Happy St Valentine’s Day!

Happy St Valentine’s Day Everyone!

I hope you all get some wonderful books off your Valentine’s.

I know it is not Friday but I just had to share this special poem about love with you all. I think Robert Burns sums it up perfectly.

A Red, Red Rose

My love is like a red, red rose

That’s newly sprung in June:

My love is like the melody

That’s sweetly played in tune.

 

As fair art thou, my bonnie lass,

So deep in love am I:

And I will love 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 love thee still my dear,

While the sands o’ life shall run.

 

And fare thee weel, my only love,

And fare thee weel a while!

And I will come again, my love, 

Thou’ it were ten thousand mile.

 

Robert Burns

 

Lady Book Dragon

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Friday Poetry

Happy Burns Night everybody! I thought we needed a suitable poem to celebrate the occassion.

A long time ago I bought a wonderful book full of all of Robert Burns poetry and songs and since then I have dipped in the book occassionally to read some of the poems and songs. I think Burns most famous poem is the one I have chosen below. I hope you enjoy it!

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Address To A Haggis

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

The groaning trencher there ye fill,
Your hurdies like a distant hill,
Your pin wad 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 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 an strive:
Deil tak the hindmost, on they drive,
Till a’ their weel-swall’d kytes belyve
Are bent like drums;
The 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 mak her spew
Wi perfect scunner,
Looks down wi sneering, scornfu view
On sic a dinner?

Poor devil! see him owre his trash,
As feckless as a wither’d rash,
His spindle shank a guid whip-lash,
His nieve a nit;
Thro bloody 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 make it whissle;
An legs an arms, an heads will sned,
Like taps o thrissle.

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

 

Lady Book Dragon