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Poem by Robert William Service


The Old Armchair


In all the pubs from Troon to Ayr
Grandfathers father would repair
With Bobby Burns, a drouthy pair,
        The glass to clink;
And oftenwhiles, when not too fou,
They'd roar a bawdy stave or two,
From midnight muk to morning dew,
        And drink and drink.
  
And Grandfather, with eye aglow
And proper pride, would often show
An old armchair where long ago
        The Bard would sit;
Reciting there with pawky glee
The Lass that Made the Bed for Me;
Or whiles a rhyme about the flea
        That neer was writ.                
                                                                                                                                                                      Then I would seek the Poets chair
And plant my kilted buttocks there,
And read with joy the Bard of Ayr
        In my own tongue;
The Diel, the Daisy and the Louse
The Hare, the Haggis and the Mouse,
(What fornication and carouse!)
        When I was young.

Though Kipling, Hardy, Stevenson
Have each my admiration won,
Today, my rhyme-race almost run,
        My fancy turns
To him who did Pegasus prod
For me, Bard of my native sod,
The sinner best-loved of God 
        Rare Robbie Burns.



Robert William Service


Robert William Service's other poems:
  1. Pullman Porter
  2. The Three Voices
  3. The Missal Makers
  4. Trees against the Sky
  5. The Search (Happiness, a-roving round)


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