The Story of The Black Grouse

Stanza 2

  My gloves I got from the red gloves rows

  It is a lively tartan

  When I put them on with my best drinking coat

  They say, ‘My! Isn’t Burns a smarten, (Aye!)

  I like having my poetic hands in Wenter

  Pray warmed by my lettel canny mettens

  Not only do they keep my fengers warm

  But I do nay get scratched when I’m stroking kettens

  Aye, my gloves with fengers fine and fair

  Were made on Aran owwer theyre

  In Ayrshire we daent mackem

  But Arran es ok, twas only fair, and packem

  O gloves! O gloves! Fair wool of the isles

  Nay snow or frost gives displeasure

  Think I’ll gae out for a drenk times several

  Twud be a glovely leisure

  Then write a poem I will for the wife tae sort

  Cos my words get jumbled when I’m out of restful harbour port

  I ask the heaven, what’s more important? Poetry?

  Or drinks a plenty, ten tae or three?

  Och aye! Och aye! O toodle pimple!

  Twas high, on night with the auld glove Dalrymple

  Cos weggie treneen I dae and deen

  Life with mittens is always semply seen