Rabbi Burns

Yesterday it was Robert Burns' 247th birthday. And by Scots all over the world, that day is celebrated by having a Robert Burns' Supper. The ritual was started a few years after Burns' death, as a tribute to his memory. The usual thing to eat during this night, is the haggis. They all stand around the table when the Haggis is brought in, and one person then recites Burns' famous poem, To A Haggis. Then they all toast the haggis with a glass of whisky. You cannot have a Burns' Night without the whisky! They will toast the Lasses,the lasses will toast the men, they'll recite poems and maybe a few songs, someone will talk about Burn's life and the evening culiminates with the company standing, linking arms and singing Auld Lang Syne . It's such a wonderful way to pay tribute to Scotlands National Poet! If you've ever been to one of these suppers, then you know what I'm talking about! And if you haven't, well, then I suggest you have one yourself! I have, a couple of years, and it's great fun! This year I haven't had the energy to have people over for a Burns Supper, I've had to much on my mind. Right now I wish I had invited to a Burns Supper after all. Oh well, maybe next year........

One of my favourite poems by Burns:

To A Mouse.
	Wee sleekit, cow'rin, tim'rous beastie, O, what a panic's in thy breastie! Thou need na start awa sae hasty, Wi bickering brattle! I wad be laith to rin an chase thee, Wi murdering pattle! I'm truly sorry man's dominion Has broken Nature's social union, An justifies that ill opinion, Which makes thee startle At me, thy poor, earth-born companion. An fellow mortal! I doubt na, whyles, but thou may thieve: What then? poor beastie, thou maun live! A daimen icker in a thrave 'S a sma request; I'll get a blessin wi the lave, An never miss't! Thy wee-bit housie, too, in ruin! Its silly wa's the win's are strewin! An naething, now, to big a new ane, O foggage green! An bleak December's win's ensuin. Baith snell an keen! Thou saw the fields laid bare an waste, An weary winter comin fast. An cozie here, beneath the blast, Thou thought to dwell, Till crash! the cruel coulter past Out thro thy cell. That wee bit heap o leaves an stibble, Has cost thee monie a weary nibble! Now thou's turn'd out, for a' thy trouble. But house or hald, To thole the winter's sleety dribble, An cranreuch cauld! But Mousie, thou art no thy lane, In proving foresight may be vain: The best-laid schemes o mice an men Gang aft agley, An lea'e us nought but grief an pain, For promis'd joy! Still thou art blest, compar'd wi me! The present only toucheth thee: But och! I backward cast my e'e, On prospects drear! An forward, tho I canna see, I guess an fear!