burns night.........

[stan the man]

hope all you sweaty's are having a good 'un...... :beer: :beer:

not too much mind you 3ck04

 

[Wolfie]

1.
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 wordy of a grace
As lang's my arm.
2.
The groaning trencher there ye fill,
Your hudies 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.
3.
His knife see rustic Labour dight,
An' cut ye up wi' ready slight,
Trenching your gushing entrails bright,
Like onie ditch;
And then, O what a glorious sight,
Warm-reeking, rich!
4.
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.
5.
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?
6.
Poor devil! see him owre his trash,
As fecl;ess as a wither'd rash,
His spindle shank a guid whip-lash,
His nieve a nit;
Tho' bluidy flood or field to dash,
O how unfit.
7.
But mark the Rustic, haggis-fed,
The trembling earth resounds his tread,
Clap in his walie nieve a blade,
He'll make it whistle;
An' legs, an' arms, an' heads will sned
Like taps o' thrissle.
8.
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 gratfu' prayer,
Gie her a Haggis!

 

[FIREJIM5]

1.
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 wordy of a grace
As lang's my arm.
2.
The groaning trencher there ye fill,
Your hudies 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.
3.
His knife see rustic Labour dight,
An' cut ye up wi' ready slight,
Trenching your gushing entrails bright,
Like onie ditch;
And then, O what a glorious sight,
Warm-reeking, rich!
4.
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.
5.
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?
6.
Poor devil! see him owre his trash,
As fecl;ess as a wither'd rash,
His spindle shank a guid whip-lash,
His nieve a nit;
Tho' bluidy flood or field to dash,
O how unfit.
7.
But mark the Rustic, haggis-fed,
The trembling earth resounds his tread,
Clap in his walie nieve a blade,
He'll make it whistle;
An' legs, an' arms, an' heads will sned
Like taps o' thrissle.
8.
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 gratfu' prayer,
Gie her a Haggis!

Hear Hear:bow:

 

[R2B2]

Andy - can I please have some of whatever it is you are taking. I've PM'd you me address. Thankyou - the cheque is in the post.

 

[Wolfie]

nope i grew i'll eat it.

get educated man tis burns address to a haggis

 

[Wolfie]

shaun man here yer tune :yo: :yo:


The Thames flows proudly to the sea,
Where royal cities stately stand;
But sweeter flows the Nith to me,
Where Cummins ance had high command.
When shall I see that honor'd land,
That winding stream I love so dear?
Must wayward Fortune's adverse hand
For ever - ever keep me here?

How lovely, Nith, thy fruitful vales,
Where bounding hawthorns gaily bloom,
And sweetly spread thy sloping dales,
Where lambkins wanton thro' the broom!
Tho' wandering now must be my doom
Far from thy bonie banks and braes,
May there my latest hours consume
Amang my friends of early days

 

[marcella]

shaun man here yer tune :yo: :yo:


The Thames flows proudly to the sea,
Where royal cities stately stand;
But sweeter flows the Nith to me,
Where Cummins ance had high command.
When shall I see that honor'd land,
That winding stream I love so dear?
Must wayward Fortune's adverse hand
For ever - ever keep me here?

How lovely, Nith, thy fruitful vales,
Where bounding hawthorns gaily bloom,
And sweetly spread thy sloping dales,
Where lambkins wanton thro' the broom!
Tho' wandering now must be my doom
Far from thy bonie banks and braes,
May there my latest hours consume
Amang my friends of early days

aye he did some dancing around the banks of the nith did robert burns (the fookin horizontal mambo?)next time your here we'll visit his town house its freakily small, he must've been all of 5 foot tall.

try visiting www.robertburns.org

 

[Wolfie]

wonder if he used your specail place???




















































like everyother fooker around there!!!!

 

[marcella]

wonder if he used your specail place???

like everyother fooker around there!!!!

ha! i wouldn't be surprised, seems every fooker within a 20 mile radius has burst a bubble in that tidy grove:dunno: and i thought the damp grass was just late dew

 

[Wolfie]

uke: uke: