***
There once was a poet, English-born,
Who heard Scottish heather outshone the morn.
“Misunderstood?
Grand!”
Said he, notebook in hand—
And fled where the lochs gently adorn.
By Lochside he scribbled in tartan delight,
With Irn-Bru in hand
from morning till night.
He’d rhyme “scone” with “gone,”
And the locals would groan—
Yet dance at his ceilidhs despite.
“His accent’s a crime,”
they’d teasingly say.
“But his metaphors carry the day.”
With bread warm and cheese,
He’d charm as he pleased—
So they kept their odd bard anyway.
Apr 30
Apr 30, 2026 at 4:02 AM UTC
***
There once was a poet, English-born,
Who heard Scottish heather outshone the morn.
“Misunderstood?
Grand!”
Said he, notebook in hand—
And fled where the lochs gently adorn.
By Lochside he scribbled in tartan delight,
With Irn-Bru in hand
from morning till night.
He’d rhyme “scone” with “gone,”
And the locals would groan—
Yet dance at his ceilidhs despite.
“His accent’s a crime,”
they’d teasingly say.
“But his metaphors carry the day.”
With bread warm and cheese,
He’d charm as he pleased—
So they kept their odd bard anyway.
My playful poem tells the tale of an English bard (Being myself of course) finding his place in Scotland—armed with humour, bold rhymes, and a love of Lochside life. Light-hearted and self-aware, it celebrates being an outsider who’s warmly welcomed anyway.
Ceilidhs (Kay - Ley) is gathering of song dance, and poetry
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