WESTIE  BURNS NIGHT 2021

 Toast Tae The Laddies

Christine Menhennet

 

I thank you, Mr Calder, for your fine toast to the lassies; so fine it was, that it restored in me a mere moos’s tail hair of faith in the Westie male spirit – a matter that has been concerning me greatly of late as you will soon hear. I could not Adam and Eve it, when, only yesterday, our two esteemed Captains requested that I accept the challenge of replying to your to your toast – and a great honour it is too!

I begin by musing how the randy baird himself (Rabbie that is, not Mr Calder), would have coped with the frustrations of Lockdown; self isolation would have been an anathema to him, he would have been confused as to which of his lassies to have in his bubble, and I fear that sheep would not have been allowed! On the other hand, I believe that he would have fared very well on Tinder; I can see the sonsie selfie now – a glint in the eye, the linen shirt agape to reveal a youthful chest and his hobbies? Well, much akin to those of hill runnings’ best – stravaiging, song, beer and shagging! At flirtatious messaging he would have excelled

“O Mary at thy window be,

It is the tryst’d hour,

Those smiles and glances let me see

That make the miser’s treasures poor”

Let’s be honest – a thinly veiled request to get his leg over!

Yes, I think that Rabble’s virility and spirit would have survived, despite the hardships.

 

But what of Westie manhood, to which I am later supposed to propose the toast – how have our Westie men fared during the dark days of Lockdown?? Dear ladies, my soul doth weep – and so to verse I must retreat, for:

 

WILTED are those thrusting heroes of the hill

Who once triumphed o’er fearsome bog and roaring burns,

It’s as if they’ve lost their power, cast aside their will,

And it’s after bens, not bosoms they all seem to yearn.

 

Take Don Reid whom Facey has reduced to paltry puns,

He has long forsaken his days of yore, when firing on all guns.

Lean, mean and sleakit, Niall was a passionate snake,

But now he abides in Shettleston – regretting his sair mistake.

And roving Mr Hamer, to whom principle was mere foe,

He has escape-ed to the country and a cosy fireside glow.

Tom Elliot, kent for marathon stamina, now he too is spent,

I hear he sits at home obsessing, about candles, made with scent.

Two WELL wasted, fine physiques are those of JD and bold JQ,

Who stare blankly at photies of trig points, and of curries – they have now’t better tae do.

Manny, Sam, James and Gregor – lordy how they could fly,

Four studs, reduced to cowrin’,  and the occasional wee cry.

 

Marmalade cake and lamp-post sprints preoccupy our two Chrises,

But ladies – cake and lamp-posts were ne’er a substitute for kisses.

Alistair, Jamie and Andrew – what have they become?

Geaky,  moos-ruled shadows, randiness on the run.

And finally, to oor Captain, erect and handsome Ally,

I ha’ nae clue how he spends his time – he’s likely taken up ballet!

 

Ach, but I am being unfair, cos a man’s a man fae all that.

 

It’s been a very sair and trying time,

And if fond memory serves me well – Westie men are truly fine.

And when they line up once again, well honed and sporting the golden vest,

Westie wimmin will aye ken – they’re looking at the very best!

And as for this older Westie woman – of broken knee and flabid thigh,

The sinews of a Westie man will aye raise a long – and lustful sigh.

 

So ladies, raises your glasses and join me, in the words of the bard – more or less:

“Go fetch to me a pint o’ wine

And fill it in some silver caddies,

That I may drink afore I go,

A  toast tae the Westie Laddies!”

 

Tae the Westie Laddies!

 

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