Burns and Haggis

It may have escaped your notice that today we celebrate the 'Bard's' birthday.  Rabbie Burns will not join us however, having passed away in 1796.  Scots, and quite a few others, will be attempting to cook Haggis, Neeps and Tatties for lunch, reading the 'Address to a haggis,' and if they are not Scots they will be making a fool of themselves with the accent. 
 

Sadly the haggis available in my Tesco's is not great.  I could have got 'my butcher' up in Forres to send one down, but time beat me here.  I did consider the 'mince pies' in the freezer however, by the time I considered them it was too late to defrost them. 

I had garlic bread and vegetable soup instead.

There was no 'Address' offered.

A proper Haggis from a butcher can be expensive.  It can be however, marvellous, not like the rather dry ones I find in supermarkets.  I certainly would not buy the 'Vegan' or is it 'Vegetarian' one that sometimes becomes available, as clearly there is no point.  

As my late sister's birthday fell on Jan 25th along with Rabbie, I cannot forget the date.  She however, showed no poetic talent, unless sending postcards from places she visited with 'I was here today,' on the back counts.  It counted a wee bit when she sent a card thus commented upon featuring the Andromeda Galaxy!  I was in two minds if she had actually visited.  It turns out the family had been to a science type exhibition in Edinburgh.  Not many stars seen from there at this time of year mind.

No Haggis but however, I have the whisky, given to me by one of my secret admirers.  Burns referred to whisky as 'John Barleycorn,' and his poem offers his delight in the substance.  It may be Burns, as he often did, made use of an old poem and livened it up.  However, he, working on a farm when not seeking smugglers for the exciseman, and usually helping them rather than catching them, he knew all about the difficulties of raising Barley as a crop.  He would know about the hardships of farm life and the struggle to make it pay at that time also. 

And while we make the most of the Orkney Barley we keep an eye out for those Vikings seeking to steal back their product.  We however, have ways of dealing with them...

A Scottish Poem

I bought this book years ago and found it once again while staring into the bookcase.

Trevor Royle has brought together poetry and prose, including some fictionalised acounts, of the great War.  I was touched by this poem, something that does not usually happen, as it reflected the emotions felt by the couple involved.  It spoke better than most works from the time.

 

Pilgrimage: Being the thoughts of an ex-soldier at Ypres, 8/8/28

Me, an’ Jean, an’ the bairn;
The wee lad spierin’ an’ starin’;
Daunderin’ quiet an’ douce-like doun
The Menin road into Ypres toun.
‘Did ye kill ony Germans here?’
Man, it’s sair what a laddie’ll spier.
An’ Jean whispers ‘Wheest!’ – an’ there comes
The band wi’ its trumpets an’ drums.
There’s a glower i’ the wee laddie’s ee.
Ay, he’s ettlin’ ti sojer like me.
An’ Jean whispers low in her pain:
‘Lord, Ye’ll no lat it happen again!’
Syne the Gate whaur the weary feet trod
Like a white kind o’ promise fae God.
An’ in silence we’re spierin’ an’ starin’
– Me, an’ Jean, an’ the bairn.

Me an’ Jean
Her wi’ a saft warm licht in her een,
Thankfu’ that I am come through,
But trimlin’ a wee at the mou’,
Prood o’ the medals I wear –
The same as the Prince stan’in’ there;
Her hand grippin’ hard in mine here
– Oh Jeannie! Oh Jeannie, my dear! –
An’ I ken a’ the things she wud say
An’ Geordie was fond o’ her tae.
We saw Geordie’s bivvy yestreen,
Me an’ Jean.

Me,
Lookin’ yont ower the years juist tae see
Yon War like the ploy of a loon;
But a queer kind o’ shiver rins doon
My back as the things dribble in
– A hallikit lauch i’ the din,
The sangs, an’ the mud, an’ the claes,
An’ my buits, an’ yon glint through the haze
O’ anither lad’s bayonet, an’ lichts
Makin’ day o’ the darkest o’ nichts,
An’ the drinkin’ our tea fae ae can.
– Oh Geordie! Oh Geordie, my man!
An’ – deil tak’ this dust i’ my ee.
Me!

---

J. B. Salmond

from The Old Stalker and Other Verses (Edinburgh: The Moray Press, 1936)

The poems were often written in an Arbroath dialect.

I found this on the excellent Scottish Poetry Library.

 

Research...

With the rain dampening spirits outside it is good to sit around this grubby, unswept, somewhat littered accommodation and rest my weary bones.  It has been a bit trying physically as I have been attempting to cycle, exercise and work and now wish not to do anything far from the laptop.  
Yesterday was a busy time at the museum.  The shop has begun to attract the browsing fraternity, the ones who come in, touch, feel, hum, hah!, and wander around the shop and walk out without buying.  There is also those who do buy, we smile at them, and many who came in yesterday for one of our many local books or to ask a query of some sort.  I ended up with several queries yesterday some of which could be answered.  I was a little irked that one photo of a local man has turned out not to be who we thought it was.  The cap badge looked good but on closer inspection it is clear he was from the Northamptonshire regiment.  This irked me when I discovered their regimental museum was under the control of the council who were rebuilding the museum in which it was stored and are not taking any queries until work is completed in 2020!  While I understand this it is not helpful!

A film show in the afternoon was bringing in around 50 people.  This was film a local man took on 8mm from the 60's till he died some years ago, many come to see this and look for themselves in the picture!  By person or by phone they came all morning, interrupting my work, I have nearly finished that book now.   Over all it was a good day, I never argued with anyone, folks from a wide area, including the States, passed through sort of happy, and those that went round the museum had  a good time in spite of the mess created by changing from one exhibition to another.  Of course I never got my tea until 11:30 and with people coming in it was tepid by the time I got to it!  

One chap informed me of his relation to a name on one of the memorials and just had to tell someone.  His great uncle was killed at Arras and this sent me searching more info on him and where he fell.  Another attack that succeeded until it failed and they fell back somewhat daunted.  Arras was a battle the British forces won but in the southern end they face the strongest German defences and lost out.  General Allenby was replaced after this and sent to the Middle East. Some say Sassoon had Allenby in mind with this poem.

The General

By Siegfried Sassoon

“Good-morning, good-morning!” the General said

When we met him last week on our way to the line.

Now the soldiers he smiled at are most of 'em dead,

And we're cursing his staff for incompetent swine.

“He's a cheery old card,” grunted Harry to Jack

As they slogged up to Arras with rifle and pack.

But he did for them both by his plan of attack.    
Poetry Foundation

A Cough in the Park

With the sun shining, the sky blue I took my cough across to the gardens to see some Spring.  This was the furthest I've roamed for weeks and it was a typical English Spring day, cold!  There was warmth in the air when the wind ceased but as it failed to cease much and blew from the east it hurled a chill at those fooled into thinking it was Summer.  When does Spring start and end I ask?  The official date appears to vary with metrologists and various others disputing what starts when.  I suppose in the UK it makes no difference anyway, it will not resemble a tropical land anytime soon.  
One thing that was clear was the Englishman's desperate desire to take his clothes off!  Not too bad today but all around I saw men and a few women in T-shirts when the weather was not yet warm enough for this, I helpfully coughed loudly in their direction to inform them of their next couple of weeks endurance test. 

Our cretinous leaders have pulled a great one this week.  Not that long ago they opposed tariffs on Chinese steel imports as George Osborne was desperate to get his hands on the Chinese cash, now said steel is flooding the market and 15,000 UK jobs will be lost.  Not only but also the steel produce still made in the UK will now have tariffs of around 42%  placed on it by the Chinese!
Selling the nation to the Chinese, Russians or Arabs of any type appeared to be a winner for George Osborne, now like almost everything else he touches it is falling apart.  Poor George his hopes of becoming Prime Minister are fading.

 
How nice to see the daffodils swaying in the wind today.  So many varieties of one flower were on view.  The council ones were darker and brighter than those planted long ago by the gardener in what once was a school garden but individual daffs seen in a variety of gardens had various shades of yellow.  None I suspect were similar to those seen by the poet that time up in the hills of the Lake District, those would be wild daffodils and not the type manipulated by green fingered peoples in greenhouses.  Such a variety of yellows, as indeed there were varieties of green to be seen.  Soon however the buds which have appeared will blossom and the world will smile once more.


"I WANDERED LONELY AS A CLOUD"

          I WANDERED lonely as a cloud
          That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
          When all at once I saw a crowd,
          A host, of golden daffodils;
          Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
          Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

          Continuous as the stars that shine
          And twinkle on the milky way,
          They stretched in never-ending line
          Along the margin of a bay:                                  10
          Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
          Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

          The waves beside them danced; but they
          Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:
          A poet could not but be gay,
          In such a jocund company:
          I gazed--and gazed--but little thought
          What wealth the show to me had brought:

          For oft, when on my couch I lie
          In vacant or in pensive mood,                               20
          They flash upon that inward eye
          Which is the bliss of solitude;
          And then my heart with pleasure fills,
          And dances with the daffodils.
                                                              1804.   William Wordsworth

End of the Working Year

The doors shut at twelve noon, or just after as a woman entered as we were locking the door, and I will not reopen them until January.  How nice to be free form it for a while.  How nice for them all to forget work and enjoy life once again.  Family gatherings, holidays in the sun, short periods in jail, all these are ahead of us during the next few days.  My fridge is full of everything I need except that one thing I will be missing when I find what one important missing thing is, then there will be trouble.   Folks were filling the shops late into the afternoon, many men only now beginning to realise that they have a wife at home and no present and they have to leave the pub and go get her whatever it is she wanted whatever that was.  
Passing down the High Street I noticed a lot of bright yellow jackets hanging around.  The sight of one young man making off and haring down an alleyway pursued by one bright yellow jacket indicated something was amiss.  The yelling, screaming lassie, hands waving foul mouth in action, indicated others were involved, as indeed was drink!  For some time the populace forgot their worries and watched as these lower orders, and lower orders indeed they were, assisted the security staff with their work.  As I passed on two ambulance vehicles and a two police vehicles arrived.  They are never there when you want them and when they turn up there are loads of them  arresting you, well that's what I find anyway.
Now here's a thing, in Australia soon enough kids will be up early tearing open overpriced presents and still demanding more.  In the UK folks have still to get home from work, the shops, the pub, to wrap said presents, and in parts of the USA people are reaching for coffee to aid their entrance into the world yet again.  If Santa existed how would he overcome that I ask?   
Anyway it's teatime here, I can tell by the burning smell from the cooker, so I leave you while I go and hang my largest football sock up and await developments.

Christmas by John Betjeman
 
The bells of waiting Advent ring,
The Tortoise stove is lit again
And lamp-oil light across the night
Has caught the streaks of winter rain
In many a stained-glass window sheen
From Crimson Lake to Hookers Green.

The holly in the windy hedge
And round the Manor House the yew
Will soon be stripped to deck the ledge,
The altar, font and arch and pew,
So that the villagers can say
'The church looks nice' on Christmas Day.

Provincial Public Houses blaze,
Corporation tramcars clang,
On lighted tenements I gaze,
Where paper decorations hang,
And bunting in the red Town Hall
Says 'Merry Christmas to you all'.

And London shops on Christmas Eve
Are strung with silver bells and flowers
As hurrying clerks the City leave
To pigeon-haunted classic towers,
And marbled clouds go scudding by
The many-steepled London sky.

And girls in slacks remember Dad,
And oafish louts remember Mum,
And sleepless children's hearts are glad.
And Christmas-morning bells say 'Come!'
Even to shining ones who dwell
Safe in the Dorchester Hotel.

And is it true,
This most tremendous tale of all,
Seen in a stained-glass window's hue,
A Baby in an ox's stall ?
The Maker of the stars and sea
Become a Child on earth for me ?

And is it true ? For if it is,
No loving fingers tying strings
Around those tissued fripperies,
The sweet and silly Christmas things,
Bath salts and inexpensive scent
And hideous tie so kindly meant,

No love that in a family dwells,
No carolling in frosty air,
Nor all the steeple-shaking bells
Can with this single Truth compare -
That God was man in Palestine
And lives today in Bread and Wine.

Time & Date

Xmas Shop

Christmas Shopping  
    Poem by Jim Yerman


This year getting in the Christmas spirit might have seemed a little quirky
As some people headed out to shop before finishing Thanksgiving turkey.

Stores tried luring in customers, (it’s a strategy that worked, I must say) .
By extending Black Friday from Thursday morning until well into Saturday.

Perhaps they didn’t understand to our initial confusion and eventual laughter
That Friday cannot start the day before itself or extend till the day after.

I know they did this to spawn interest and generate humongous lines
I wonder if it’s the same concept as happy hour from 5 to 9?

Why I even saw a story about a woman who missed Thanksgiving not because she was poor
Or stranded in an airport...no because she was camped out in front of a store!

She decided giving up time with her family, enjoying the turkey, the togetherness, the quaff
Was worth it if she could buy Christmas presents at 50 to 70 percent off!

The doors spring open and the crowd rushes in, hordes of people determined not to fail
The biggest drawback to their success...there are only 5 Big Screen TV’s up for sale.

So they elbow one another aside, they push and they shove and deceive
In order to share some Christmas spirit...with their family on Christmas Eve.

We stand in awe as these Christmas shoppers attack, they kick, they hit and they bite
We’re not witnessing a Christmas miracle, we’re ringside at a Christmas fight.

I imagine those who won the fight for the TV’s (after all isn’t that what Christmas is all about?)
Can go home, plug them in and watch reruns on the news of one another duking it out.

Why, there are even reports of people shooting each other in the stores and out on the street
Who would have thought besides your purse or your wallet you need to be packing heat!

I harbor a false hope every year that this fighting will come to a stop
When they realize their children are watching and they’re teaching them how to shop.

I hope these people are church goers because as this Christmas season begins
If they can’t rationalize their behavior...they can at least be forgiven for their sins.

And if you think this Christmas embarrassment is the worst one you’ve ever seen
Just wait till Black Friday welcomes in next Christmas season...the day after Halloween.

Jim Yerman




Poem Hunter

A Literate Post.

Pied Beauty
By Gerard Manley Hopkins

 
Glory be to God for dappled things –
   For skies of couple-colour as a brinded cow;
      For rose-moles all in stipple upon trout that swim;
Fresh-firecoal chestnut-falls; finches’ wings;
   Landscape plotted and pieced – fold, fallow, and plough;
      And áll trádes, their gear and tackle and trim.

All things counter, original, spare, strange;
   Whatever is fickle, freckled (who knows how?)
      With swift, slow; sweet, sour; adazzle, dim;
He fathers-forth whose beauty is past change:
                                Praise him. 
Poetry Foundation

I thought of this as I crossed into the park this afternoon.  The light was dappling everything and a very summery outlook lay all around, even though this is Autumn.  You can tell it's Autumn by the leaves lying around, and the rain to come next week will no doubt bring them all down.  The dappled leaves and trees were attractive and I wished to make the most of them before they disappear for the winter.

A Literate Evening

'Ware Tomato Juice

An accident happened to my brother Jim

When somebody threw a tomato at him ---

Tomatoes are juicy and don't hurt the skin,

But this one was specially packed in a tin.

**********

Mary had a little lamb
Her father killed it dead
And now it goes to school with her
Between two lumps of bread.

**********

The rain it raineth on the just
and on the unjust fella.
But mostly on the just because
The unjust steals, the justs umbrella.

**********

Responsibility 

‘Tis easy enough to be twenty-one:

‘Tis easy enough to marry;
But when you try both games at once
‘Tis a bloody big load to carry.

*********

 Here lies the body of Emily White,
She signalled left and then turned right.

 *********

 Here lie the bones of Elizabeth Charlotte
Born a virgin, died a harlot.
She was aye a virgin at seventeen
A remarkable thing in Aberdeen.

*********

Erected to the memory of
John Macfarlane
Drowned in the waters of Leith
By a few affectionate friends.

 *********

"Ozymandias"
I met a traveller from an antique land
Who said: "Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert. Near them, on the sand,
Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown,
And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them and the heart that fed:
And on the pedestal these words appear:
'My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:
Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!'
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away."

Percy Byshe Shelley

 

*********

 The elephant is a bonnie bird.
    It flits from bough to bough.
    It makes its nest in a rhubarb tree
    And whistles like a cow.   

********

Elegy in a Country Churchyard

    THE men that worked for England
    They have their graves at home:
    And birds and bees of England
    About the cross can roam.

    But they that fought for England,
    Following a falling star,
    Alas, alas for England
    They have their graves afar.

    And they that rule in England,
    In stately conclave met,
    Alas, alas for England
    They have no graves as yet.

 G. K. Chesterton

A Tribute

Edward Wexler

In tribute to Rabbie Burns....

TO A FISH SUPPER *

Proud partners o’ the deep-fried pan,

Oh whit a boon ye’ve been tae man,

While ower the coonter ye I scan In bilin fat,

Ye are ma prey, as there I staun Just like a cat.

Bereft o’ scale an skin they took ye,

An in a pail o’ batter shook ye,

Haddy, whitin, skate or fluke, ye Couldny escape,

Syne in ten meenits, oot they hook ye In golden drape.

Tae add mair noise an’ steam an’ skirl,

In neeborin pan your partners whirl,

Sizzlin an’ dancin’ wi a birl Till golden broon,

An’ syne like garland on a girl, Adorn you roon.

Oh ecstacy! On plate or paper,

A shake o’ vinegar, sa’t an’ pepper,

That’s all ye ask tae gie ye savour, An taste supreme,

Ye’ll nivver, ivver gaun ot o’ favour, Ye’re sure a dream.

I prefer broon sauce masel...

*Author unknown.

.

The Poppies are Packed Away Now.

At eleven this morning many in the nation stood to remember once again.  Large crowds attended ceremonies around the country as the commemoration of the beginning of the Great War came to an end.  Exhibitions and events will continue, I may have one on Friday night if I stay awake long enough, and throughout the country folks are now researching their war dead and discovering surprising news about their families.

I myself did not attend anything today, I made it to the museum, realised my head was spinning from some bug and made my way back home until it ran its course and passed me by.  This did mean nothing got done but hey, that's not unusual in here is it?

We move on from the remembrance ceremonies now, soon the poppies will disappear from the jackets and volunteers will begin counting the cash collected, most likely a bumper years for the British Legion.  I leave it with this poem by Joe Lee, a forgotten yet great poet from Dundee.  He had travelled a bit, worked for John Leng & Co who published the 'Peoples Journal,' a paper he would later edit. and enlisting at 4 years of age spent most of the war with the 4th Black Watch, later commissioned into the Kings Royal Rifle Corps.  A friend of the leading literary figures of the day between the wars he worked in London as sub editor for the 'News Chronicle' and mixed with the great poets of the day.  His work was acclaimed as equal to Wilfred Owen and Siegfried Sasson's war poetry yet he never achieved, if indeed he sought it, literary fame.  He has many poems, I liked this one. 

German Prisoners

When first I saw you in the curious street
Like some platoon of soldier ghosts in grey,
My mad impulse was all to smite and slay,
To spit upon you—tread you 'neath my feet.
But when I saw how each sad soul did greet
My gaze with no sign of defiant frown,
How from tired eyes looked spirits broken down,
How each face showed the pale flag of defeat,
And doubt, despair, and disillusionment,
And how were grievous wounds on many a head.
And on your garb red-faced was other red;
And how you stooped as men whose strength was spent,
I knew that we had suffered each as other,
And could have grasped your hand and cried, "My brother!"

Joe Lee.

AllPoetry.com

Joseph Lee


.

Media, Man U, Haggis and Aussies

For over  a week now I have ignored the news for the most part.  Instead of rummaging through the papers each morning I listen to the headlines and have occasionally pursued one or two interesting items only.  This means I am no longer fearful of a million south east Europeans, possibly Muslim, stampeding into the UK stealing our jobs and living off the dole.  Nor do I worry that the apple I eat may give me cancer nor do I rejoice that the coffee I drink seven times a day will cure that illness.  The screaming headlines have not made it difficult to sleep at night through such fear simply by my choice to ignore them, life outside I notice mournfully  however has continued despite my absence.  

I have been tempted occasionally to turn on the radio desperate for a fix of the news but have manfully directed my attention elsewhere and survived.  The world did neither miss me nor change in any way.  I am oblivious to what she from the telly is doing with whom, not upset about the tree cut down by a neighbour, care little for the lies poured forth from Westminster and worry not about a court case featuring the high and mighty who have fallen on hard times.  I remain in the real world quite happily, the week has been quite good, and placing life's priorities before the screaming of the world has made me gentler, more considerate and relaxed enough to walk the streets without my chainsaw in hand.  I merely carry the small axe instead.

One thing that never changes about English newspapermen is their desperate desire to destroy someone.  The present target is David Moyes the incoming manager of Manchester United, a football team you may have heard off.  The previous incumbent, one Sir Alex Ferguson, managed to keep the job for 25 years, something unheard of today.  During his time he won the English title about a dozen time, the English Cup, the UEFA Cup and the Champions League Cup (the top trophy) and has now retired to travel the world and annoy the wife.  Interestingly when he began the job the media attacked him relentlessly as his first three years were far from a success. However once he began to win the media changed their tune and became scared to upset him, losing contact with Manchester United could lose them their job after all!  The attack on Moyes is less from a football perspective and merely the desire to knock someone down when he is down, also to use the Manchester United name to sell their papers and programmes. 
There is no doubt Moyes has a hard job on his hand.  many of the players at the club are past their best, one or two others are not 'top four' players and some players he wanted at the beginning of the season failed to appear.  On top of this Wayne Rooney and Van Persie are both missing through injury. These two men could win games by themselves, missing both is a huge loss for any club.  
In my mind Man U would possibly finish around seventh or eighth this season although is Rooney and Van Persie return in time they may yet finish in the top four, I suspect that is a real possibility myself. The manager has a tremendously difficult job ahead of him but I believe he will succeed and succeed well.  The naysayers will fill pages of uneducated pap to make money but the football fan knows this club is not dead and has too much going for it to fail now.

The wise amongst you will realise that this is Burns night, the night the great Rabbie is celebrated with Haggis, mash potatoes and mashed turnips (neeps to you!), washed down with a wee dram of whisky. Large gatherings are taking place tonight, the Haggis is carried in behind a piper, the 'address' is made and tales told, poems read and whisky imbibed.
I am poor and merely had a cheese sandwich myself.

     A Red, Red Rose

O my Luve's like a red, red rose, 

That's newly sprung in June: 

O my Luve's like the melodie, 

That's sweetly play'd in tune. 

As fair art thou, my bonie lass, 

So deep in luve am I; 

And I will luve thee still, my dear, 

Till a' the seas gang dry. 

Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear, 

And the rocks melt wi' the sun; 

And I will luve thee still, my dear, 

While the sands o' life shall run. 

And fare-thee-weel, my only Luve! 

And fare-thee-weel, a while! 

And I will come again, my Luve, 

Tho' 'twere ten thousand mile!

Rabbie Burns 1794

Robert Burns Country

Tomorrow, or today if you are in Australia, is 'Australia Day!'  This is the day Aussies celebrate being, er Aussies.  Much celebration is happening as I write, lager is being swallowed (they do not appear to drink proper beer), 'Barbies' everywhere are burning lamb, chicken and sausage, all run by men naturally and the sun shines, the sky remains blue and people are eaten by great white sharks in Botany Bay. Today we celebrate their tomorrow unless you are in the US where yesterday has yet to finish while the Aussie tomorrow, which is their today, is almost over, and we share their delight in being Australian, a very good thing to be.
Even if they are all descended from English convicts.....  


.

Trees

Trees

I Tthink that I shall never see 

A poem lovely as a tree. 

A tree whose hungry mouth is prest 

Against the sweet earth's flowing breast; 

A tree that looks at God all day, 

And lifts her leafy arms to pray; 

A tree that may in summer wear 

A nest of robins in her hair; 

Upon whose bosom snow has lain; 

Who intimately lives with rain. 

Poems are made by fools like me, 

But only God can make a tree. 

Joyce Kilmer

Timber!

Just a bit peeved at the site of trees that have been chopped down.  In the UK removing trees requires permission from the local authorities because of a variety of reasons.  So I was surprised to find the folk controlling the old railway line have chopped down lots of the trees that graced the path.  I accept many were getting old, and that one or two looked a bit dicey, but there is now a row of stumps awaiting beasties to move in.  The colour is much brighter than my picture shows, it appears a bit feeble on this laptop so use your imagination here.  The bright yellow wood stands out against the leafless trees and not yet grown weeds around.  No doubt the Rangers know what they are doing, but it still seems a pity to lose so many lovely trees.

Joyce Kilmer. 1886–1918 119. Trees I THINK that I shall never see A poem lovely as a tree.   A tree whose hungry mouth is prest Against the sweet earth's flowing breast;   A tree that looks at God all day,         And lifts her leafy arms to pray;   A tree that may in summer wear A nest of robins in her hair;   Upon whose bosom snow has lain; Who intimately lives with rain.     Poems are made by fools like me, But only God can make a tree. Bartleby                                         Joyce Kilmer   (A man by the way) .

A Man's a Man for A' That

A Man's a Man for A' That

Is there for honest Poverty 

That hings his head, an' a' that; 

The coward slave-we pass him by, 

We dare be poor for a' that! 

For a' that, an' a' that. 

Our toils obscure an' a' that, 

The rank is but the guinea's stamp, 

The Man's the gowd for a' that. 

What though on hamely fare we dine, 

Wear hoddin grey, an' a that; 

Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine; 

A Man's a Man for a' that: 

For a' that, and a' that, 

Their tinsel show, an' a' that; 

The honest man, tho' e'er sae poor, 

Is king o' men for a' that. 

Ye see yon birkie, ca'd a lord, 

Wha struts, an' stares, an' a' that; 

Tho' hundreds worship at his word, 

He's but a coof for a' that: 

For a' that, an' a' that, 

His ribband, star, an' a' that: 

The man o' independent mind 

He looks an' laughs at a' that. 

A prince can mak a belted knight, 

A marquis, duke, an' a' that; 

But an honest man's abon his might, 

Gude faith, he maunna fa' that! 

For a' that, an' a' that, 

Their dignities an' a' that; 

The pith o' sense, an' pride o' worth, 

Are higher rank than a' that. 

Then let us pray that come it may, 

(As come it will for a' that,) 

That Sense and Worth, o'er a' the earth, 

Shall bear the gree, an' a' that. 

For a' that, an' a' that, 

It's coming yet for a' that, 

That Man to Man, the world o'er, 

Shall brothers be for a' that.

BBC Robert Burns

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Thursday

RDG asked what a 'Burns Supper' was. I thought I would quickly inform you to please her and avoid going out in the rain.  Rain is something to avoid when there are holes in the shoes.  Many years ago some fans of Robert Burns, indeed some people who had in fact known him, devised a 'supper' where they could remember him and toast his memory.  This is not a new fad, the Romans did this in the catacombs to remember their dead, and indeed Christians do the same in most churches. Since that time it developed rapidly in Scotland the idea of getting together on the long, cold winters night to remember Scotland's favourite Bard and eat and drink, in some cases mostly drink!  


Basically a Haggis is brought in, following a Piper in more formal settings, and a member of the congregation will read, or quote from memory, Burns ode, 'Address to a Haggis!'  

"Fair fa' your honest, sonsie face, 

Great chieftain o' the pudding-race!"   

Then the pudding is toasted with whisky and served with 'neeps and tatties,' (Mashed turnip and potatoes.) As Burns himself died in 1796 few people today actually met him. However a speech in his 'Immortal Memory' recording some of Burns doings will be made by a knowledgeable member of the assembly, usually amusing, usually short enough to stop the locals finishing the whisky too early.  Toasts will be made to the cook, the piper, various members of the dining fraternity and readings of Burns massive output of poems will be given, and possibly his many songs sung. 

A good time is had by all, and the local constabulary will arrive to remove the bodies in the wee small hours.

There is a lot to admire in Robert Burns.  Hard working farmer as well as a born poet, almost self educated, popular with the ladies, yet not to keen on the 'literati set' in Edinburgh, though he got on well with the ladies!  After his time in Edinburgh he returned to the farm but times were hard so he became an exciseman possibly with the idea of 'set a thief to catch a thief!  Smuggling being popular work in those days. We were told as kids that he died from overwork on the farm.  However it is also alleged that while his health was failing, and his lifestyle possibly catching up with him, he fell asleep on the grass verge in the rain while heading home from the pub and woke up 'deid!  Take your pick as to what you believe!

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William Topaz McGonagall 'Edinburgh'

Edinburgh

Beautiful city of Edinburgh!

Where the tourist can drown his sorrow

By viewing your monuments and statues fine

During the lovely summer-time.

I'm sure it will his spirits cheer

As Sir Walter Scott's monument he draws near,

That stands in East Prince's Street

Amongst flowery gardens, fine and neat.

And Edinburgh Castle is magnificent to be seen

With its beautiful walks and trees so green,

Which seems like a fairy dell;

And near by its rocky basement is St Margaret's Well,

Where the tourist can drink at when he feels dry,

And view the castle from beneath so very high,

Which seems almost towering to the sky.

Then as for Nelson's monument that stands on Calton Hill,

As the tourist gazes thereon, with wonder his heart does fill

As he thinks on Admiral Nelson who did the Frenchmen kill,

Then, as for Salisbury Crags, they are most beautiful to be seen,

Especially in the month of June, when the grass is green;

There numerous mole-hills can be seen,

And the busy little creatures howking away,

Searching for worms among the clay;

And as the tourist's eye does wander to and fro

From the south side of Salisbury Crags below,

His bosom with admiration feels all aglow

As he views the beautiful scenery in the valley below;

And if, with an observant eye, the little loch beneath he scans,

He can see the wild ducks about and beautiful white swans.

Then, as for Arthur's Seat, I'm sure it is a treat

Most worthy to be seen, with its rugged rocks and pastures green,

And the sheep browsing on its sides

To and fro, with slow-paced strides,

And the little lambkins at play

During the livelong summer day,

Beautiful city of Edinburgh! the truth to express,

Your beauties are matchless I must confess,

And which no one dare gainsay,

But that you are the grandest city in Scotland at the present day!    

William Topaz McGonagall