Haggis Hunt


Is it the mystique of haggis or a mistaken haggis?

Perhaps it’s a Highland beast or a Lowland feast.

When haggis is the game, there be no shame

If one is eluded by this Scottish illusion.

It roams, it bleats, it has four feet

That made the grooves ‘long side the brae.

And it behooves me to say ovine is the prey of the day

Who knew, that woolly bundle be slew

For its coat and a stew

Made with oats grown down yonder a few paces

Mixed up, packed in gut and tied with laces

Baked and plated for the grace of many red faces

Flush from whisky, somewhat frisky.

The climax is when, with the flash of a dirk

It’s gutted again. 

Some may say a hefty price to pay.

Say I at least ‘twas a sheep feast.  



© David Girard 20/01/16
* A shout out to Robbie the Baird and my fond memories of Scotland.

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