The 12 Labours of a daft Hercules - A Burns Night Tribute

In love’s proud name I swore an aith,

Wi’ heart set high and reason laith,

That I would prove, by deed and faith,

My troth tae thee.

Sae mark me noo, while I rehearse

The daft twelve labours o’ my curse

Undertook wi’ zeal far past my sense,

For love, ye see.

The first, I swore tae move ma arse

Wi’ nae but hope tae guide the farce,

Sae I signed up tae poetry class

And learned ma craft.

The second, I flashed an Englishman

In tartan folds, wi’ roguish plan,

I lifted kilt and took my stand

For love’s great cause.

The third, I fought a monkey wild

In dustbin deep, a feral child,

I tamed its soul and made it mild

Wi’out even gettin’ scratched.

The fourth, I crept a poison gairden through,

Where blooms wore death in every hue,

I plucked thy favoured flowers true

Wi’ trembling hand.

The fifth, I sang afore thy door

At midnight, hoarse, rain-soaked and poor,

Till dogs complained and folk next door

Cried ‘Haud yer wheesht!’

The sixth, I wrote thee verses fine

By candle stub and borrowed wine,

Half were love, half whining line,

Yet a’ sincere.

The seventh, I danced wi’ graceless feet

At weddings, reels, and village meets,

Till laughter rang frae wall tae street

At my expense.

The eighth, fought my jealous pride,

That sneering beast I kent too wide,

I wrestled it and near it died

But won, at last.

The ninth, I faced thy mother’s glare,

That look that strips a soul tae bare,

And answered aye wi’ humble care

Though knees did shake.

The tenth, I waited patient days

While hours stretched like winter ways,

Each minute gnawed me to the stays

Yet still I stood.

The eleventh, I swore off drink,

A vow that drove me near the brink,

For love alone I didna’ think

Such pain was fair.

The twelfth, and worst, I bared my heart,

No rhyme nor joke tae play a part,

Just truth laid out in fragile art

And bid thee choose.

Sae there they stand, my labours daft,

Each one a bruise, a laugh, a graft,

Yet I would do them a’ again

Wi’ cheerfu’ sigh,

For love, my dear, is ne’er polite,

It sets a fool tae feats outright,

And crowns him king o’ lost delight

If thou say aye. aye.