RT Burns Club

*Federation No. 2085*





                         Epistle to Robert Burns

You’ve changed my life, Rabbie Burns.
From you, I’ve learned and my heart yearns,
To see the distant Scottish shores,
Where I walked in another century
That was yours.

In a dream, you said you’d take my hand
And lead me to the Scottish land.
Our brown eyes are the same.
Every time, I read your verse,
I find no word written in vain.

Your spirit lives on and timeless will be.
All others must know, they must see.
Whoever they are,
Their worth is themselves,
Whether a clockmaker or a Czar!


Janet Thompson Deaver

 25th January 2016


Janet Thompson Deaver is a screenwriter with Scottish Ancestry, living in America, she has written a screenplay on the life of Robert Burns and hopes to have it made into a film.



                       The PEN is Mightier than the SWORD
                             “In Tribute to Robert Burns”

The PEN is Mightier than the SWORD
Where oppression is abhorred
Those who fight of one accord
Seek their Liberty
Look to Scotland’s Bard
No matter what the century!

Those who seize without the right
Be prepared to meet and fight
It may not happen overnight
But let it be
Known far and wide
All shall be free!

Says he from times long ago
Hear the word and always know
To remain free may take a blow
To one’s solemnity
With the turn of the tide
Restore your dignity!

Janet Thompson Deaver

 (25th January 2011)





"We should all be proud of who we are and where we come from. I wrote this for so many who are far away from family and friends and who long to go home but for whatever reason cannot do so, one day....... I so long to see Bonny Scotland again for she will forever live in my heart and soul" - Alexandria.




We will go home across the ocean, we will go home

To a land far away and to most now unknown

Our hearts and soul long for the thistle that is home grown


We will go home across the ocean, we will go home

We sailed to the New World our future most unknown

The harshness of the New World was a reality that set an uncertain tone


To seek fame and fortune was for sure was on many a minds

The site that unfolded before our eyes was like a grand treasure find

The never ending wilderness and winter months proved to be most unkind


So far from family and friends, an ocean and it seemed a lifetime away

Within a wee short time we thought is it worth it, should we all stay

As the brutal snow and cold set in all we could do was to hope and pray


Bonny Scotland did call us back home, the wind carried her cry across the sea

To brave a bold New World , to start a new life with hearts and soul’s set free

The furs a plenty, the water like a looking glass, and as far as the eyes could see

Was a mighty great army of soldiers with arms swaying in the wind, the tree


The Highlands call us back home and echo our names recorded for all time

Where have you gone, will you come back home, are you going quite fine

Many are lost forever in time, away from home, their souls cry like a church chime


We will go home across the ocean, we will go home

To a land far away and to most unknown

Our hearts and soul long for the thistle that is home grown


The many Clans left Bonny Scotland with high hopes and dreams for a fresh start

They left many family and friends behind and the heavy hearts made it hard to part

Across the pond seemed like a lifetime away and was like a distant speck on a chart


It’s been many a year since the shores of Bonny Scotland were seen

To finally come home and touch the soil seemed like a mere distant dream

We now seek our ancestral home and flow to the sea like a river stream


We will go home across the ocean, we will go home

To a land far away and to most unknown

Our hearts and soul long for the thistle that is home grown

We will go home……….at long last.


                            SANDRA(ALEXANDRIA) HORYSKI - c. 2009





Peigi McCann, winner of the best poem in the Scots dialect in our first poetry competition, 2007.


                                     LAMENT  O' A LUVER O' TREES 

                                      I canna look at whit I hae
                                     Ma bawbees, jewels, an’ a’ this,
                                     An’ busk masel’ wi’ whit I grasp,
                                     An’ mak me think I’m a’ this!
                                     I’m a' this, an a' this,
                                     I slave an’ toil for a' this, 
                                     For warld's gear an’ gowden chain, 
                                     I sell ma saul for a’ this.

                                    An’ we can hae whit e’er we want,
                                    Wear clothing fine an a' this,
                                    An’ usquebae an’ sparklin’ wine,
                                    Our fortunes spent on a’ this!
                                    On a' this, an a' this,
                                    We’re lippen fou wi’ a' this, 
                                    Nae heed the sick an’ pain o’ puir,
                                    Sae gae we blin’ wi’ a' this?

                                    Ye see yon man i’ haddin’ white,
                                    Wha speaks, an’ smiles, an’ a' this?
                                    Tho’ hundreds hang on e’ery word, 
                                    He, too, is caught in a' this!
                                    In a' this, an a' this,
                                    For fortune, micht an a' this,
                                    We’ll send our sons to die for ile,
                                    An’ hyster after a’ this.

                                    A hundred years yon forest grows,
                                    Owre bonnie glen for a' this.
                                    The aik an’ birk that we wad saw,
                                    An’ rive an’ rype for a’ this! 
                                    For a' this, an a' this,
                                    We scaur the earth for a' this,
                                    Wi’ gumlie girse, an’ fallen flouer,
                                    We’re owrerin with a’ this.

                                    Sae let us to withouten do,
                                    Sic grippie goods an’ a’ this.
                                    No more mak pow’r our only god,
                                    Not bluidy be frae a’ this!
                                    Frae a' this, an a' this,
                                    We’re torn apairt for a’ this. 
                                    An’ hope someday the planet o'er,
                                    We’ll gie owre frae a’ this. 

                                               PEIGI McCANN - 2007



                           Reply from the Haggis point of view:
                                        By: Mónica Loreto

                     Escorted by a piper, I enter the dining-room
                     I feel as proud as a bride-groom.
                     To be the center of admiration,
                     I will distract a moment of your kind attention.

                     I feel honoured some of you recognize me,
                     Surprised as some look at me
                     Wondering what that’ll be.

                     My thick appearance disguise my real core
                     I’m sure when you taste me
                     You’ll like some more.

                     All eyes are on me, wondering what will happen
                     And while Rabbie Burns words echo in my ears,
                     My juicy core spills my tears.

                     I’m bathed and flamed with whisky
                     I do hope not to make you tipsy.
                     This is my moment of pleasure
                     As I share with you one of Scotland’s greatest treasures.

                     How did I get to this remote land?
                     I have no idea!
                     My auld secret is now in your hands
                     For you all to hear.

                     To celebrate Scotland’s past,
                     Argentina also raises a cup.
                     The moment of truth has come !
                     My whole body is cut.

                     Lads and Lassies, I’m the Haggis,
                     chieftain of the pudding race!
                     Taste the spirit of Scotland
                     That has reached this remote place

 Two new poems sent by our RT Burns Club's Ambassador in Russia, Vitaliy Negoda MacDhughaill.






Inspired with my new office of Ambassador I composed a new Scottish Gaelic poem concerning Robert Burns and you can read it and its translation into English as well.


                                        “Dàn mu Raibeart”

                         Dh’fhuirich Raibeart Burns ann an Alba
                         ‘S e bàrd mòr a th’ann, gu dearbh.
                         Sheinn Raibeart Burns mu dhaoine na h-Alba
                         ‘S toil leam a bhàrdachd, gu dearbh.

                         Dh’fhuirich am bàrd anns a’Ghalltachd
                         Ach sheinn e mu Ghaidheil cuideachd.
                         Tha mi a’ faicinn a lannaireachd 
                         San Ruis ‘s ann an Amaireaga cuideachd.

                                        “Poem about Robert”

                         Robert Burns lived in Scotland
                         He was a great poet, of course.
                         He sang about people of Scotland
                         I like his poetry, of course.

                         The poet lived in the Lowlands
                         But he sang about Gaels, too. 
                         I see his glitter
                         In Russia and in America, too.

Also I composed a poem in English concerning The Burns Club.

                                  “Journey to the RT Burns Club”

                        Have you seen the garden, my friend,
                        That is full of attractive flowers?
                        Were you wandering there, my friend,
                        Where was no difference between days and hours?
                        You are sailing quickly, my friend,
                        In your bright crystal galley
                        Soon you will see the first of the flowers
                        The white heather of Hudson Valley.
                        Then you may turn to your right
                        To meet up the Scots pine of Canada,
                        Have you seen any hazel wand’s light
                        In the branches of the Scots pine of Canada?
                        If you are free of druid charms now
                        You may drive your galley further.
                        You are sailing to England just now
                        To get acquainted with the fair rose closer.
                         If your galley is strong enough 
                        And you are not afraid the cold weather
                        Then you are welcome to Russia tough
                        To see the Krasnodar vital heather.
                        The poetry watered the flowers well
                        And the Burns burn was always at hand
                        Now join the Burns Club yourself
                        And drink the Burns water, my friend! 





                         Vitaliy Negoda MacDhùghaill 27 September


 I want to share with you my new poem in Gàidhlig. It was my entry for the Strokestown International Poetry Competition in Ireland this year. The poem is not just a plot of my imagination, it is based on a real meeting with bean-shìth (banshee) that happened in my life more than 10 years ago. I hope you will like it.

                                       "A’ Bhean-shìth"
                          A Bhean Dhuibh nan Sìtheanan,
                          Bha mi airson do thighinn
                          Agus thàinig thu thugam.
                          Tha cuimhn’ agam air sin.
                          Choinnich Conn agus Cormac,
                          Mo shinnsear rìoghail,
                          Mnathan nan Sìtheanan.
                          Tha cuimhn’ agam air sin.
                          Thàinig thu thugam
                          dhan Ruis anns a’ Chèitean,
                          ‘S toil leibh am mìos sin.
                          Tha cuimhn’ agam air sin.
                          Bha do fhalt is do shùilean,
                          Cho dubh ri sgiath nam fitheach.
                          A Nighean nan Sìtheanan,
                          Tha cuimhn’ agam air sin.
                          Bha dreasa geal nan Sìtheanan
                          Cho brèagha ri sneachd air an talamh
                          Anns an t-Samhain dhorcha.
                          Tha cuimhn’ agam air sin.
                          “A Bhiatailidh, thugainn
                          Gu mo shìthean ‘s mo dhomhan”
                          ‘S e faclan na mnatha-shìth’.
                          Tha cuimhn’ agam air sin.
                          ’S fheàrr leam an rathad aig mo Dhia
                          Is mo theaghlach bhreàgha
                          Na òige nan Sìtheanan
                          Agus do fhàilte sin.

                          Translation of my poem into English:
                                              “The Banshee”
                          Oh, Dark-Haired Woman of the Fairy Hills,
                          I wanted you to come 
                          And you came to me.
                          I remember that.
                          Conn and Cormac,
                          My royal ancestors,
                          Met women of the Fairy Hills.
                          I remember that.
                          You came to me,
                          To Russia in May.
                          You like the month.
                           I remember that.
                           Your hair and your eyes
                           Were as black as the wing of the ravens.
                           Oh, Daughter of the Fairy Hills,
                           I remember that.
                           The white dress of the Fairy Hills
                           Was as nice as snow on the ground
                           In dark November.
                           I remember that.
                           “Oh,Vitaliy, come along
                           To my fairy hill and to my world (universe)”. 
                           These are the words of the banshee.
                           I remember that.
                           I prefer the way of my God
                          And my lovely family
                          Than youth of the Fairy Hills
                          And that welcome of yours.
                             Vitaliy Negoda MacDhùghaill



 On the 16th of July, 2011 my family celebrated the 30th anniversary of my parent’s wedding and our move in September,2010, to An Taigh Snog, our new family house, which has been built during the last eight years. The poem was composed in July,2011 on the day of the family celebrations.

                                            An Taigh Snog

                                A Thaigh Shnoig nam Buaidh,
                                Tha e mòr, àlainn ach òg. 
                                ‘S e ar mac a tha annad,
                                ‘S tha am balach sin snog.

                      Tha A’ Mhadainn Mhath ‘s Am Fraoch Dearg
                                Fo Dhìon Dhè ‘s fon dhìon agad.
                                A Dharaich nan Clachan,
                                Ceud beannachd ‘s a h-aon
                                Air do cheann mhòr ruadh,
              A Dhachaidh nan ollamh, nam filidh ’s nan gaisgeach.

                                            The Fine House

                            Oh The Fine House of The Victories,
                  You are great (high, large), beautiful, but young.
                                             You are our son, 
                                          And the boy is nice.

          There are the Good Morning (plant) and the Bell Heather
     Under the God’s Protection and under the protection of yours.
                                     Oh The Oak of the Stones,
                                 One hundred and one blessing
                                 On your great (large) red head,
            Oh The Home of the scholars, the poets and the heroes.


                                  Vitaliy Negoda MacDhùghaill


                         'Red Red Rose' Sung By Mike Ogletree