Tuesday, January 25, 2005

Tonight is Burns Night, where the world pays homage to Robert Burns, the most famous of write like ya tawk. It's a time where folks gather for a meal of Haggis, neeps and tatties, down a few drams of a fine whiskey and recite Burns's poems for each other.

We are having a couple of Emily's friends over to join us for dinner, but you really can't serve a five year old a haggis. So we're having rigatoni with mushroom and creamy tomato sauce and...haggis/beef meatballs! They'll never know what goodness they're devouring.
Chocolate ice cream with toffee sauce and whipped cream for dessert not the usual whiskey soaked cake creations as the kids have to be sober for a music concert tomorrow.

My favorite Burns poem.

To a Mouse. On turning her up in her nest with the plough.

1785
Type: Poem

Wee, sleekit, cow'rin, tim'rous beastie,
O, what a panic's in thy breastie!
Thou need na start awa sae hasty,
Wi' bickering brattle!
I wad be laith to rin an' chase thee,
Wi' murd'ring pattle!

I'm truly sorry man's dominion,
Has broken nature's social union,
An' justifies that ill opinion,
Which makes thee startle
At me, thy poor, earth-born companion,
An' fellow-mortal!

I doubt na, whiles, but thou may thieve;
What then? poor beastie, thou maun live!
A daimen icker in a thrave
'S a sma' request;
I'll get a blessin wi' the lave,
An' never miss't!

Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin!
It's silly wa's the win's are strewin!
An' naething, now, to big a new ane,
O' foggage green!
An' bleak December's winds ensuin,
Baith snell an' keen!

Thou saw the fields laid bare an' waste,
An' weary winter comin fast,
An' cozie here, beneath the blast,
Thou thought to dwell-
Till crash! the cruel coulter past
Out thro' thy cell.

That wee bit heap o' leaves an' stibble,
Has cost thee mony a weary nibble!
Now thou's turn'd out, for a' thy trouble,
But house or hald,
To thole the winter's sleety dribble,
An' cranreuch cauld!

But, Mousie, thou art no thy lane,
In proving foresight may be vain;
The best-laid schemes o' mice an 'men
Gang aft agley,
An'lea'e us nought but grief an' pain,
For promis'd joy!

Still thou art blest, compar'd wi' me
The present only toucheth thee:
But, Och! I backward cast my e'e.
On prospects drear!
An' forward, tho' I canna see,
I guess an' fear!


Have a tipple and raise your glass, To the Bard, with us.

Lyvvie

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