To a Grouse

On finding m’self i’ need of vice

presidential—providential?—advice

I learnt from thee, ye blastit louse

to see oursels as ithers see us;

an’ best-laid schemes gang aft agley—

You, tim’rous mousie, taught this much to me.

So turn our sights now to a grouse—

that quailin’ quib tha’ makes a house

i’ fieldside shrub an’ suffers fate;

Dick Cheney, meanwhile, shoots his mate

an’ spares our ruffled galliform.

Their faces red, a gath’ring storm

befalls the arrant knaves. “You louse!” says one,

“Keep mum,” th’ ither, “—they’ll take me for a souse!

“I had a nip o’ whiskey, see—

the aimin’ sure was not from me:

forsooth the Red Red Grouse—he lets

my vice become a virtue, an’ roundly gets

my versus, too. He keeps me sane

an’ questions not, nor gi’es away our game.

We’re hunting, after all, oursels.”

So endeth Dick.  Th’ ither never tells.

Then waddlin’ and warblin’, our

hero lives at least anither hour.

Ye might debate th’ just deserts

of birdshot i’ th’ face, which hurts

—yet doesn’t do th’ critter in.

He an’ ye must live to hunt agin.

O, grouse until yer wounds have healed,

O, leave all lessons i’ th’ field!

I’ll take sich notes fer Robbie Burns

An’ clink a glass each year he turns.

Imbibe that bird from Scotland, sir:

fer aimin’ luck and logic sure.

Happy 253rd, Robert Burns!