‘Twas midday before Christmas and Lachlan MacLinner,
Was out hunting game for his family’s dinner.
Plaid stockings clung tight to his legs with great care,
Whilst, not one, but two hats, hid his red, thinning hair.
At his kilt did the cruel winter wind bite and tear,
Making prunes of a norm’ly more pendulous pair.
And though the thick woodland lent cloak to his prey,
Onward still Lachlan trudged; He could spare no delay.
For his wife, Osla Jean, was an ill-tempered shrew,
Like a banshee she’d shriek till her face would turn blue,
So a-hunting he’d go if it took him all night,
If he brought home no supper, his name would be shite.
But just then, from the brush, a slight stirring arose,
Tightly holding his breath, as he stared, Lachlan froze,
For his eyes had befallen a supple young ewe,
“Why, this cloven hoofed beauty will certainly do!”
At his favorite bludgeoning cudgel, he knuckled,
Then fondled the handle and gleefully chuckled,
And gently knelt down in a Bonnie Bloom bed,
As visions of lamb chops danced ‘round in his head.
When at once something happened he couldn’t explain,
Sharply, synapses fired and popped in his brain,
And where once stood his prized, would-be, holiday meal,
Bore abruptly to he, then a different appeal.
His face became flushed and his hands became clammy,
His eyes blurred and swam as he ogled the lammy
Who understood well what would soon come to pass,
As their gaze met, at last, in the tall Highland grass.
Well, the sheep barely noticed his billy club clatter
To the ground with a pound, matting flowers much flatter.
Then “fergive me,” he plead to the stars up above,
“But blessin’ me bagpipes, I think I’m in love.”
So he lifted his kilt, and he tendered his tool,
Grabbed a fistful and pulled on the delicate wool,
Well-aware, midst the whirlwind of shearling and plaid
Of the best rack of lamb that he ever had had.
Then he shivered and grunted, and sighed and he coughed,
As he loosened his grip on her coat ever soft.
And mopping his brow from beneath his two hats,
Lachlan laughed, “Jaysus Christ, I ‘bout soiled me spats!”
Then he struck up a match on a thick Birnam Oak,
Drawing in a deep breath for to light up his smoke.
But his lighthearted mood quickly faded to dark,
And he swung at the oak landing blows in the bark.
Wincing, he cradled his bloodied left hand,
His tortured lament echoed out through the land,
“I have never known love like I’ve felt for this flower,”
“I cannae go home, I just dooon’t have the power!”
So he stood in the snowbank, a Scotsman divided,
Projecting each posture his pickle provided,
Though whatever position he chose to pursue,
Would be equally horrid a hullabaloo.
When, famished and frozen, and falling apart,
He felt a soft tickle that warmed his cold heart.
As the lamb licked his raw, wounded hand, Lachlan knew
Precisely just that which he needed to do.
The townsfolk flocked ‘round as he made his return,
“Lachlan’s braved through the storm!” the mob audibly churned.
“Were it cold old enough fer ye?” dogged Dougal Dundeather.
“Oh, shut it, ye bawbag,‘tis fine Scottish weather.”
Then from over his shoulder he hoisted his prize,
And brought it down softly before widened eyes.
“Ye doss lucky bas.” Hamish Henderson said,
“Tha’s a foin piece o’ mutton there, Lachy m’lad.”
“But tell me, MacLinner, just how did ye foind,
Such a right, bonnie beast in the snow?” Hamish pined.
Then Lachlan MacLinner grinned sheepishly, sighing,
And shrugging he answered “Oh, quite satisfying.”