THE PLOUGHMAN POET

A LAYMAN’S VIEW

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A farmer born was this young man,

But doomed to fail indeed.

It wisnae hard grund or pests the cause,

But the nonsense in his heed.

His brother Gilbert got unco seek,

And flung him oot the hoose.

He said “ yer meant tae ploogh the field,

No staun talking tae a moose.

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So off he went wi verse and song,

Tae sell aboot the toon.

It wisnae great for profit,

But fair made the lassie’s swoon.

Then he met his Jeannie Armour,

And asked if they could wed.

Her faither said “nae chance” yer aff yer bloody head”

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Highland Mary came and went,

A love that died too young.

A lament to this short dalliance,

Still here, but seldom sung.

Auld Reekie then came calling,

As his book o verse wis oot.

The ‘Hoi Polio’ o the capital,

Loved their witty rough Galoot.

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Feted by the great and good,

An embellishment to pampered lives.

But while the Lords and Dukes applauded,

Rab wis courting aw their wives.

But all good things must end sometime,

So back to the farm went he.

A few Bawbee’s left ower,

And from debt the Bard was free.

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With some money in his pocket,

And a fair wind upon his erse.

A tour of Caledonia was planned,

In the hope of finding verse.

His writers block was washed away,

The Heilands cured his woes.

He rekindled what he called his ‘muse’,

Then penned his greatest prose.

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He returned once more to the Borders,

To write and work the land.

First he had to seek his one true love,

And beg for Jeannie’s hand.

With bairns of Burns around her skirts,

Of course the lass said “aye”.

Knowing weel her minstrel bold,

Would hae liasons on the fly.

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The poets life would of course be short,

Poverty wid steal his health.

The truth as ever with the arts,

That whilst alive there is no wealth.

Sadly the seeds he sowed upon the land,

Were only good at dying.

The crop this lad grew best was bairns

Whilst never really trying.

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Noo Scots ‘ Wha Hae’ whenever called,

And Roses spring in June.

Wi ‘Auld Lang Syne’ and ‘Sauncie Face’

The Laddies words will ever bloom.

The moral here for all budding scribe’s,

Is contained within this tale.

Dig doon deep and fling well back,

Because wi a trade ye canny fail.

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Dinnae waste daylight hours in dream,

Or scribblin doon some guff.

Pit doon yer pen and fill yer heed,

Wi mair important stuff.

Noo obviously I live my life in hope,

When my time on earth is done.

That someone finds my nonsense guid,

And declares me ‘Scotland’s Second Son’

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JOCK