To Our Laddies
Ishbel Moore (alias Lilly Lovescarred) - 2001
Ishbel replaced the traditional response to the "Toast to the Ladies" with her very original
"Toast to the Laddies" at the 2001 Burns Evening of the Manitoba Chapter of Clan Ross Canada.
As her fictitious persona, Lilly Lovescarred, she emulated the humour of Robert Burns as she
addressed the object of her poem, Jock McStud, without mentioning his name. At the end of her
poem, the ladies were requested to lift their glasses and repeat the last line in a toast.
Speaking on behalf of Lilly Lovescarred, Ishbel Moore gave me permission on January 25, 2016,
to include the toast in our collection of events and tributes to Scotland's Robert Burns.
"Toast to the Laddies" at the 2001 Burns Evening of the Manitoba Chapter of Clan Ross Canada.
As her fictitious persona, Lilly Lovescarred, she emulated the humour of Robert Burns as she
addressed the object of her poem, Jock McStud, without mentioning his name. At the end of her
poem, the ladies were requested to lift their glasses and repeat the last line in a toast.
Speaking on behalf of Lilly Lovescarred, Ishbel Moore gave me permission on January 25, 2016,
to include the toast in our collection of events and tributes to Scotland's Robert Burns.
 May good befall yer jolly facesGreat chieftains of the Scottish racesAbove them all you take yer placesYer inside goodness, like no otherWell are ye worthy of yer motherOh, husband, father son or brother.In groaning couches ye there are stillWith hurdies spreading, and snoring shrillOur loving hearts are sure to fillAfter nights of deep imbibing, we watchWhile through your pores the beer or scotchDistills amber beads and stains the swatch.What woman, unrefined and dourWould nag and cut you every hourSpewing your gushing entrails sourAdds like any good wife mightSarcasm flavoured with heavy spite"O aye, great man, what a glorious sight."Then for remotes you stretch and striveOn television sports you grow and thriveInstead of walking, ye'd rather driveAnd as for talking, yer tongues go numbAgain, ye'd rather work yer thumbOf leisure time, the awful sum.But is there any woman hereWho does not hold their man so dearOr helps advance his proud careerFor her no gigolo or modelA wimp, she'd have to tend and coddleAwa' she'd send them all to toddle. |
Thro river floods or fields to dashThe tatties or the neeps to mashA good Scots man, he dinna fashThe trembling earth resounds his treadPipe-blawing, rustic, haggis fedWith nose and cheeks a-blazing red.His eyes with sparkling humour brightDon't look too bloodshot in dim lightFor her, 'tis but a perfect sightWhen highland dress he doth adornShe smiles, and pities those who scornThe tartan, Sghian Dhu and sporranA man's a man, she knows for sureHer beating heart, he can but cureBraw swagger is a cunning lureEven though his drink he's spiltHis voice seduces with its liltPlus nothing's worn aneath his kilt.Ye pow'rs what mak womankind yer pleasureThere is but one true man she'll treasureUp to her standards a Scot will measureBrings not a rose, but guid old thistleAll other races might well bristleBut if ye wish our greatfu whistle,Gie us our laddies |