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Thread: To the Immortal Memory....

  1. #1
    Commercial Operator Heather's Avatar
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    To the Immortal Memory....

    .......of Robert Burns.
    Born this day the 25th January 1760 - Scotland's National Poet.

    ' O wad some Power the giftie gie us,
    To see oursels as ithers see us!
    It wad frae mony a blunder free us,
    An' foolish notion:'


    Heather,
    XX

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    Omnipotent Moderator Tiggerbabe's Avatar
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    Re: To the Immortal Memory....

    MMMMN! Haggis for tea - hurrah
    "If you rebel against high heels, take care to do so in a very smart hat.'' George Bernard Shaw

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    Registered User Rhythm King's Avatar
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    Re: To the Immortal Memory....

    Quote Originally Posted by Tiggerbabe
    MMMMN! Haggis for tea - hurrah
    Had mine last night - yum! I was invited to a Burns Supper, complete with all the trimmings, including a piper, albeit a day early.

    Great seeing you at the weekend Tigger, missed you on Saturday night though.

    R-K

  4. #4
    The Forum Legend
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    Re: To the Immortal Memory....

    Fair fa' your honest, sonsie face,
    Great chieftain o' the pudding-race!
    Aboon them a' yet tak your place,
    Painch, tripe, or thairm:
    Weel are ye wordy o'a grace
    As lang's my arm.

    The groaning trencher there ye fill,
    Your hurdies like a distant hill,
    Your pin was help to mend a mill
    In time o'need,
    While thro' your pores the dews distil
    Like amber bead.

    His knife see rustic Labour dight,
    An' cut you up wi' ready sleight,
    Trenching your gushing entrails bright,
    Like ony ditch;
    And then, O what a glorious sight,
    Warm-reekin', rich!

    Then, horn for horn, they stretch an' strive:
    Deil tak the hindmost! on they drive,
    Till a' their weel-swall'd kytes belyve
    Are bent like drums;
    Then auld Guidman, maist like to rive,
    Bethankit! hums.

    Is there that owre his French ragout
    Or olio that wad staw a sow,
    Or fricassee wad make her spew
    Wi' perfect sconner,
    Looks down wi' sneering, scornfu' view
    On sic a dinner?

    Poor devil! see him owre his trash,
    As feckles as wither'd rash,
    His spindle shank, a guid whip-lash;
    His nieve a nit;
    Thro' blody flood or field to dash,
    O how unfit!

    But mark the Rustic, haggis-fed,
    The trembling earth resounds his tread.
    Clap in his walie nieve a blade,
    He'll mak it whissle;
    An' legs an' arms, an' hands will sned,
    Like taps o' trissle.

    Ye Pow'rs, wha mak mankind your care,
    And dish them out their bill o' fare,
    Auld Scotland wants nae skinking ware
    That jaups in luggies;
    But, if ye wish her gratefu' prayer
    Gie her a haggis!

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