In all the pubs from Troon to Ayr <br />Grandfather's father would repair <br />With Bobby Burns, a drouthy pair, <br /> The glass to clink; <br />And oftenwhiles, when not too "fou," <br />They'd roar a bawdy stave or two, <br />From midnight muk to morning dew, <br /> And drink and drink. <br /> <br />And Grandfather, with eye aglow <br />And proper pride, would often show <br />An old armchair where long ago <br /> The Bard would sit; <br />Reciting there with pawky glee <br />"The Lass that Made the Bed for Me;" <br />Or whiles a rhyme about the flea <br /> That ne'er was writ. <br /> <br />Then I would seek the Poet's chair <br />And plant my kilted buttocks there, <br />And read with joy the Bard of Ayr <br /> In my own tongue; <br />The Diel, the Daisy and the Louse <br />The Hare, the Haggis and the Mouse, <br />(What fornication and carouse!) <br /> When I was young. <br /> <br />Though Kipling, Hardy, Stevenson <br />Have each my admiration won, <br />Today, my rhyme-race almost run, <br /> My fancy turns <br />To him who did Pegasus prod <br />For me, Bard of my native sod, <br />The sinner best-loved of God - <br /> Rare Robbie Burns.<br /><br />Robert William Service<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-old-armchair/
