&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;***
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.