As I walked out on Hogmanay, towards the kirk at Alloway,
I heard a fracas in the dell, ahint the wa’ in old Rozelle.
A rustlin’ sound amang the trees, came driftin’ o’er in the breeze,
And turnin’ round with dreadfu’ fright, wow I saw an unco sight.
A Boxer dug, big, grim and broad, stood in the middle o’ the road,
And through the eerie silence bode an eldritch voice, crying ‘Oh my God!’
The dug it stood like ane transfixed, afore decidin’ what came next,
When sudden fae its dwam was jolted, off up the road the creature bolted.
Some ancient prehistoric de’ils, put life and mettle in its heels.
Above the wa’ there next appeared, the owner who looked maist afeared,
A harassed jad, peroxide blond, fae whom the cur it did abscond.
Her plea was simple, curt and comely, ‘Haw pal, gonnae grab him, will ye?’
Now gentle dames, I must confess, wi’ love o’dugs I am not bless’d,
And lacking bold John Barleycorn, the danger I could hardly scorn.
I let the dug pursue its path, incurred the irate wifey’s wrath.
She hotch’d and blew wi’ micht and main, and uttered language quite profane.
The mutt meanwhile had turned around, and for me quickly made up ground,
But quickly steppin’ tae the side, I let it pass ere I maun ride
It bounded, fearsome, fast and true, t’wards auld Ayr Toon it quickly flew,
Where honest men or bonnie lasses, would have a fit gin that thing passes.
But ere the toon gate it could make, I heard the screech and squeal o’ brake,
A white van man had pulled up quick, and pulled off a heroic trick.
He claught the mongrel by the rump, and trimmed the sails o’ yon big lump.
Then liftin’ up the pantin’ tyke, he passed him up and o’er the dyke.
The owner she was blythe and tearfu’, gave the canine quite an earfu’.
But turnin’ tae our hero bold, wha’d handed back her crock o’ gold,
In praise o’ him was maist effusive, tae land a capture sae elusive.
She promised him that she’d repay, wi’ secret favours one fine day.
Her language it was maist demure, as fragrant as a mountain flow’r.
Now, wha this tale o’ truth shall read, ilk man, and mother’s son, take heed.
If ever you’re harangued by burds, remember noble Hamlet’s words,
The sickly cast o’ deeper thocht, oft brings our good intents tae nocht.
Whene’er confronted by a choice, and listenin’ tae yer inner voice,
To jump right in or walk awa’? Conscience makes cowards o’ us a’.