To Our Laddies

Ishbel Moore (alias Lilly Lovescarred) - 2001


Ishbel replaced the traditional response to the "Toast to the Ladies" with her very original
"Toast to the Laddies" at the 2001 Burns Evening of the Manitoba Chapter of Clan Ross Canada.
As her fictitious persona, Lilly Lovescarred, she emulated the humour of Robert Burns as she
addressed the object of her poem, Jock McStud, without mentioning his name. At the end of her
poem, the ladies were requested to lift their glasses and repeat the last line in a toast.

Speaking on behalf of Lilly Lovescarred, Ishbel Moore gave me permission on January 25, 2016,
to include the toast in our collection of events and tributes to Scotland's Robert Burns.

May good befall yer jolly faces
Great chieftains of the Scottish races
Above them all you take yer places
Yer inside goodness, like no other
Well are ye worthy of yer mother
Oh, husband, father son or brother.

In groaning couches ye there are still
With hurdies spreading, and snoring shrill
Our loving hearts are sure to fill
After nights of deep imbibing, we watch
While through your pores the beer or scotch
Distills amber beads and stains the swatch.

What woman, unrefined and dour
Would nag and cut you every hour
Spewing your gushing entrails sour
Adds like any good wife might
Sarcasm flavoured with heavy spite
"O aye, great man, what a glorious sight."

Then for remotes you stretch and strive
On television sports you grow and thrive
Instead of walking, ye'd rather drive
And as for talking, yer tongues go numb
Again, ye'd rather work yer thumb
Of leisure time, the awful sum.

But is there any woman here
Who does not hold their man so dear
Or helps advance his proud career
For her no gigolo or model
A wimp, she'd have to tend and coddle
Awa' she'd send them all to toddle.

Thro river floods or fields to dash
The tatties or the neeps to mash
A good Scots man, he dinna fash
The trembling earth resounds his tread
Pipe-blawing, rustic, haggis fed
With nose and cheeks a-blazing red.

His eyes with sparkling humour bright
Don't look too bloodshot in dim light
For her, 'tis but a perfect sight
When highland dress he doth adorn
She smiles, and pities those who scorn
The tartan, Sghian Dhu and sporran

A man's a man, she knows for sure
Her beating heart, he can but cure
Braw swagger is a cunning lure
Even though his drink he's spilt
His voice seduces with its lilt
Plus nothing's worn aneath his kilt.

Ye pow'rs what mak womankind yer pleasure
There is but one true man she'll treasure
Up to her standards a Scot will measure
Brings not a rose, but guid old thistle
All other races might well bristle
But if ye wish our greatfu whistle,
Gie us our laddies

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