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Poems from Francis Kerr Young

A parody on Burns’ To a mouse:


Great muckle cantankerous brute,
suddenly ye cam fleein’ oot
wi’ a’ yon hunters in pursuit,
and chased ye oan my brand-new caur.
Ye’re badly hurt, Ah hae nae doobt,
wi’ mangled pelt a’ steeped in glaur.

Proud antlered beastie wi’ sharp racks
tae fend yersel’ against wolf packs,
or wicked Man when he attacks.
Och Man, dinnae be sae damned hasty
tae stuff his heid wi’ woo’ an’ wax . . .
It’s such a shame his meat’s sae tasty!

Frae swamp or muskeg dinnae stray,
the highway’s no’ the place tae play
there’s aye danger scurrying frae
the wild, wild widlan’ at a run;
bit then, puir beast, whit can ye dae
when folk’s ahent ye wi’ a gun?

Oh big beastie stey in the sloughs,
it’s safer browsin’ through thon ooze,
an’ peyin’ coort tae a’ yer coos.
Don’t try tae rut a diesel train,
its calls o’ love are richt bad news
lurin’ ye doon the iron lane.

The Great White North has worldly fame,
bit really, it’s no’ quite the same,
a’ thanks tae Mankind’s utter shame
wi’ twa hunder years o’ pollution.
Bit huntin’ moose is no’ fair game,
nor is road-kill a sound solution.

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