Burns Nicht

Fantasy Bob is a poor Scotsman - in the sense of not very good, although he is impecunious too needless to say.  But on Caledonia's nicht of nichts he is on a skiing holiday.  Such cavalier disregard for Scotia's heritage will not go unpunished.

It was with heavy heart that he discovered that his holiday arrangements would prevent his attendance at go ahead Edinburgh cricket club Carlton's legendary Burns Supper.  He is therefore forced to miss the doughty groundsman's rendition of Burns' great narrative poem Tam O'Shanter.  Although his disappointment is tempered by the fact that this great poem does not contain substantial cricketing interest.

This is not because Burns himself was uninterested in the game.  As FB's researches in previous years have shown, the Burns canon is full of unpublished and unregarded verses clearly inspired by a deep affection for cricket. (Follow this link for the evidence).

This year FB has discovered another example, hitherto unjustly excluded from the Kilmarnock edition, which suggests Burns shared FB's own warm regard for the efforts of doughty groundsmen.  A later version of this verse substituted a haggis as the object of veneration and has gained some popularity.


Fair fa’ your honest doughty face
Great chieftain o’ the groundsman race
In the middle tak your place
Mow, roll, repair
Your cheery greeting rings through space
GET AFF THE SQUARE

To mak a wicket taks for ever
But who respects your great endeavour?
These players should be mair clever
You can despair
You tell them oft but they never
GET AFF THE SQUARE

Ye tend the strip, ye gie it bounce
The players dinna help an ounce
But aifter play they preen and flounce
Fegs! Everywhere
Till ye maun doughtily pronounce
GET AFF THE SQUARE

In winter whan the sna is flyin’
Players in their beds are lyin’
Sair wi' cauld the puir lambs cryin’
We can compare
Ye toil through winter scarifyin'
THATCH AFF THE SQUARE

Some folk may tak ye for a bore
When ye drone on aboot the mower

And moan the hunnels mak ye sore
Why should they care?
But muckle grass? Ye’ll see them glower
GET AFF THE SQUARE

Ah! Doughty groundsmen are a special breed
An’ ilka club must meet their need
For tractor oil, loam and seed
Sic modest fare
It’s nae charity tae pay them heed
GET AFF THE SQUARE