I met a long necked monster from Loch Ness
who, after he had downed a dram or two,
told me of his homeland with tenderness,
“A land”, said he, “wir folk are brave and true”.
“A man’s a man in Scoatland”, slurred the beast,
“nae ma’er whit thir colour, creed or gender.
Aye, wir a freendly loat tae say the least.
Thirs noa a place oan Earth wir folk are kinder”.
He held out his glass and I refilled it
and, down a mile of scaly throat, swilled it,
“Tae tell the truth, we dinnae lik tae boast.
Wir awfy humble folk, tae say the most”.
“And what of Scotland’s culture?”, I enquired.
“Och!”, he said, “Thirs nae culture mair inspired.
You’ze cun keep aw o’ that Wullie Sheepscare.
Wi’ Rabbie Burns nae poet cawn compare”.
“Wee sleekit timorous beastie;
chieftan o’ the puddin’ race”,
Nessie quoted, pouring whisky;
a tear trickling down its face.
He wept so much old Nessie almost spilled
whisky on his titanic, tartan kilt
then, wailing gale like, in gaelic, did sing
and caused tidal waves with a highland fling.
But then the sea beast fell into a stupor;
snoring and mumbling; swearing like a trooper,
so I left him stretched out upon the waves
happily dreaming of ‘Scotland the brave’.