It is Burns Night tonight. All over fair Scotland, there will be traditional Burns suppers and recitations. We'll be having haggis, neeps and tatties for our tea tonight in honour of Scotland's poet. Originally from Ayrshire, he lived and died locally when he was much too young. He is buried in Dumfries.
So, if you are at all inclined, have a wee dram for Robert Burns, Scotland's National Poet.
I'll not be attempting any Burns recitations again any time soon. My own attempt at reciting Ode to a Haggis was lamentable. My neighbour Charlie does it much better than I. In fact, his skills are called upon for formal Burns suppers in the area.
Just to lighten things up, here's a joke:
An Englishman is being shown around a Scottish hospital.
At the end of his visit, he is shown into a ward with a number of patients who show no obvious signs of injury. He goes to examine the first man he sees, and the man proclaims:
Fair fa' yer honest, sonsie face,
Great chieftain e' the puddin' 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 Englishman, somewhat taken aback, goes to the next patient, and immediately the patient launches into:
Some hae meat, and canna eat,
And some wad eat that want it,
But we hae meat and we can eat,
And sae the Lord be thankit.
This continues with the next patient:
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 run and chase thee, wi' murdering prattle!"
"Well," the Englishman mutters to his Scottish colleague, "I see you saved the psychiatric ward for the last."
"Nay, nay," the Scottish doctor corrected him, "this is the Burns unit."