Rabbie, Rabbie, Burning Bright Poem by WN Herbert

Atween November's end and noo
there's really nithin else tae do
but climb inside a brindlet coo
and dream o Spring,
fur Winter's decked hur breist and broo
wi icy bling.

It feels like, oan St Andrae's nicht,
thi sun went oot and gote sae ticht
he endit up in a braw fire fecht
wi some wee comet -
noo he's layin low wi his punched-oot licht
aa rimmed wi vomit.

We too hae strachilt lik The Bruce
and hacked up turkey, duck and goose;
and let aa resolution loose
oan Hogmanay,
but waddle noo frae wark tae hoose
lyk dogs they spayed.

Each year fails tae begin thi same:
fae dregs o Daft Deys debt comes hame
and we gaither in depression's wame
aa duty-crossed -
but Burns's birthday is a flame
set tae Defrost.

Ye dinna need tae be Confucius
tae ken, if Dullness wad confuse us,
ye caa ‘Respite! Let's aa get stocious -
And dinna nag us.
Grant us that globe of spice, thi luscious
Delight caaed "haggis"!'

That truffle o the North must be
dug frae the depths o January,
but cannae pass oor lips, nor we
cross Limbo's border -
unless that passport, Poetry,
be quite in order.

Sae thi daurkest deys o thi haill damn year
can dawn in yawns baith dreich an drear -
sae thi Taxman's axe is at wir ear
fur his Returns?
We Scots sall neither dreid nor fear
but read wir Burns.