SCOTLAND'S WORST POACHER
by Ivan Bennett McTavish went out poaching On Laird McDongle's land With net and trap and snare And a twelve bore in his hand. He laid his snares round the rabbit holes Set his net out in the river Put down traps of the vicious sort With sharp jaws that make you shiver. So now he took his twelve bore And roamed the hillside there He roamed it in the gloaming (There's a song in that, somewhere!) He knew nothing about wildlife. As a poacher he weren't much good. But he hoped to bag a peasant Or a partridge if he could! Now, McTavish was near-sighted Specsavers had helped him out With inch-thick bottle bottoms Through which he couldn't see nowt! He heard a sort of fluttering High up in the air Aimed and pulled the trigger - BANG! There were feathers everywhere! The bird came swiftly down to earth McTavish ran to grab it When he saw what he had bagged He wished he'd shot a rabbit! For what he saw upon the ground Lying and looking regal Was one o' them 'protected' birds - A bloody Golden Eagle! How to hide the evidence? 'Cos to kill one is illegal, They'll throw the bloody book at me It's not like I'd shot a seagull! I'll eat it, yes, that's what I'll do There'll be no proof you see, With some fava beans and a nice Chianti I'll eat it for my tea. And so McTavish did just that The bones left on his plate, He chucked upon the fire And burned 'em in the grate. Off to the pub he took himself Feeling guilty about his loot A good few whiskies later He was as bladdered as a newt! 'Ye'll nivver gesh wor I have done!' He dribbled to his mate. 'I shot a Golden Eagle On McDongle's old estate! An' because it were 'protected' I ate the bloody bird To hide the bloody evidence, Now isn't that absurd?' His mate suppressed a giggle He couldn't help but enquire 'What does Golden Eagle taste like You silly little liar?' 'I might be silly but I ain't no liar!' Said McTavish, 'it ain't no con., If you want to know, Golden Eagle, well, It tastes a bit like Swan!'
The end