Saturday, 26 July 2014

Poem for the day

Thank you for all your comments about my stories. I just wanted to say that they are all fiction and imaginary characters and places. They are set in a small town on the Mediterranean coast where tourists mingle with the locals in the Summer. I have written quite a few stories lately because I have joined a Creative writing group. I hope you enjoy reading them. Yesterday I wrote about an imaginary Scotsman called Fergus and mentioned that he recited a poem called 'To a Haggis' every year on Burns Night. I thought I would make it my poem of the day. Don't worry if you can't understand it all, neither can I, but it is really enjoyable and entertaining to listen to.

To a Haggis, by Robert Burns.

Fair fa' your honest sonsie face
Great Chieftain of the Puddin-race!
Aboon them a' ye tak your place,
                        Painch, tripe or chairm.
Weel are ye wordy of a grace
                        As lang's my arm.

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

His knife see Rustic-labour dight,
An' cut you up wi' ready slight,
trenching your gushing entrails bright
                         Like onie ditch
And then, O what a glorious sight,
                         Warm reekin rich.

Then horn for horn they stretch and strive,
Deil tak the hindmost, on they drive,
Till a' their weel-swall'd kytes belye
                          And bent like drums,
Then auld Guidman, maist like to rive,
                          Bethankit,, hums.

Is there that owns his French ragout,
Or olio that would staw a sow,
Or fricassee would mak her spew
                          Wi' perefect sconner,
Looks down wi' sneering scornful view
                           On sic a dinner.

Poor devil! see him owre his trash,
As feckless as a wither'0d rash.
His spindle shank a guid whip-lash,
                           His nieve a nit,
Thro' bluidy 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 whistle,
An' legs and arms an' heads will sned,
                             Like taps of thrissle.

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

I'll just tell you quickly here that we have French friends that belong to a Scottish circle in Paris. There seems to be a very close bond between Scots and the French. Robbie Burns even got involved in the French Revolution so it goes back a long way. Our friends love Scottish dancing and have entered lots of competitions. they also love Haggis, but eaten the Scottish way, with a lot of whiskey.
For my Italian friends, Scottish whiskey, Irish whisky.

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