I love clerihews for their playful wit and charming irreverence. There’s something wonderfully liberating about a poem that doesn’t care for metre or formality, only for fun. Each one is a tiny, mischievous character sketch—often absurd, always amusing. I delight in the odd rhymes and surprising twists, the way history and humour collide in four uneven lines. Whether I’m reading them or writing my own, clerihews never fail to make me smile. They’re a joyful reminder that poetry doesn’t have to be serious to be clever. In fact, the sillier they are, the more I seem to love them.
Edmund Clerihew Bentley
Edmund Clerihew Bentley (1875–1956) was an English novelist, journalist, and humorist best known for inventing the light poetic form known as the clerihew. A schoolboy at St. Paul’s School in London, Bentley created his first clerihew at the age of sixteen during a chemistry lesson. The subject was Sir Humphry Davy, and the verse set the tone for a genre of biographical absurdity that Bentley would later popularise. His 1905 collection, Biography for Beginners, established the form and sparked a brief literary trend. Though Bentley also achieved acclaim as a detective novelist—his 1913 novel Trent’s Last Case is considered a classic of the genre—it is for the clerihew that he is most fondly remembered. Bentley’s playful verses delighted in juxtaposing historical figures with comically mundane or ridiculous scenarios. His invention offered a uniquely British blend of satire, wit, and whimsy that continues to amuse poets and readers alike.
How the Clerihew Works
The clerihew is a whimsical, four-line biographical poem with an irregular metre and an AABB rhyme scheme. It always begins with the subject’s name—ideally full name—and proceeds to offer a humorous or absurd take on their life, personality, or legacy. Clerihews are intentionally awkward in rhythm and often delight in forced rhymes or unexpected juxtapositions. The form’s charm lies in its gentle irreverence and playful tone rather than poetic polish. There are no strict rules about syllable count or metre, allowing writers to focus on clever wordplay and comic timing. Above all, the clerihew celebrates the art of light verse.
While travelling around Scotland, I set myself the challenge of writing a clerihew about its most famous poet, Robert Burns. The result was… passable, but nothing to write home about:
Robert Burns, with muddy boots,
Wrote poems sharp as lawyer’s suits.
He knew the cost of love and land—
And still wrote Auld Lang Syne by hand.
But somewhere along the way, I had a moment of revelation. I realised that Scots—the sister language to English, which branched off around the 13th century—is far more visually poetic. Its rhythms, spellings, and cadences seemed to dance off the page.
I have been able to read and understand Scots ever since childhood, thanks to the Oor Wullie and The Broons annuals my aunt and cousins sent each Christmas—a highlight of my childhood year. I’d never dream of speaking it aloud (my pronunciation would offend even the most forgiving Scot), but on the page, it the language feels like home.
So I set myself the task of writing a Clerehew about Rabbie in Scots—and then I just couldn’t stop. Here they are (leave a comment and tell me which you like the most):
1)
Rabbie Burns, wi’ ink-stained haunds,
Wrote o’ mice, and men, and lands.
He’d praise a lass, then drink tae Jean—
Then write aboot things he shouldna’ve seen.
2)
Burns wi’ a quill and guid intent,
Wrote lines that made the kirk folk vent.
He rhymed o’ love, and drink, and beast—
And aye, he liked a Hogmanay feast.
3)
Rabbie aye had time tae write—
Wi’ whisky flame and candle light.
He spoke o’ freedom, fields, and fun—
And kissed mair lasses than anyone.
4)
Burns could turn a bonnie phrase,
Abune the mist, through passion’s haze.
But gie him neeps, a lass, and ale—
And even his morals would start tae fail.
5)
Rabbie, bard o’ Scotland’s hert,
Could mak a poem oot o’ dirt.
He’d see a mouse and stop mid-prayer—
“Ye wee wee beastie—sit ye there!”
6)
Rabbie Burns, wi' pen in haun,
Wrote o' Tam wha rode like the wan’.
Witches skirled, and Cutty Sark flew—
He laughed and said, “Aye, that bit’s true.”
7)
Rabbie Burns, a man o’ flair,
Sent Tam gallopin’ through the air.
He saw auld Nick and dancin’ witches—
Then lost his hat—and half his breeches.
8)
Burns telt tales o’ kirk and storm,
Wi’ whisky dreams and witches’ form.
Tam drank deep and saw the gate—
And near got chibbied by his fate.
9)
Rabbie wrote wi’ wicked glee
O’ Tam wha couldna just let be.
He spied on Cutty Sark’s wee dance—
And near got brained for takin’ a glance.
Here are a couple about William Wallace
Brave Wallace never minced his views—
He’d fight for Scotland in his shoes.
Or out of them, if truth be told—
The man was fierce, and rarely cold.
Wullie Wallace, big an' braw,
Didna care much for English law.
He took his sword and made it plain—
"Yer taxes, pal? Away ye's gain!"
And a few about Robert the Bruce:
Robert the Bruce sat feelin’ deid,
Wi’ his hopes hingin’ by a thread.
The spider keeked doon fae its stane—
“Whit ye dain, ye great big wean?”
Auld Bruce wis huffin’ in gloom,
Peerin’ roon that drippin’ room.
The spider swung, as bold as brass—
“Gie it laldy, ya stubborn ass.”
Robert the Bruce, fair scunnered and stuck,
Said, “That’s me telt. I’ve had nae luck.”
But the spider, crawlin’ wae flair,
Said, “Luck’s fur dafties. Git oot there!”
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