http://i27.tinypic.com/9fws5l.jpg

 

I think I will recite a poem

 

 

***Ahem*** (clears throat)

 

 

A Man's a Man for A' That

By Robert Burns, 1795

 

 

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 hodding grey, an a' that?

Gie fools their skills, and knaves their wine -

A man's a man for a' that.

For a' that, an 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 cuif 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 aboon his might -

Guid faith, he mauna 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 brithers be for a' that.

Edited January 25, 200817 yr by Jupiter9

How very Robbie-related :teresa:

 

What's Burns Night?

Auld Lang Syne

 

1788

Type: Poem

 

Should auld acquaintance be forgot,

And never brought to mind?

Should auld acquaintance be forgot,

And auld lang syne!

 

Chorus.-For auld lang syne, my dear,

For auld lang syne.

We'll tak a cup o' kindness yet,

For auld lang syne.

 

And surely ye'll be your pint stowp!

And surely I'll be mine!

And we'll tak a cup o'kindness yet,

For auld lang syne.

For auld, &c.

 

We twa hae run about the braes,

And pou'd the gowans fine;

But we've wander'd mony a weary fit,

Sin' auld lang syne.

For auld, &c.

 

We twa hae paidl'd in the burn,

Frae morning sun till dine;

But seas between us braid hae roar'd

Sin' auld lang syne.

For auld, &c.

 

And there's a hand, my trusty fere!

And gie's a hand o' thine!

And we'll tak a right gude-willie waught,

For auld lang syne.

For auld, &c.

 

 

^_^

 

(Oh and for all those non-Scots the World o'er- it's syne with a soft 's', not zyne with a 'z'. Few things annoy me more. :P )

Can I join tonight without really understand the poem? :dance:

 

 

Ohh I have one aswell :o

 

Roses are red, Violets are blue....

 

You know the drill :heehee:

You've never heard of Burns night? :o

 

It's one of Scotland's main celebration nights. The birthday of our National Bard. ^_^

 

And it's Robbie related because they share a first name. :P

And they both share a love of the lassies :kink:

Ridiculous reason for posting a thread on it :rofl:

 

I've heard of it but I never knew it was. As a child I think I thought it was Bonfire Night... you can understand why :P Why don't we have a Shakespeare Night? :o

And they both share a love of the lassies :kink:

 

Like in Lassie the dog ? :wub:

 

I don't know. Why don't the English have a Shakespeare Night? Wonder what you would do at it though.... :unsure:

Like in Lassie the dog ? :wub:

 

To be fair, I think they both had their fair share of dogs :P

 

Well what do you do on Burns Night? :unsure:

To be fair, I think they both had their fair share of dogs :P

 

Ok then, at least I know now what we're talking about :cheer:

 

eat neeps and tatties :yahoo:

My favourite poem :wub:

 

 

 

 

Tam o' Shanter (Original)

 

When chapmen billies leave the street,

And drouthy neibors, neibors meet,

As market days are wearing late,

An' folk begin to tak the gate;

While we sit bousing at the nappy,

And getting fou and unco happy,

We think na on the lang Scots miles,

The mosses, waters, slaps, and styles,

That lie between us and our hame,

Where sits our sulky sullen dame.

Gathering her brows like gathering storm,

Nursing her wrath to keep it warm.

 

This truth fand honest Tam o' Shanter,

As he frae Ayr ae night did canter,

(Auld Ayr, wham ne'er a town surpasses

For honest men and bonie lasses.)

 

O Tam! had'st thou but been sae wise,

As ta'en thy ain wife Kate's advice!

She tauld thee weel thou was a skellum,

A blethering, blustering, drunken blellum;

That frae November till October,

Ae market-day thou was nae sober;

That ilka melder, wi' the miller,

Thou sat as lang as thou had siller;

That every naig was ca'd a shoe on,

The smith and thee gat roaring fou on;

That at the Lord's house, even on Sunday,

Thou drank wi' Kirkton Jean till Monday.

She prophesied that late or soon,

Thou would be found deep drown'd in Doon;

Or catch'd wi' warlocks in the mirk,

By Alloway's auld haunted kirk.

 

Ah, gentle dames! it gars me greet,

To think how mony counsels sweet,

How mony lengthen'd, sage advices,

The husband frae the wife despises!

 

But to our tale:-- Ae market-night,

Tam had got planted unco right;

Fast by an ingle, bleezing finely,

Wi' reaming swats, that drank divinely

And at his elbow, Souter Johnny,

His ancient, trusty, drouthy crony;

Tam lo'ed him like a vera brither--

They had been fou for weeks thegither!

The night drave on wi' sangs and clatter

And ay the ale was growing better:

The landlady and Tam grew gracious,

wi' favours secret,sweet and precious

The Souter tauld his queerest stories;

The landlord's laugh was ready chorus:

The storm without might rair and rustle,

Tam did na mind the storm a whistle.

 

Care, mad to see a man sae happy,

E'en drown'd himsel' amang the nappy!

As bees flee hame wi' lades o' treasure,

The minutes wing'd their way wi' pleasure:

Kings may be blest, but Tam was glorious.

O'er a' the ills o' life victorious!

 

But pleasures are like poppies spread,

You sieze the flower, its bloom is shed;

Or like the snow falls in the river,

A moment white--then melts for ever;

Or like the borealis race,

That flit ere you can point their place;

Or like the rainbow's lovely form

Evanishing amid the storm.--

Nae man can tether time or tide;

The hour approaches Tam maun ride;

That hour, o' night's black arch the key-stane,

That dreary hour he mounts his beast in;

And sic a night he taks the road in

As ne'er poor sinner was abroad in.

 

The wind blew as 'twad blawn its last;

The rattling showers rose on the blast;

The speedy gleams the darkness swallow'd

Loud, deep, and lang, the thunder bellow'd:

That night, a child might understand,

The Deil had business on his hand.

 

Weel mounted on his gray mare, Meg--

A better never lifted leg--

Tam skelpit on thro' dub and mire;

Despisin' wind and rain and fire.

Whiles holding fast his gude blue bonnet;

Whiles crooning o'er some auld Scots sonnet;

Whiles glowring round wi' prudent cares,

Lest bogles catch him unawares:

Kirk-Alloway was drawing nigh,

Whare ghaists and houlets nightly cry.

 

By this time he was cross the ford,

Whare, in the snaw, the chapman smoor'd;

And past the birks and meikle stane,

Whare drunken Chairlie brak 's neck-bane;

And thro' the whins, and by the cairn,

Whare hunters fand the murder'd bairn;

And near the thorn, aboon the well,

Whare Mungo's mither hang'd hersel'.--

Before him Doon pours all his floods;

The doubling storm roars thro' the woods;

The lightnings flash from pole to pole;

Near and more near the thunders roll:

When, glimmering thro' the groaning trees,

Kirk-Alloway seem'd in a bleeze;

Thro' ilka bore the beams were glancing;

And loud resounded mirth and dancing.

 

Inspiring bold John Barleycorn!

What dangers thou canst make us scorn!

Wi' tippeny, we fear nae evil;

Wi' usquabae, we'll face the devil!--

The swats sae ream'd in Tammie's noddle,

Fair play, he car'd na deils a boddle.

But Maggie stood, right sair astonish'd,

Till, by the heel and hand admonish'd,

She ventured forward on the light;

And, wow! Tam saw an unco sight

 

Warlocks and witches in a dance;

Nae cotillion brent-new frae France,

But hornpipes, jigs strathspeys, and reels,

Put life and mettle in their heels.

A winnock-bunker in the east,

There sat auld Nick, in shape o' beast;

A towzie tyke, black, grim, and large,

To gie them music was his charge:

He scre'd the pipes and gart them skirl,

Till roof and rafters a' did dirl.--

Coffins stood round, like open presses,

That shaw'd the dead in their last dresses;

And by some develish cantraip slight,

Each in its cauld hand held a light.--

By which heroic Tam was able

To note upon the haly table,

A murders's banes in gibbet-airns;

Twa span-lang, wee, unchristen'd bairns;

A thief, new-cutted frae a rape,

Wi' his last gasp his gab did gape;

Five tomahawks, wi blude red-rusted;

Five scymitars, wi' murder crusted;

A garter, which a babe had strangled;

A knife, a father's throat had mangled,

Whom his ain son o' life bereft,

The gray hairs yet stack to the heft;

Wi' mair o' horrible and awfu',

Which even to name was be unlawfu'.

Three lawyers' tongues, turn'd inside out,

Wi' lies seam'd like a beggar's clout;

Three priests' hearts, rotten, black as muck,

Lay stinking, vile in every neuk.

 

As Tammie glowr'd, amaz'd, and curious,

The mirth and fun grew fast and furious;

The piper loud and louder blew;

The dancers quick and quicker flew;

They reel'd, they set, they cross'd, they cleekit,

Till ilka carlin swat and reekit,

And coost her duddies to the wark,

And linket at it her sark!

 

Now Tam, O Tam! had thae been queans,

A' plump and strapping in their teens,

Their sarks, instead o' creeshie flannen,

Been snaw-white seventeen hunder linnen!

Thir breeks o' mine, my only pair,

That ance were plush, o' gude blue hair,

I wad hae gi'en them off my hurdies,

For ae blink o' the bonie burdies!

 

But wither'd beldams, auld and droll,

Rigwoodie hags wad spean a foal,

Louping and flinging on a crummock,

I wonder did na turn thy stomach!

 

But Tam kend what was what fu' brawlie:

There was ae winsome wench and waulie,

That night enlisted in the core,

Lang after ken'd on Carrick shore;

(For mony a beast to dead she shot,

And perish'd mony a bonie boat,

And shook baith meikle corn and bear,

And kept the country-side in fear.)

Her cutty-sark, o' Paisley harn

That while a lassie she had worn,

In longitude tho' sorely scanty,

It was her best, and she was vauntie,-

Ah! little ken'd thy reverend grannie,

That sark she coft for he wee Nannie,

Wi' twa pund Scots, ('twas a' her riches),

Wad ever grac'd a dance of witches!

 

But here my Muse her wing maun cour;

Sic flights are far beyond her pow'r;

To sing how Nannie lap and flang,

(A souple jade she was, and strang),

And how Tam stood, like ane bewitch'd,

And thought his very een enrich'd;

Even Satan glowr'd, and fidg'd fu' fain,

And hotch'd and blew wi' might and main;

Till first ae caper, syne anither,

Tam tint his reason ' thegither,

And roars out, "Weel done, Cutty-sark!"

And in an instant all was dark:

And scarcely had he Maggie rallied,

When out the hellish legion sallied.

 

As bees bizz out wi' angry fyke,

When plundering herds assail their byke;

As open pussie's mortal foes,

When, pop! she starts before their nose;

As eager runs the market-crowd,

When "Catch the thief!" resounds aloud;

So Maggie runs, the witches follow,

Wi' mony an eldritch skriech and hollo.

 

Ah, Tam! ah, Tam! thou'll get thy fairin'!

In hell they'll roast thee like a herrin'!

In vain thy Kate awaits thy commin'!

Kate soon will be a woefu' woman!

Now, do thy speedy utmost, Meg,

And win the key-stane o' the brig;

There at them thou thy tail may toss,

A running stream they dare na cross.

But ere the key-stane she could make,

The fient a tail she had to shake!

For Nannie, far before the rest,

Hard upon noble Maggie prest,

And flew at Tam wi' furious ettle;

But little wist she Maggie's mettle -

Ae spring brought off her master hale,

But left behind her ain gray tail;

The carlin claught her by the rump,

And left poor Maggie scarce a stump.

 

No, wha this tale o' truth shall read,

Ilk man and mother's son take heed;

Whene'er to drink you are inclin'd,

Or cutty-sarks run in your mind,

Think! ye may buy joys o'er dear -

Remember Tam o' Shanter's mare.

 

 

 

:yahoo:

 

 

Well what do you do on Burns Night? :unsure:

 

 

Haggis, neeps and tatties

Bagpipes

Poetry

Song (Burns wrote songs too)

Drinking

Dancing

 

 

 

 

 

 

eat neeps and tatties :yahoo:

 

 

And the Haggis :o

 

Haggis, neeps and tatties

Bagpipes

Poetry

Song (Burns wrote songs too)

Drinking

Dancing

With all that how you could possibly be bored? :o :P

Ooh that reminds me for some reason Jups, you've never seen me correct? I have a pic in the gallery now :cheer: Proof that I am indeed a blondie ^_^

:o

 

Off to look

Andre you look nothing like I imagined :o :o :o

 

You just get impressions of how you think people look... And they look sod all like your impressions :lol: