3rd Degree Burns Poetry

Inspired by Burns Day, our Scots Poet-in-Residence Fiona Barclay, has risen to the following:-

The Emperor's Lament

Och, fair Emperor, sae grand, sae braw,

W' wings o' velvet rich and raw,

Ye reign o'er England's leafy law

But ne'er in Scotland's cauld, dreich snaw.

Frae oakwoods deep, ye tak' yer flight

A shimmerin' jewel in summer's light.

But here, nae sun tae warm yer wings,

Just wind that howls an' rain that stings.

Oor heathered hills, oor rugged glens,

Might charm the souls o' mortal men,

But tae a butterfly sae fine, sae rare,

They're nae but bleak an' cauld despair.  

Ah, tae see yer purple glory shine

Aboot the Rowan or Scots Pine!

Yet Scotland's skies are dour and grey,

Chasin' monarchs like yersel' away.

Sae here we bide, wi' midges rife,

And mourn the Emperor's absent life. 

For though oor land is wild an' free,

It's no a realm for likes o' thee!

I'll spare you the other 34 verses...

The good news is that the first Marsh Fritillary larval web appeared in the Saturated Wastes of Gloucestershire yesterday, bang on time -