Celebrate Burns Night

This year, as in previous years, Tadpole has been asked to "dirk the haggis". As master of ceremonies he will recite the Address to a Haggis as it is piped into the room. Sadly the pipes will be on CD, but the dirk will not. He has been practising reciting the poem in dialect for many weeks and will do so by heart!

Ironically, Tadpole is a strict vegetarian, so although he will recite the Ode and "Dirk the Haggis" (plunge a sharp knife into the haggis so it spills out!) he will be eating vegetarian haggis only.

Haggis, both traditional and vegetarian, will be served with champit tatties (mashed potatoes) and neeps (mashed carrot, turnip and swede) and accompanied by a glass of uisge-beatha - the water of life - whisky!

We will recite more of Burns' poems and I shall sing a couple of his songs.

Here is the free sheet music (melody and guitar TAB) for My Love is Like A Red Red Rose. All you have to do is click on the guitar. You can play this melody on any instrument.



To listen to an MP3 of my arrangement for Flute and classical guitar or purchase sheet music, you need to click on this guitar:

This design incorporates the full Robert Burns poem, To A Mouse as well as another of Tadpole's cute cartoons!


Robert Burns To A Mouse Poetry Card by persimew

One of Robert Burns' most delightful poems is To A Mouse. It shows great thought and insight and the imagery he conjures is lovely!.

Wee, sleekit, cowran, tim'rous beastie,
O, what 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' murd'ring 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 winds ensuin,
Baith snell an' keen!

Thou saw the fields laid bare an' wast,
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 are 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!


Thy wee bit housie, to, in ruin by persimew