Addison, Hazel
Lang hae ye fed the Scottish clan,
Fae little geet tae grouwn up man,
Heid o' the puddin race ye staan
Wi yer sonsie face,
Nae ither dish throo oot the laan
Can taak yer place.
Ye need nae funcy preparation,
Jist neeps an tatties for decoration,
Fae generation tae generation,
Ye've graced the table,
Dish't up wi earnest concentration,
Plain, halesome, stable.
Yer easy heatit in a pan,
Bi microwave or oven fan,
In ony kyne o' plate yer graan
Yommin rich an rare,
Nae gourmet dish fae foreign laan
Can wi you compare.
Bit I read in the paper the ither day
An Indian chef fae aroon Bombay,
Caam here an seen led ye astray
Wi his turban toorie,
Noo yer laid oot in queer array
In his tandoorie.
He mix't ye up wi foreign spice,
Nae speenfu' noo, jist a baalie or slice
An yer sittin there on a bed o' rice
Like a pompadore,
An sellin noo at twice the price
Ye wis afore.
Yer puddin skin's noo torn an tatter't,
Ye,ve been kirn't up deep-fried an batter't,
In stead o' chappit neeps yer splatter't
Wi Madras curry,
An aa ower Scotland noo yer scatter't
In sic a hurry.
Nae langer are ye caa'd a puddin,
Nae sheepies gut yer innards huddin,
Rouw't intae baalies, noo yer cuddlin
A cocktail stick,
They caa ye bhaji, noo 'aat's muddlin
Aside spotty dick.
Bit nae maitter hoo they change yer name,
Aul Scotland's fowk are still the same,
An ye'll be aiten in mony a hame,
Steamin rich an het,
Tae forsake ye noo wid be a shame,
Gweed Scottish maet.