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A Poem by John Findlay
This is the tale of Sandy MacSpartan
Whose pride and joy was his fine kilt of tartan,
To tell you the truth if you don't as yet know it
Sandy MacSpartan wore nothing below it.
The lassies around would hope for a breeze
That would blow Sandy's kilt well up over his knees.
Their eyes they would sparkle and look so forlorn
When they glimpsed at what Sandy had under his sporran.
At Burns night dinners he was always selected
To carve up the haggis for the newly elected.
One night as he stuck in the knife with a slap
The whole ruddy mess slipped onto his lap.
When he lifted his kilt to get rid of the dollop
Six ladies in front hit the floor with a wallop.
Doctor Gregg shouts, "They've fainted as sure as your born."
They had glimpsed at what Sandy had under his sporran.
The kilt was a mess with haggis and stuff,
"Och, don't let it worry you," said Mrs. MacDuff,
"I'll wash it in water and soak it in lye
and just spread it out on the heather to dry."
To Sandy's despair the kilt shrank such a lot
That it didn't quite cover his highland what not.
And the parson's wife said, "My! Is that Gabriel's horn?"
When she glimpsed at what Sandy had under his sporran.
"Since you can't keep it hidden why not camouflage it,"
Said an English militiaman Captain Sam Paget.
So an artist called McRembrant who comes from Dumbarton
Painted the thing the same shades as the tartan.
So all of you ladies who are looking for thrills
Just go to Scotland and head for the hills.
And there in a glen where Wallace once fought
Is the only man on earth with a tartan what not.
Sources:
From: Iain Nicoll
Newsgroups: alt.scottish.clans
Subject: A wee Scottish story
Date: Fri, 02 Jul 1999
Organization: The Internet Group Ltd
From: Helen Ramsay
Date: Wed, 30 Jun 1999
Newsgroups: alt.scottish.clans