Day 71: Och, an' it was wi' great stealth an' cunnin' thot I trackit the wee savage beastie to its lair an' there did discoover na jist the ane, but its kith an' cousin alike. Three haggis! Three did I take wi' nought but a wee dirk an' strength o' arm. Fellow Scotsman Maureen McLean put claim upon a carcase, but the remainin' twa (adult and bairn) repose in the coolness o' the freezer to await Hogmanay and Rabbie Burns' natal day respectively. I canna pipe them in, so I give ye an Ode to Woad for the occasion (NOT original!):
What's the use of wearing braces?
Spats and hats and boots with laces?
Vests and pants you buy in places
Down on Brompton Road?
What's the use of shirts of cotton?
Studs that always get forgotten?
These affairs are simply rotten,
Better far is woad.
Woad's the stuff to clothe men.
Woad to scare your foemen.
Boil it to a brilliant hue
And rub it on your back and your abdomen.
Ancient Britons never hit on
Anything as good as woad to fit on
Necks or knees or where you sit on.
Tailors you be blowed!!
Romans came across the Channel
All wrapped up in tin and flannel
Half a pint of woad per man'll
Clothe us more than these.
Saxons used to waste their stitches
Building beds for bugs in britches
We have woad to clothe us which is
Not a nest for fleas
Romans keep your armours.
Saxons your pyjamas.
Hairy coats were meant for goats,
Gorillas, yaks, retriever dogs and llamas.
Tramp up Snowdon with your woad on,
Never mind if you get rained or snowed on
Never need a button sewed on.
Go it Ancient Bs!!
