Happy Birthday Rabbie

It is the birthday of Robert Burns today and so I thought I would post this display that I noticed in a local shop. I just managed to stand far enough to the side so you didn't get my reflection - it was seriously snowing at the time so I was not a pretty sight - but I do like the reflections of the buildings opposite and, of course, the mini. I actually think the mini might have been Rabbie's car of choice nowadays - fun, racy and the girls love it.

The reflections are for RedFlash!

Wherever in the world there are Scots this week there will have been many a Burns Supper where folk will meet to listen to an Address to the Haggis and hear recitations from memorable poems written by the Bard.

The forecasters got it spot on today. The snow started at 8am and has continued throughout the day leaving a very sizeable quantity of the white stuff on top of what had already fallen during the week.

I leave you with the poem referred to in the blip.

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!
It's 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 turned 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 are blest, compared 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!

If you need, or are interested in, a translation then you will find it here.