOST STICK UP MAE HEID, 
AN' START THE HALE BIZZNESS AGAIN.

TELL YOUR CAT I'M AGGREIVED, AYE JOOST A BIT PEEVED, 
WEE IMPUDENT BUNNEL O' FUR, 
TELL THON CUR "HOUL YER WHEESHT", 
THERE JOOST YIN MYTHICAL BEASHT, 
CLEAR AFF OR I'M COMIN O'ER .

by 'Nessie's Cousin Bessie'

The Lion King ... maybe?

Am I here, or am I not?

I am the King of the Jungle, 

But there is no jungle here,

So I stroll around Liscolman, 

And fill the kids with fear.

There's not a lot to do,

Or come to that, to see,

Just wander cross these fields,

And think of what could be.

Thanks to a dutiful master,

Who kindly set me free,

I feel so lost and lonely,

In a place I long to flee.

This land to me is very strange,

And not what I'd call home,

I am a Panther big and black,

My destiny's to roam.

Choppers, planes and men with guns,

I've come across the lot,

All went home with heads bowed low,

The Panther they hadn't got.

It's really up to you,

If I am real or not,

The County Antrim Panther,

Forever will be sought.

Should you come across me,

Or pass me on your way,

Stop a while and think,

Of what you're going to say.

Just like Father Christmas,

I am very seldom seen,

It's only when I've left,

That you will know I've been.

by P. Anther and S. M.

Tha Poocher, up to his tricks again!

Bye la's

There's a rumour gane roon thae sae tha kat haes got wed, 

Tae a yung whuttrick frae near Deffrick wha's fond o' hir bed, 

Thae sae if its true thae hae noo a femmilie o' three, 

An hae their een on a snug biggin awa' up a tal' tree.

 

Noo if ye beleeve a ye hear ye'd eat a ye see, 

Sae pin bak yer lugs for this news is for free, 

It's time we'd a la' tae stap these fool things, 

For tha Cooncil maun tak it undther their wings. 

Can thae naw a agree jest for yince in their life, 

Tae adopt tha poor Kat his cubs an' his wife, 

An ect on behaf o this rare kine o' breed, 

Oot o' guidness o' hert jest gie them a feed. 

For tha nixt that we'll hear a new la' Europe wull pass 

That micht mak tha Toon Cooncil oot a bit o' an ass, 

Sae cum on mae freens pit on yer green hats, 

An pass a Bye la' tae luk efter baith Whutricks an kats. 

Charlie 'Tha Poocher' Rannals

N.B. No, the author of this one DOESN'T have an Australian accent! 

Aw Naw Mair Cats

COME POOCHERS, HUNTERS, PICTS AN GLENSMEN, 

AN' AL' ASOART'T RYMIN' KINSMEN, 

THE PANTHER CAT'S ABOOT TAE WED, 

AN OCCUPY A DOOBLE BED. 

HE'S STEPPIN OOT AS BOUL AS BRASS, 

AS IF TAE SEY BOYS, KISS MAE "PAW", 

GETTING WED, THE TOVEY SKITTER , 

AN GEEN THE SPRING, THEY'LL HAE A LITTER.

 

IT'S NAW MAE NATURE BOYS TAE BUM, 

BUT MINE I WARN'T YE THIS WUD COME, 

AS IF YIN PANTHER'S NAW ENUCH, 

THEY'LL BE KOOKIN OOTAE IVERY SHEUGH. 

NOO LISSEN TAE ME FREENS AN NEIGHBOURS, 

WHUN THON SHE CAT GANGS INTAE LABOUR, 

SHE'LL HAE HIR KITTLINS SIX OR EIGHT, 

OCH! OCH! A HANNLIN THEY'LL CREATE. 

YE'LL NIVER GET A MINITS PEACE, 

THEY'LL ATE FIVE YUWS A WEEK AT EAST, 

YE MICHTNAE FRET AN RUB YER BROO, 

THE GARRY BOG IS NOO A ZOO. 

AN FAE THE STROAN TAE OUL BURN GUSHEY, 

THEY'LL BE MONKIES SPEELIN UP THE BUSHES, 

AN THE FERMERS LIFE WILL BE GYE ROUGH, 

THEY'LL BE CROCODILES IN IVERY SHEUGH. 

Crocodile Drumlee

No prizes for guessing who wrote this one!

The Cat-o-Log, Epilog

I S'POSE ITS TIME THAT I CONFESSED, 

I DOOT A GUID WHEEN NOO HAE GUESSED, 

THAT I'M THE BOY WHA IS TAE BLAME, 

FOR RHYMES WRIT UNNER ITHER NAMES.

 

THE NAMES WUR A PERT O THE JOKE, 

BUT YE CANNAE FOOL NORTH ANTRIM FOLK, 

SO HERE I STAN TAE TAK THE BLAME 

FOR AL' THON ITHER OUL FOOL NAMES. 

'THE HUNTER', 'PICT' AN 'SHEP THE DOAG', 

AN 'MOGGUS FAE THE GARRY BOAG', 

'WEE AGGIE' FAE ABANE KNOCKSOUGHY, 

WHA WUS' YE'LL MINE A NERVOUS BROCKEY. 

TAE ADD TAE A THON OUL FOOL BANTER, 

A TALE WUS TOUL BAE 'TAM THE SANTER', 

IN TROTH WE EVEN HARD FAE 'BESSIE', 

COUSIN O' THE FAMOUS 'NESSIE'. 

THE 'POOCHER' WRITIN IN THESE ANNALS, 

MAE FELLA RHYMER CHARLIE RANNALS, 

AN AS THE BEANS I'M NOO AL' SPILLIN, 

YER HUMBLE SCRIBE IS CHARLIE GILLEN. 

P.S. 

COME ON YE POETS BARDS AN RHYMERS , 

LABOURIN MEN AN SOCIAL CLIMBERS, 

WHUTIVER TONGUE YE MICHT RECITE IN, 

CHUW YER PENCIL, KEEP ON WRITIN. 

I'M TOUL THE BOY WHA RINS THE 'TIMES', 

KINNA LAKES THE WEE BIT RHYMES, 

COME NOO FOLKS AN DAE YER BIT, 

TAE COIN A PHRASE JOOST 'KEEP HIR LIT'. 

'The Wizard O' The Flough'