Since I opted to participate in False Start Friday last week, why not talk about Burns today, eh?
A lot of people only associate the prolific Burns with Auld Lang Syne, but the truth is, he wrote a LOT of poems. I know, because I have a book filled with every single one he ever wrote. My grandfather's book. A true Scotsman he was, too. He could recite Burns' poetry like a Shakespearean actor, and the more libations he had, the more dramatic his recitation.
Even Pop's before-meal grace came from Burns:
Some hae meat, and canna eat,
And some wad eat that want it,
But we hae meat and we can eat,
And sae the Lord be thankit.
You know what the traditional meat is at the Burns Day celebrations? Something called haggis, a sausage-like dish containing what Scots call the pluck of a sheep: its heart, liver and lungs. (Takes a bit of pluck to eat it, too!) When all the ingredients are combined, they're traditionally sewn into the sheep's stomach for cooking, with the windpipe hanging over the side of the pot. Yum, huh? Modern recipes, however, may call for tongue instead of lung, and sausage casing instead of sheep's stomach. But I've even heard of instances where the sausage ingredients are shaped and cooked in a likeness of Burns' head and served on a huge platter. Talk about a following, huh?
Burns wrote poetry about all kinds of things. This, he allegedly wrote after observing a woman in church looking up the text during the sermon:
Fair maid, you need not take the hint,
Nor idle texts pursue;
'Twas guilty sinners that he meant---
Not angels such as you.
Rather than inundate you with more of Bobby Burns' poetry, let me address the question that niggles at many a fair maiden's mind... exactly what do those Scotsmen wear under their kilts???
Well, here ya go. The little ditty in this video will answer that question quite nicely. Cute pics, too. FYI, the illustrator is a very talented young autistic man, who has been drawing since he was a young child.
Now that you're smiling, how about one more short video? (Where do I get these things, you ask? Why, I pull 'em out of my... um, ear... of course.)
Okay, lads and lassies, that'll be aboot it for noo.
May He who gives the rain to pour,
And wings the blast to blaw,
Protect thee frae the driving show'r,
The bitter frost and snaw.
[A photo of my grandmother's cousin Ian. Had I been born with the proper accoutrements, that would have been my name, too.]