Robert Burns – Born January 25th 1759

The Immortal Memory


In seventeen and fifty nine, wee Rabby arrived around January time

The twenty-fifth and not a day too soon, born in a place near Brig o Doon

His family all farmers, his life yet unknown, with a plough and a vision, his name would be gro’in

And so into rhyme his poems they started, at fifteen years old, his mind it departed

Longing for something much more than he had, with women and song, he became Jack the lad


From ale house to pub, from Ayrshire and on, his words from a moose to a moron called Tam

Rabby was always ahead of his time, drinking and shagging with feelings so fine

Edinburgh came calling, his dreams and desires, castles and gentry and no more pigsties

Off he did wander and then back he just came, all the lassies in tow and a need to change names

But his wit was has savior and his poems they proved, there was nothing like words to get girls in the mood


One after another and eventually tamed, married and happy though still horny, all the same

Dumfries was his savior, at least that’s what he thought, peace with our Rabby could never be bought

Settling down beside Jeanie instead of wee Mary, his wits at an end and his prose quite contrary

Several kids he had running, though not many were legal, preferring sex with the maids instead of walks with his beagle

Philandering ways that he couldn’t control, though we know from his, prose many hearts he just stole


A romantic, deep down, which would never be questioned, outrageous views, his politics, clandestine

Writing much that we sing, today and forever, he wasn’t just a fool, in fact he was clever

Now the whole planet, on this night, once a year, a laugh we all have with just a hint of a tear

Jokes and some whisky, haggis and neeps too, reciting all of our Rabby’s works, bar a few

And so I sit here, recalling Burns fame, now it’s your turn to stand and remember his name


To the immortal memory of Robert Burns.


Copyright Alan Zoltie January 25 2014

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