Today is the birthday of Robert Burns. The immortal poet of Scotland. What better way to honor him than with his own words:
My Native Land Sae Far Awa
by Robert Burns
O, sad and heavy, should I part,
But for her sake, sae far awa;
Unknowing what my way may thwart,
My native land sae far awa.
Thou that of a' things Maker art,
That formed this Fair sae far awa,
Gie body strength, then I'll ne'er start
At this my way sae far awa.
How true is love to pure desert!
Like mine for her sae far awa;
And nocht can heal my bosom's smart,
While, oh, she is sae far awa!
Nane other love, nane other dart,
I feel but her's sae far awa;
But fairer never touch'd a heart
Than her's, the Fair, sae far awa.
Tonight, we begin to prepare for our big Burns Supper on Saturday. The house will be cleaned. Lamb will be marinaded. The cranachan will be started. Whiskies will be purchased.
The final touches on the toasts to the laddies and toasts to the lassies will be made.
I'll give the one last practice to my songs for tomorrow, and I'll hope everyone arrives safely for another splendid and entertaining evening.
Photo of the Isle of Skye, © Copyright 2007, Scott E. Harris.
Portrait of Robert Burns and Highland Mary by Thomas Faed, Glasgow Museums.