This seems to have passed everyone by, Alfred! I've proposed we should also recognise Scotland's other poet, William Topaz McGonagall. His DOB isn't known, but he crossed that bourne from which no traveller returns on 29 November -- a suitable date to honour his memory.
Meanwhile, here's a poem I wrote (with a little assistance from RB) based on a true story on the Isle of Wight a few years ago.
Some hae meat and cannat eat;
We wad eat — the snag is,
We’ve booked the room, the piper too,
But somewan’s swiped the haggis!
Noo, Burns nicht fare’s nae skanking ware
(Whate’er they mean by a’ that):
There’s but wan pud that’s any good
And bears the gree, and a’ that.
Mrs Mac popped tae the butcher’s shop
Tae place a timely order,
Tae provide her clients wi’ the choicest viands
Available south o’ the Border—
Tae sairve a meal wi’ sic appeal
‘Twould be be a nicht harmonious
For Sassenachs and Scots ex-pats—
A supper Caledonious.
But when she came tae fetch it hame
She was tell’t it by the butcher:
Some scallywag had filled his bag
An’ scarpered wi’ the supper!
Could we mak’ do wi’ French ragout,
A curry or a balti?
They’d tak’ a sneerin’ scornfu’ view
O’ sic a spread sae faulty!
Ach, on the day we’ll simply say:
We ken it isna cricket,
But we’ve sent oot for fish an’ chips—
If ye dinna like it — stick it!
