[57north-discuss] Saturday

[Midder]

Well Burns to everyone.

I won't be in today but will tomorrow I am going to working on Air quality Stuff, it has been neglected for far too long.

Should be in before noon and till, I don't know.

Kevin.


On Sat, Jan 25, 2020 at 11:37:18AM +0000, Tom Jones wrote:
> On Sat, Jan 25, 2020 at 10:07:49AM +0000, Edward Watson wrote:
> > Hey all
> > 
> > I'll be in the space from 2pm onwards today.
> > 
> > Pop in for fun hackytimes.
> > 
> 
> I wasn't planning on coming in, but I might. Here is a poem either way:
> 
>     Fair fa' your honest, sonsie face,
>     Great chieftain o' the pudding-race!
>     Aboon them a' ye tak your place,
>                       Painch, tripe, or thairm:
>     Weel are ye wordy 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;
>     Then auld Guidman, maist like to rive,
>                       Bethankit hums.
> 
>     Is there that o'er his French ragout,
>     Or olio that wad staw a sow,
>     Or fricassee wad mak her spew
>                       Wi' perfect sconner,
>     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 mak 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 stinking ware
>                       That jaups in luggies;
>     But, if ye wish her gratefu' pray'r,
>                       Gie her a Haggis!
> 
> - [tj]
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> 57north-discuss at lists.57north.co
> http://lists.57north.co/listinfo/57north-discuss
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