Haggis

A little something to start off with while I am gearing myself up to go - dreaming of the haggis, tatties and neeps and perhaps a single malt to wash it down...

Hunting the Wild Hairy Haggis

Old Jock McFlannel took his gun—

a blunderbuss, a dented one—

and said, “I’ll bag that beast this year!

Yon haggis with the hairy rear!”

He wore a kilt, three pairs of socks,

a tam o’ shanter like Orkney rocks,

and boots that squelched with every stride—

his thermos bouncing at his side.

Up to the moor he proudly strode,

across the gorse and sheep-strewn road,

past signs that said "NO HAGGIS HERE"—

which only made him grin and sneer.

“They’re shy wee things,” he muttered low,

“with legs uneven so they go

around the hills but never straight—

I’ll trap the bugger with a plate.”

He baited it with neeps and tatties,

hid in a ditch near some wild catties,

and waited there from noon till night

while midges had a merry bite.

Then—rustle! grunt! a scruffy squeal!

A blur of tartan fur and zeal!

The haggis came on lopsided feet

with eyes like raisins, oddly sweet.

Jock leapt up with a hunter’s cheer,

he hoisted high his ancient gear,

took aim, cried “HA!” and squeezed too fast—

the musket backfired with a blast!

That blunderbuss let out a shriek,

then hiccupped once and sprang a leak—

its barrel peeled like soft-skinned fruit,

and launched Jock backwards, black with soot.

The haggis snorted, dashed away,

still chewing on its neep soufflé.

It vanished ‘round a thistle bend,

and Jock lay flat… not quite the end.

Now ghostly pale and slightly charred,

he haunts the moors, forever starred—

to hunt the haggis, rain or shine,

his blunderbuss a spectral sign.

So if you walk where heather grows,

and hear a blast, and smell burnt toes—

beware the haggis, fleet and bold,

and never trust a gun that’s old.