Victoria Hash House Harriers Annual Robby Burns Hash - #475
January 24, 2009

 
Friends, Romans, Hashfolks, lend me your beers. I come to PRAISE the Hares, not to parry them or stab them with innuendo.

So much for the Shakespeare knockoffs, let’s get on with the REAL stuff.
We gathered at Robbie Burns statue in Beacon Hill park at the appointed hour. Many examples of noble scottish heritage were on display among the Hash getups so the spirit was good, if not GREAT. Damn few mismanagement members were evident or present, so Stoolie was pressed into duty as acting RA. Only one visitor made her presence known and introductions were sought and shouted out. The three(!!!!) Hares -Boomerang, Dikkus and JackOff - muttered their respective bits of Burns’ wisdom, showed the markings, and we set off for a lope around the side streets and trails of James Bay residential areas.

Being the sole walker, your scribe availed himself of the kind company of JackOff, although that also meant having to accept his offer of transport along the walkers’ trail to the “scotch check” near St Anne’s facility.

 
Soon enough, the runners appeared and an abundance of bottled wealth was produced, poured and consumed with GREAT appreciation. Jackoff provided yet more readings from the Burns gospel as an incentive for the pack to race onwards to the beer check. Hot Nuts appeared long after the rest of the pack, and “might” actually have been on trail.

Alas, AGAIN your scribe was the only walker and AGAIN HAD TO ACCEPT the kind offer of JackOff’s company and transport – this time to the beer check. A LONG wait ensued with more dull conversation and braggadocio than any Hasher should spout or endure, but that will be for history to decide. Eventually (before sundown) the pack appeared, mostly together. Needless to say, the beer was vintage and eagerly consumed in preparation for the final leg back to the start. And Hot Nuts again was far behind the pack, with NO/NO particular explanation offered or sought. So we went onwards to the conclusion of the run.

On formation of the circle, Stoolie once again took the podium amidst the piled up snow scrapings (more like glaciers, methinks!!) for the religion factor. The Hares were scourged for their efforts, given credit for lots of sunshine, negativized for lack of shiggy, and all those usual misdemeanours.

Separately many hounds were summoned for “shopping” on trail - likely for lottery tickets - and given down-downs. Unfortunately, your scribe’s writing took a disastrous turn at this point – due in equal parts to bonechill and beer saturation and poor penmanship - and the remainder of the circle’s proceedings are lost in the scribble. Mea culpa…..

Duly, we adjourned to the on-after at the Sticky Wicket, where HAGGIS was waiting, along with the usual beer (staff of Hashers’ lives). JackOff was pressed into duty to recite the ode to the haggis and to undertake the cutting process. Table manners dissolved as debate raged over the virtues of lumpy versus smooth tatties Meanwhile, Dikkus provided a loooooonnnng and veeeeerrrrryyy detailed description of his searching out a source for the haggis, ensuring its safe production and delivery to the SW, and how his generosity would extend to saving all Hashers present from any cost-recovery measures. Many of us - totally exhausted - went our ways with fond memories of an afternoon well spent. Thanks to all Hares - and Hounds - for your efforts !!

 

To A Mouse, 

On Turning Her Up In Her Nest With The Plough
November 1785

  (run the mouse over the words in red for the standard English translation)

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' 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' 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 turn'd 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's 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!

On-On
Frontal Lobotomy.
(A.K.A. GROG!)
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