The Haggis of Private McPhee... For Burns Day of course.

The Haggis of Private McPhee


"Hae ye heard whit ma auld mither's postit tae me?
It fair maks me hamesick," says Private McPhee.
"And whit did she send ye?" says Private McPhun,
As he cockit his rifle and bleezed at a Hun.
"A haggis! A HAGGIS!" says Private McPhee;
"The brawest big haggis I ever did see.
And think! it's the morn when fond memory turns
Tae haggis and whuskey -- the Birthday o' Burns.
We maun find a dram; then we'll ca' in the rest
O' the lads, and we'll hae a Burns' Nicht wi' the best."

"Be ready at sundoon," snapped Sergeant McCole;
"I want you two men for the List'nin' Patrol."
Then Private McPhee looked at Private McPhun:
"I'm thinkin', ma lad, we're confoundedly done."
Then Private McPhun looked at Private McPhee:
"I'm thinkin' auld chap, it's a' aff wi' oor spree."
But up spoke their crony, wee Wullie McNair:
"Jist lea' yer braw haggis for me tae prepare;
And as for the dram, if I search the camp roun',
We maun hae a drappie tae jist haud it doon.
Sae rin, lads, and think, though the nicht it be black,
O' the haggis that's waitin' ye when ye get back."

My! but it wis waesome on Naebuddy's Land,
And the deid they were rottin' on every hand.
And the rockets like corpse candles hauntit the sky,
And the winds o' destruction went shudderin' by.
There wis skelpin' o' bullets and skirlin' o' shells,
And breengin' o' bombs and a thoosand death-knells;
But cooryin' doon in a Jack Johnson hole
Little fashed the twa men o' the List'nin' Patrol.
For sweeter than honey and bricht as a gem
Wis the thocht o' the haggis that waitit for them.

Yet alas! in oor moments o' sunniest cheer
Calamity's aften maist cruelly near.
And while the twa talked o' their puddin' divine
The Boches below them were howkin' a mine.
And while the twa cracked o' the feast they would hae,
The fuse it wis burnin' and burnin' away.
Then sudden a roar like the thunner o' doom,
A hell-leap o' flame . . . then the wheesht o' the tomb.

"Haw, Jock! Are ye hurtit?" says Private McPhun.
"Ay, Geordie, they've got me; I'm fearin' I'm done.
It's ma leg; I'm jist thinkin' it's aff at the knee;
Ye'd best gang and leave me," says Private McPhee.
"Oh leave ye I wunna," says Private McPhun;
"And leave ye I canna, for though I micht run,
It's no faur I wud gang, it's no muckle I'd see:
I'm blindit, and that's whit's the maitter wi' me."
Then Private McPhee sadly shakit his heid:
"If we bide here for lang, we'll be bidin' for deid.
And yet, Geordie lad, I could gang weel content
If I'd tasted that haggis ma auld mither sent."
"That's droll," says McPhun; "ye've jist speakit ma mind.
Oh I ken it's a terrible thing tae be blind;
And yet it's no that that embitters ma lot --
It's missin' that braw muckle haggis ye've got."

For a while they were silent; then up once again
Spoke Private McPhee, though he whussilt wi' pain:
"And why should we miss it? Between you and me
We've legs for tae run, and we've eyes for tae see.
You lend me your shanks and I'll lend you ma sicht,
And we'll baith hae a kyte-fu' o' haggis the nicht."

Oh the sky it wis dourlike and dreepin' a wee,
When Private McPhun gruppit Private McPhee.
Oh the glaur it wis fylin' and crieshin' the grun',
When Private McPhee guidit Private McPhun.
"Keep clear o' them corpses -- they're maybe no deid!
Haud on! There's a big muckle crater aheid.
Look oot! There's a sap; we'll be haein' a coup.
A staur-shell! For Godsake! Doun, lad, on yer daup.
Bear aff tae yer richt. . . . Aw yer jist daein' fine:
Before the nicht's feenished on haggis we'll dine."

There wis death and destruction on every hand;
There wis havoc and horror on Naebuddy's Land.
And the shells bickered doun wi' a crump and a glare,
And the hameless wee bullets were dingin' the air.
Yet on they went staggerin', cooryin' doun
When the stutter and cluck o' a Maxim crept roun'.
And the legs o' McPhun they were sturdy and stoot,
And McPhee on his back kept a bonnie look-oot.
"On, on, ma brave lad! We're no faur frae the goal;
I can hear the braw sweerin' o' Sergeant McCole."

But strength has its leemit, and Private McPhun,
Wi' a sab and a curse fell his length on the grun'.
Then Private McPhee shoutit doon in his ear:
"Jist think o' the haggis! I smell it from here.
It's gushin' wi' juice, it's embaumin' the air;
It's steamin' for us, and we're -- jist -- aboot -- there."

Then Private McPhun answers: "Dommit, auld chap!
For the sake o' that haggis I'll gang till I drap."
And he gets on his feet wi' a heave and a strain,
And onward he staggers in passion and pain.
And the flare and the glare and the fury increase,
Till you'd think they'd jist taken a' hell on a lease.
And on they go reelin' in peetifu' plight,
And someone is shoutin' away on their right;
And someone is runnin', and noo they can hear
A sound like a prayer and a sound like a cheer;
And swift through the crash and the flash and the din,
The lads o' the Hielands are bringin' them in.

"They're baith sairly woundit, but is it no droll
Hoo they rave aboot haggis?" says Sergeant McCole.
When hirplin alang comes wee Wullie McNair,
And they a' wonnert why he wis greetin' sae sair.
And he says: "I'd jist liftit it oot o' the pot,
And there it lay steamin' and savoury hot,
When sudden I dooked at the fleech o' a shell,
And it -- dropped on the haggis and dinged it tae hell."

And oh but the lads were fair taken aback;
Then sudden the order wis passed tae attack,
And up from the trenches like lions they leapt,
And on through the nicht like a torrent they swept.
On, on, wi' their bayonets thirstin' before!
On, on tae the foe wi' a rush and a roar!
And wild to the welkin their battle-cry rang,
And doon on the Boches like tigers they sprang:
And there wisna a man but had death in his ee,
For he thocht o' the haggis o' Private McPhee.

Robert Service

Happy Burns Day to all

A Man’s a Man for a’ that

IS there for honest Poverty
That hings his head, an’ a’ that;
The coward slave-we pass him by,
We dare be poor for a’ that!
For a’ that, an’ a’ that.
Our toils obscure an’ a’ that,
The rank is but the guinea’s stamp,
The Man’s the gowd for a’ that.

What though on hamely fare we dine,
Wear hoddin grey, an’ a that;
Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine;
A Man’s a Man for a’ that:
For a’ that, and a’ that,
Their tinsel show, an’ a’ that;
The honest man, tho’ e’er sae poor,
Is king o’ men for a’ that.

Ye see yon birkie, ca’d a lord,
Wha struts, an’ stares, an’ a’ that;
Tho’ hundreds worship at his word,
He’s but a coof for a’ that:
For a’ that, an’ a’ that,
His ribband, star, an’ a’ that:
The man o’ independent mind
He looks an’ laughs at a’ that.

A prince can mak a belted knight,
A marquis, duke, an’ a’ that;
But an honest man’s abon his might,
Gude faith, he maunna fa’ that!
For a’ that, an’ a’ that,
Their dignities an’ a’ that;
The pith o’ sense, an’ pride o’ worth,
Are higher rank than a’ that.

Then let us pray that come it may,
(As come it will for a’ that,)
That Sense and Worth, o’er a’ the earth,
Shall bear the gree, an’ a’ that.
For a’ that, an’ a’ that,
It’s coming yet for a’ that,
That Man to Man, the world o’er,
Shall brothers be for a’ that.

Merry Christmas and a Happy Hogmanay! Don"t forget your Prayers now.

Twas the Night before Christmas


Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house
Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse.
The stockings were hung by the chimney with care,
In hopes that St Nicholas soon would be there.

The children were nestled all snug in their beds,
While visions of sugar-plums danced in their heads.
And mamma in her ‘kerchief, and I in my cap,
Had just settled our brains for a long winter’s nap.

When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from the bed to see what was the matter.
Away to the window I flew like a flash,
Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash.

The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow
Gave the lustre of mid-day to objects below.
When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,
But a miniature sleigh, and eight tinny reindeer.

With a little old driver, so lively and quick,
I knew in a moment it must be St Nick.
More rapid than eagles his coursers they came,
And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name!

"Now Dasher! now, Dancer! now, Prancer and Vixen!
On, Comet! On, Cupid! on, on Donner and Blitzen!
To the top of the porch! to the top of the wall!
Now dash away! Dash away! Dash away all!"

As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,
When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky.
So up to the house-top the coursers they flew,
With the sleigh full of Toys, and St Nicholas too.

And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the roof
The prancing and pawing of each little hoof.
As I drew in my head, and was turning around,
Down the chimney St Nicholas came with a bound.

He was dressed all in fur, from his head to his foot,
And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot.
A bundle of Toys he had flung on his back,
And he looked like a peddler, just opening his pack.

His eyes-how they twinkled! his dimples how merry!
His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry!
His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow,
And the beard of his chin was as white as the snow.

The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth,
And the smoke it encircled his head like a wreath.
He had a broad face and a little round belly,
That shook when he laughed, like a bowlful of jelly!

He was chubby and plump, a right jolly old elf,
And I laughed when I saw him, in spite of myself!
A wink of his eye and a twist of his head,
Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread.

He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,
And filled all the stockings, then turned with a jerk.
And laying his finger aside of his nose,
And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose!

He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle,
And away they all flew like the down of a thistle.javascript:void(0)
But I heard him exclaim, ‘ere he drove out of sight,
"Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good-night!"

Clement Clarke Moore (1779 - 1863)

Christmas Bells

I heard the bells on Christmas Day
Their old, familiar carols play,
And wild and sweet
The words repeat
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

And thought how, as the day had come,
The belfries of all Christendom
Had rolled along
The unbroken song
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

Till, ringing, singing on its way
The world revolved from night to day,
A voice, a chime,
A chant sublime
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

Then from each black, accursed mouth
The cannon thundered in the South,
And with the sound
The Carols drowned
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

And in despair I bowed my head;
‘There is no peace on earth,’ I said;
‘For hate is strong,
And mocks the song
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!’

Then pealed the bells more loud and deep:
‘God is not dead; nor doth he sleep!
The Wrong shall fail,
The Right prevail,
With peace on earth, good-will to men!’
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Niamh Chinn Oir - Queen of TÍR NA nÓG

Across the dewy morning hills of Eireann
Rode Niamh Chinn Oir on a snow-white steed
To Oisin fairy poet of the Fianna
For she fain would this mortal wed

Come with me to the fairy land of Tir Na Nog
For I have long loved you said she
And Oisin taken with her beauty
He bade farewell to his company

They rode through stormy regions far across the sea
To a land where time had ne'er its harvest reaped
And for an age there Oisin lived contented
Till longing for his comrades made him weep

I cannot help but read these sad dreams in your eyes
So you may return to your country
And take my blessing with this one command
Do not dismount from you fairy steed

But when at last he reached that misty island
So strange a sight did meet his puzzled frown
For Oisin rode as a giant among the people
And nowhere were the Fianna to be found

He learned from a gathering of workers
Together straining with a heavy load
That centuries before his friends had perished
Which painful tidings filled him with despair

As payment for the news that we have told you
Pray help us with this heavy stone to move
For if your strength should match your mighty stature
Scarce more than a touch enough should prove

But the saddle tore as Oisin leaned to help them
And sorely he upon the ground was thrown
He quickly turned into an aged man
And ne'er again set eyes on Tir Na Nog.

Leo O'Kelly

TÍR NA NÓG

Fadó fadó Éirinn, roimh theacht don nua-aois,
Bhí conaí ann ar an bhFiann,
Fionn 's a mhac Oisín
Is iomaí eachtra a bhain leo siúd,
Is iomaí casadh croí,
Ach ní dhéanfar dearmad ar an lá
A bhuail Oisín le Niamh.

Niamh Chinn Ór, as Tír na nÓg,
B'í an bhean ab áille gné a chas ar Oisín Óg
Mheall í é le breathacht,
Mheall sí é le póg,
Mheall sí é gan aon agó
Go Tír na nÓg
Bhí Oisín, lá brea gréine,
Ag siúl le ciumhais na habhann
' Measc blathanna buí, is luachra,
Taibhsíodh dó an tsamhail,
Spéirbhean ghléigeal álainn
A d'fhag croí an laoich sin fann,
Thug cuireadh dó go ír na nÓg
Go síoraí cónaí ann.

Tír álainn, tír na hóige,
Tír dhiamhair aislingí
Trí chéad bliain chaith Oisín ann
I ngrá mór le Niamh
Ach fonn nár fhág é choíche,
Is nach bhféadfadh sé a chloí,
Dul thar n-ais go hÉirinn,
Go bhfeichfeadh sé í arís.

"Ná fág an áit seo," arsa Niamh
"Ná himigh uaim, a chroí"
"Ma fhágann tusa Tír na nÓg,
Nó fhillfidh tú arís."
Ach d'fhill Oisín ar Éirinn,
Mar bhí fiabhras ina chroí
Is fuair sé bás ós comhair an Naoimh
B'shin deireadh lena thriall.
Tír na nÓg, ó Tír na nÓg,
Tír uasal na draíochta a bhí ann fadó,
Féach thiar ansin í
Thiar ar fhíor na spéire
San áit go mba mhaith liom bheith,
Sin Tír na nÓg,

Colm Mac Séalaigh

Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening

Whose woods these are I think I know,
His house is in the village though.
He will not see me stopping here,
To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer,
To stop without a farmhouse near,
Between the woods and frozen lake,
The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake,
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep,
Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.

-- Robert Frost

The Road Not Taken

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim
Because it was grassy and wanted wear,
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I marked the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way
I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I,
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.

Robert Frost

The Arrival of Eamonn Maynooth


Now Eamonn Maynooth was the eighth of twelve sons born to a large family of diligent and occasionally successful farmers who worked the high wilds of the Macgillycuddy’s Reeks for more generations then you have fingers.

(It was said there-abouts that they were descended from escaped dancing bears who had been cruelly dragged across Europe hundreds and hundreds of years before.)

When the prospect of moving rocks from field to field for his entire life sparked no interest in him, he took his cousin’s wise advice and one fine April morning he left his home to walk the many twisting paths and lanes to the grand city of Dublin.

During the several weeks of his meandering he encountered several score of the local representatives of the Garda—who mistook him for one of the “Traveling People” due to his dark countenance and happy disposition. These encounters seemed always to end in the waiting room of local Gardai Post, sipping tea and munching on sugar sprinkled biscuits. When he left the following morning he was always loaded down with a half loaf of soda bread, new directions to Dublin, and invariably a long letter of introduction to someone’s “Auntie Kate” who lived ‘Jist a bit off Grafton Street’ - and who they were sure had room for a lodger.

After weeks of ambling - with much time to contemplate life, liberty and the pursuit of a career - he finally reached the city. He had made up his mind, and immediately, after a through groom at a public convenience, set out for Dublin Castle and applied to the Gardai for a job. Since he had with him several score of letters of introduction from most of the force from Ballymakeery to Ballyragget, Ballyroan to Ballymore, he was a shoo-in and started training the following Tuesday.

After several weeks of lectures and the fitting of a rather becoming blue uniform he was assigned to the one-man station in Maynooth. He often wondered if his placement was due to some random transcription error, or if somehow it eased the life of the clerical staff to have a Maynooth from Maynooth on the books.

Now aside from regular charges issued to the local Jesuit population for “Reckless Endangerment” due to their un-ending propensity for late night bicycle races from their University and back - life in the town was ordered and diligent with Eamonn on duty.

On the morning of his twenty-third birthday a large cardboard boxed present arrived postmarked Cork. On opening the finely scripted card he discovered that the bishop of the much maligned city had sent him a 18 speed Peugeot racer to even up the odds. Eamonn was astonished.

(The Bishop had long heard of these uneven evening contests and decided to intervene on the side of the right. He was after all a Benedictine.)

Many years later - when he was approaching his fortieth year - and his twenty-fourth year as a Garda, he took the long bus ride to Cork City for a meeting with the self same Bishop. Eamonn was up for retirement the following year, and as he did not want to share the town with his replacement he was in sore need of advice.

He explained the situation at some length as the two walked along the beach down to the local establishment where the Bishop’s annual supply of matured Blackbush was kept in semi-safety.

Several hours later the Bishop made a suggestion, “Now you with your fine pension and good health should be off broadening your horizons. Twenty odd years of tossing Jesuits into the clink -enjoyable though it most certainly must be - must have soured your view of life.... Now my little brother as emigrated to the far sub-Arctic wilds in brightest Canada.... and in spite of certain culture deprivations - not a smidgen of real Guinness on tap for thousands of miles from Ottawa. Ottawa that’s where he lives, with lots of friends and two People - most peculiar though, most peculiar.”

Eamonn put down his cup of “improved” tea and asked in his most professional manner, “The Peoples are peculiar?”

“On no.... Well not any more peculiar than his other companions. For example; there is this Colonel Dugal Blackthorn-badger, who seems to have some semi-official status in the household... and him not even a Christian.... a Presbyterian of some sorts.... Well it could be worse I guess. The lady of the house is from Dublin, and her own aunt is Mother-Superior Dominique - you may have heard of her. Terror of the Indian Ocean I’ve heard tell.... So there is some hope. Now as I have heard these Peoples have a most liberal entrance policy.... No exams to take, no secret hand shakes, or scads of diamonds sown into your seams. Just appear at the front door and say the you’ve been sent over the water by the family of the TeddyBear-with-green feet, and a place will be found for you. It’s a very nice place I myself have seen it - I was over for Miss Zita’s nuptials several years ago, shared the plane ride with her parents. Now Mister Craig he is some sort of Scotsman - several generations removed. Though it takes more then several generations to remove a Scotsman - It would be quicker to raise the rent - Well there is my advice; take it as you will.” He reached for his Mitre.

Eamonn said goodbye and caught the last bus to his home in the far county Kildare. During the long ride home he dreamt of processions of brightly painted racing canoes braving cold raging torrents, as a chorus of the wolf’s ancient songs eased their way through his thoughts as they bumped along the back roads and lanes to Maynooth. Canada might not be too bad an idea occurred to his semi-conscious.

Exactly a year and sixty-two days later he arrived at Ottawa International Airport - with his earthbound belongings packed into a small wooden crate with wheels. With his treasured Peugeot under his arm and pulling the heavy crate, he started the long walk into town. He was wearing his tweed trousers, his best brocade waistcoat and the black Homburg he saved for court and funerals. (He had not forgotten to pack the white spats he had bought many years before while on vacation in Liverpool, and was saving for his wedding.)

As the sun dropped into the west he stopped at the corner, beside the long inlet and looked at the house. It was the second of a row of four. Cream yellow pillars held it up for evening’s rosy inspection. He slowly walked down the side lane. He feet were very sore. Canada was much bigger than he expected. He locked his bicycle to the bottom of the ramp and knocked on the back door.

A few moments later it was pulled open by a very stocky brown bear. It had no neck at all, nor a smidgen of a smile. Perched on his head shading its eyes was a light gray Fedora, the leather bound hilt of a double-handed long sword peeked over his shoulder.

Eamonn had not a doubt - it was a Minder. He had thought they were the stuff of legends - like FinMcCaul. Possible but not likely.

“Who are you, what’cer doing here and what’cer want? Does Colonel know you? Are you on d’run? What’s in yon box?”

Eamonn stood up very stiff and said..., “Now see here young man, the name is Eamonn Maynooth.... I’ve been sent by the Bishop of Cork. I hear his little brother lives here - or so I have been told. Could you check for me?”

“No need. ‘Course he lives here.... Upstairs in far bedroom. Wit’ his companions in Imperious T-Bear Zouaves. C’on-in. Rest your feets. I’ll see if he’s in. My name’s Exeter. I’m duty Minder today so I’ll see who I can scare up to bring your baggage in. Nice bike though. Should put it in basement wit’ Miss Zita’s I bet.”

One of the off-duty Watchers got him a cup of tea and an egg salad sandwich. (Watchers were noted far and away for their un-imaginative taste in food.) He sat down and removed his shoes and replaced his socks. The sandwich was very thick he thought to himself. It was his last thought until much later that night. He sort of awoke when he heard a door slam. He rolled over as voices entered the room.

“Yes just off the plane. Walked all the way here from the aeroport carrying all his treasures in a trunk. Seems my brother suggested he visit us here. He brought a very polite letter of introduction. I read it; says he has retired from the Garda and needs a new life, or so says Brian’s letter. He thought that since everything here is most bran’new it would be just the place to start. Hope you and Zita don’mind. I know it is getting a bit crowded what with the childreen all-a-grow’en. I hope it hasn’t imposed.”

A new voice replied, “No it’s fine. Nothing to worry about. Anyway that other new guest - the one who arrived last month I think. The friend of Mr. Ajax. Old-Bill-the-Bear I think his name is. Kind of gangly and beige. Wasn’t he a policeman?”

“Why yes. Yes he was. And himself retired too. From one of the Northern Shires in England - of all places I was told. Now here’s a happy co-incidence. Perhaps they can offer their services to Staff Sergeant Blake of your acquaintance. I am sure he could always use experienced help to maintain the peace. Why don’t you call him. Perhaps tonight....”

“Well first of all, it is three in the morning, and second these gentlemen are now retired.... so let’s wait a month or six before any suggestions of this type.... We can introduce your Mister Maynooth to Miss Zita tomorrow.”

Mr. Maynooth rolled over and thought to himself....”A home again.”

Some House Keeping

Mr. Tuktoyuktuk Bear's Commission

“Theodora the First - by the Grace of all the Gods of the Serene Kingdom of the Timeless Snows and the Arctic fastness, and of Her Other Realms and Territories, Queen, Head of The TeddyBear-Peoples Concordant, Defender of the Faiths.

To Our Trusty and well beloved Tuktoyuktuk Ursus Albus - Greetings!

We are Reposing especial Trust and Confidence in Your Loyalty, Courage and Good Conduct, and do by these Presents Constitute and Appoint you to be an Officer in Our Peoples-Guardian Forces, from the First Day of May.

We hereby appoint you Guardian and Companion of Craig Taylor and Zita Taylor (nee Kavanagh) for as long as they shall live, and of such members of their Families, Friends, Companions and diverse Visitors as they shall be pleased to make known to You, at all Times and in all Places, to provide such Solace, Sympathy, Companionship, Advice, Good Cheer and succour as they shall need, to the best of your training as an Officer in Our Forces.

We are Mindful of the burden which We have placed upon You, and bid you be mindful that We have great forces at Our command which may be summoned in time of Need. No TeddyBear who gives unstintingly of themselves in the fulfillment of Our Commission need hesitate to issue such Summons.

Given Under Our Hand,
At Our Court at High Shining
On The 26th Day of April,
in The Twenty-Third Year of Our Reign.
BY HER MAJESTY’S COMMAND

Colonel-General Balthazar Bruin
KCSt/MG, MgB, Croix De Guerre,
The Red Sash and Bar.”