Burns Night poetry comp – win Robert Burns single malt!

Oh bonny liquid golden broon In ma gless ‘n’ swirlin roon Greet yer tears a doon it’s side Enrich ma nostrils flaring wide Come meet ma tastebuds, fill ma moo Yer michty flavours, pure and true Ye linger wi me lang in time Oh treasured dram, yer affa fine

O ye malt of age, come drink with me and show your rage Trapped in Eagles Wood, your character grown Burn your finish and be welcome home

Whisky, whisky, I love thee. Another one! just a wee… The angels tears running down the glass, just like mine, a lonely lass. But I drink to joy I drink to life, I raise my glass I’m no longer his wife!

Nature In A Glass Does a river know what joy it brings before it’s in a glass? The malted barley know it’s flavours’ value in the cask? If ears of corn, once bourbon made, could hear us sing their praise. Or spicy rye split whiskey conversations, when they’re raised. A mighty oak is still robust when barrel it has made. The battle raging long between the angels and the staves. A bottle kind of ends the nature/whiskey love affair. But don’t forget it’s natures’ cork that’s used to keep it there! So when the question “how is whiskey healthy?” then gets asked. I proudly raise a dram and say “it’s nature in a glass!”

‘Twas in the month of January, in the year twenty nineteen, In the sixty-seventh year of the reign of our dear Queen, As politicians met in tumult and disarray That Master of Malt gave a bottle of the Robert Burns away. The readers of the blog sat in mighty expectation, Chewing at their pencils as they prayed for inspiration. For days some of them hardly left their houses, But sat and typed in lines by a-clicking on their mouses. Some tried to educate in rhyme, and some tried to amuse. Most sat in great relief, taking a break from Brexit news, The IMF and influencers, football’s cheats and divers, Donald Trump, his shutdown and the woes of royal drivers. At last! – came inspiration from immortal Calliope. The poets found their contributions good, and none too ropey. Their haggis and their whisky they all turned too and made merry, Ignoring most especially the dread Dryanuary.

Real men drink whisky, that’s what they say, There are so many different varieties, just give me a day! Master of malt, I’m ordering in the drams, When they get delivered, I’m posting on Instagram. Netflix and chill, sneaking in a whisky, Wife’s up in bed, this will be risky. Whether you spell it whisky or whiskey, She won’t be complaining when I’m feeling frisky. Customer services, I’m always ringing your phone, But trust me, this will never be to moan. My cupboards are full of your finest booze, I’ll be drinking them tonight, followed by a snooze. When Friday is upon us, we’ve got celebrating to do, So Happy birthday Rob, here’s a toast to you. I hope you enjoyed my poem, for now it’s goodbye, Time to sit back, relax and enjoy a large rye.

Real men drink whiskey, that’s what they say, There are so many different varieties, just give me a day! Master of malt, I’m ordering in the drams, When they get delivered, I’m posting on Instagram. Netflix and chill, sneaking in a whisky, Wife’s up in bed, this will be risky. Customer services, I’m always ringing your phone, But trust me, this will never be to moan. My cupboards are full of your finest booze, I’ll be drinking them tonight, followed by a snooze. When Friday is upon us, we’ve got celebrating to do, So Happy birthday Rob, here’s a toast to you. I hope you enjoyed my poem, for now it’s goodbye, Time to sit back, relax and enjoy a large rye.

Whisky: a Haiku Beside the fire- Amber liquid fills the glass Winter retreat

New Year’s Spirit On New Year’s Eve, our Tom is home, Drinking by himself alone. His laptop brings a virtual mate, His phone bleeps texts from his wife Kate. She’s only in the other room, But why would they want to commune? In the lounge their grown-up kids Are playing games and watching vids. Tom, dear Tom, is gently supping Value whisky ere its upping In price per unit to 50p – Next year he might be drinking tea! Kate, a good wife, has her fears That drinking lots will end in tears. “You’ll rot your liver,” she says to Tom. “The kids need dad as well as mom.” “Twenty-one units max per week, You must have had more, as you reek Of whisky fumes and darkest stout, You’ll have to leave some of it out!” Kate thinks booze puts you behind bars And makes you hanker for deep fried Mars. The arguments drive Tom to drink, So he sits alone; time to think. Tonight, though, Kate is having a few, Cider and black and Special Brew, After quite a few cans are sunk, She’s getting close to being drunk. Tom’s told Kate when she’s been whingeing That there’s nothing worse than her binging. As midnight nears, the countdown’s on, Another year has swiftly gone. The boings ring out; there’s a loud cheer, Fireworks bang; Happy New Year! Texts are written to the phone list, But they won’t send, there’s no service. The grown-up kids are in the street Seeing who else this night they’ll meet. Tom’s phone bleeps; a text’s come through. Kate: “I’m going to bed, are you?” Tom drinks up, he has a plan. He swiftly finishes his dram. But on the way to bed he stalls, Sees the computer from the hall. The grown-up kids have paused the game. It doesn’t really look that tame. Three men are dead, lying in blood, Through whisky eyes, it’s looking good. He grabs the mouse and presses play, Shoot ‘em dead in every way, Coffins abound, like open presses, That show the dead in their last dresses; Five machetes, with blood red-rusted; Five machine guns, with murder crusted; Three lawyers’ tongues, turned inside out, With lies seamed like a beggar’s clout; Three priests’ hearts, rotten, black as muck, Lie stinking, vile in every nook. Tom slips on the 3D glasses, The scene looks real as it passes, It’s pure evil, it should be banned, Promoting killing in Scotland. A shotgun clunks against his head, The trigger’s pulled; Tom is dead. He pants, he screams, he puffs, he squeals, Is this fiction or is it real? In his hour of need, where’s Kate? She’s fast asleep – it is quite late. The moral here is not to play On grown-up kids’ computer game, Or at least not be so full of spirit You can’t work out how to kill it.

Life’s elixir My trip to the Vreck started well, Gannets dived and seals bobbed, Then we started to feel the swell, And into the sea I was lobbed. Sucked under waves by the eddy, On the horizon lay Scarba, To drown there, I wasn’t ready, I searched in vain for a harbour. A dolphin swam by my side Wondering what I was doing. I shouted ‘Help!’ and flailed arms wide; The cauldron carried on stewing. It clung tight with its icy touch And roared ‘You will die here.’ I kicked hard and escaped its clutch, On land I saw a deer. I swam and swam across the Sound, Those antlers in my sight. I prayed and prayed I would be found Before day turned to night. I got away from the furor, The waves had been so frisky, I washed up on the shores of Jura Next to a bottle of whisky. Freezing cold, I flipped its cap, I was on a mission, To sup its sweet and amber sap, Its name was Superstition. I’ve never been that religious But I said a little prayer, I think I am now superstitious, A reason I was there.

A Cup o Kindness As long as I can remember it toasted the new year. Not just a glass of alcohol like vodka, gin or beer. We’re talking about excellence served in a liquid form. That warms the hearts of anyone who need shelter from the storm. It’s your actual national tipple, not second third or fourth. And no one could blame us if we chose to keep it in the North. I suppose you could just say it was our present the world. No matter your race colour or creed. or whatever flags unfurled. The warmth & comfort of flavour, the aroma fills yer nose. A dram reminds a Scot of home no matter where he roams. Each year Burns Night is celebrated all over the land. You’ll see a Scot address a haggis with a good malt in his hand. By Mr Mo

I’d love tae win this bonnie malt, this Sassenach’s a fan, I cannae think of better tae offer to mae clan. We’d savour every single drop, none left for timorous beastie, and enjoy this treat from Arran with our Burns night family feastie. We’ll eat Haggis, Neeps and Tatties, (a braw meal withoot a fault) and raise a glass to Rabbie Burns and aye, of course Master of Malt.

Roses are Red Violets are Blue Poetry is hard Whisky.

Faither’s dram Amidst the clutter o supper I hold a gless I tak a sip,burn my throat and warm my chest I leave the meat, the bunno’ & the cheese As my tongue catches peat on a sea breeze The gless is raised again tae excited lips As flavours dance a new wi each kiss Is that chocolate or citrus, honey or oak? Or caramel, cinnamon or th fires smoke As I sit, wi good friends & dragons breath Contemplating this gless o peated earth The storm in a gless or springs ebb tide Or the barrel’s scent where the whisky bides The gless remembered, a bottle shared Wi the auld man , resting easy in his chair Afore the cancer took, his final stand It’s no jist a whisky, it was faither’s dram

When in Scotland , I and my husband ,Billy , Went to visit a whisky distillery. With lots of others we were guided through Learning about whiskies ,old and new. Afterwards we all sat down to think About which whisky we should drink. Bill decided and I did the same On which whisky sample we should claim. Now ,of whisky I’m not really a fan So I passed it over to my man. He was happy to have an extra sample As the portions were not really ample. Next day ,to another venue we walked in To find that as well as whisky there was gin. Now I know it may sound ironic But I really enjoy a gin and tonic. And so my final choice was made I ordered a gin and lemonade Bill said that he was pleased for me But I’m sure he would have liked an extra whisky. He said that if there was another place with gin He would make some excuse not to wander in And he would find another place where he knew He would have his sample and drink mine too .

M-any , many years ago.. A-yrshire’s baird was born.. S-cotlands finest, Rabbie Burns.. T-rusted words he did adorn.. E-ndless verses, poems supreme.. R-eal ‘glass’ did he show.. O-nly whisky got him through.. F-reeing his ‘spirit’ when his quill was slow… M-eanwhile, I love to take a wee dram.. A-nd, celebrate the ‘Master’s’ birthday.. L-ots of haggis, neeps and tatties.. T-ogether with my love.. Old Pulteney!!!!!!!!!

M-any , many years ago.. A-yrshire’s baird was born.. S-cotlands finest, Rabbie Burns.. T-rusted words he did adorn.. E-ndless verses, poems supreme.. R-eal ‘glass’ did he show.. O-nly whisky got him through.. F-reeing his ‘spirit’ when his quill was slow… M-eanwhile, I like to take a wee dram.. A-nd, celebrate the ‘Master’s’ birthday.. L-ots of haggis, neeps and tatties.. T-ogether with my love.. Old Pulteney!!!!!!!!!

Whisky for you, Whisky for me, Whisky for everyone, Whisky or a caramel bun, Whisky instead of tea! Whisky all the more for me. Slainte Mhath

A girl with a Malt – and a big pinch of salt – once told me a shaggy-dog story – It was a long tale. I started with ale… but finished with single-malt whisky. As she got to the end, a hush did descend, at the punch line, “Why the long face?” Such a terrible pun At a quarter to one In the night-time, was quite a disgrace. Never mind, I decided – though the pun I derided, both the girl – and my whisky  – were fine when, observing my choice, “like Burns, too?” said her voice, and – I fell in love – she was divine some will wail of the dangers of talking to strangers, even leaving your home’s “much too risky” – But I think that’s all (arts in Latin),  so here’ s raising a glass to R. Burns, & fine women & whisky

A bottle of whisky is what I carry Against snakebites and midges, but alas With a snake in my sporran And midges in my ear My eyes water the good stuff in the glass….

On days when it just hurts to be us When in the groin life tries to knee us A dram of whisky can utterly free us From seeing ourselves as others see us

Snug at home, from dreich and storming weather I lay down my tome, and seek a warming measure Eyeing happily my next pour Cue the rapping at my door Who on Earth? Fair strewth! God’s truth, this better be good Something of this arrival baffles What madman in this weather travels? Pulling the hellish portal ajar Akin to some almighty fridge I think, how fierce these elements are As a gust obliterates my fringe A sight I’ve found, and a sorry one that I think it’s my friend, or a drowned rat! How can this be? I stifle a laugh As torrents of water cascade from his cap Dear old friend, how nice to see ya! Come in please! And I’ll bequeath a Warming dram of uisge-beatha To sweep the woes from underneath ya What to have? I needn’t ask I see it, top shelf, single cask I save this for the connoisseurs And friends who’s chat can melt the hours Tell me pray, of all your tours And here’s to us and you and yours Join me now, raise up your glass Health to you Slàinte mhath!

The whisky burns right through my soul My love just like a red red rose And in the night when all is clear I take a drink I have no fear. For safe and warm the fire I drink Smooth and strong no more to think I’ll take a cup of kindness yet As Burns night here in full effect. So time to taste another dram Thank you kindly to my mam Drink up my dears the time it nears Happy Burns night all, ready? Cheers!!

Robert Burns Rolling around on the floor after drinking Whiskey I adore Overdone it again Whoops I will be in trouble again But off to bed I will go DOG bed that is you know Empty bottles on the floor Robert you’ve got a lot to answer for Trouble is my middle name But whiskey is my game Under the table I do sleep in the dog bed not big enough for my feet Room spinning round and round but I dare’nt make a sound Now one for the road I did have So now I’ve no whiskey left to sip because I had a blip ,I blame this on you master of malt you see it really wasn’t my fault

Japanese whisky A Burns night celebration Robbie would’nae mind

Whisky, oh dram, Swirl slowly, thy hand, Tipple back in sweet and smoke, Taste of honey, salty oak, Reach for more, Oh whisky, That was the last, oh damn.

Glenmorangie, Glenfiddich, or Glenlivet, It’s whisky, whatever name you giveit. It wipes away your trouble, So please make mine a double. To improve my life, and the way I live it.

An Ode to Whisky. The perfect way to end the day, I wouldn’t have it any other way. A finger or three, that feels me with glee. With water or ice, its always nice. That wee amber glass, is a touch of class. Single or blended, they’re all pretty splendid. Speyside, lowland, highland and islay, This was my ode to whiskay.

Uisge Beatha, the water of life I love to drink it and so does my wife

Oh how I love my whisky And I know that it loves me For I keep it safe And it keeps me warm Until I kill it suddenly

A sip for the good times A sip for the bad A sip with an old friend A sip with your dad The old bottle sits way up high on the shelf Maybe a gift that you bought for yourself You bring it down and wipe off the dust A good crystal glass is always a must It’s a really good whisky but you try not to boast With a raise of your hand, you offer a toast “May the good times be many, the bad times be few” “And may you always have someone to share a sip or two.”

Probably betterthan my effort.

Brexit is coming, Dad’s wallet’s getting thin, His weekly wage is going out as fast as it comes in, He’s stocking up on single malts they don’t sell in the pub, Because he reckons Macallan M’s more indispensable than grub.