Bard o’ Fowlis

For many years we have had a few informal rough shoots each winter on the farm. One of the regulars is a neighbour who has excellent working dogs and a fund of amusing stories. He has recently revealed himself to also be the “Bard o’ Fowlis” and sent us the following poem:

Of aw the airts the wind can blaw
Ower the hills that’s big and hills that’s sma
Yet nestled doon a tween them aw

Whaur winter’s blast can dae nae hairm
Yon braw wee place ca’d Drumphin Ferm
Jo Guest he is the maister there

And Aberdeen Angus are his fare
The brawest beasts in aw the land
In Osla’s steak pies they taste just grand
But coos are no his only treasure

Naw naw, he has game, in abundance,

Baith fur and feather.
So when that invite drapst hrough yer door,

Tae attend Drumphin wie yer trusted 12 Bore
Ye’ll maybe no shoot ower monie pheasants
But lunch is grand and the company pleasant.

The Bard o Fowlis.

Willie Ross, December 2020