The best laid schemes [plans] o' Mice and Men

...Gang aft agley [oft go awry] according to the Scottish poet Robert Burns in his poem "To a Mouse", which he subtitled On Turning her up in her Nest, with a Plough, November 1785.

Mrs. RWP and I were planning to drive over to Alabama to see our grandson graduate from university today, but a bad weather forecast complete with lightning strikes and high winds put an end to that. We cancelled our plans last night. And now today, in real life, not as scary meteorologists on television predicted, the weather isn't bad at all. I hate it when that happens.

We had envisioned a "day trip", three hours driving over, three or four hours there, a meal with the family, and three hours driving back, with our doggie in her crate at home the entire time wondering what had happened to us. At my age such a day can be tiring and stressful, so that part would be avoided, at least. Still, we couldn't help being extremely disappointed..

At the last minute, however, our daughter learned this morning that the graduation ceremony would be live-streamed on both YouTube and the university's Facebook page. We were able to watch the entire thing from start to finish on our flat-screen TV with better than front-row seats (can you say "tele-photo lens"?), so all's well that ends well. Modern technology is truly remarkable.

A blogger named Rachel put up a new post yesterday with the title "I think therefore I am" which is an English translation of what Rene Descartes actually said, first in French way back in 1637 (Je pense, donc je suis) and later in Latin (Cogito, ergo sum).

Progess being vastly over-rated, things have become so confusing in the world of late that perhaps it would be more accurate to say, "I think I am, therefore I might possibly be" or even "I don't know what to think, and when I am gone there will be few who even knew I ever was".

On that happy note, I end this post with the reminder that bloggers may come and bloggers may go, but blogging will go on forever, or at least until the technology is replaced by something newer.

Remember, the abacus, the gramophone, and the stereopticon were all marvels in their time.

We might as well go ahead and get it over with

I mean, if Yorkshire Pudding (not his real name) can write about Yorkshire puddings, I’ll see his Yorkshire pudding and raise him a haggis.

In a comment on my previous post about F.M. Moore wearing a kilt, a commenter brought up the subject of Scottish restaurants, which made me think of Scottish food, which made me think of haggis, which made me think, naturally, of poetry.

If you’re not familiar with haggis, you can read all about it here.

When you’re finished retching, we can proceed.

I’ll wait.

So, being Scottish and all, Robert Burns wrote a poem in 1787 called “Address To a Haggis” because he had already written poems to a mouse and to a louse and was trying to plumb the depths, as it were, for more material.

I am going to show you the poem, but first, as a public service,
I am going to list nigh onto 30 explanatory notes (Scotsmen say things like “nigh onto” all the time) because without them you will never understand Burns’s poem:

Explanatory Notes for the Non-Scottish
1. sonsie = jolly/cheerful
2. aboon = above
3. painch = paunch/stomach
4. thairm = intestine
5. hurdies = buttocks
6. dicht = wipe, here with the idea of sharpening
7. slicht = skill
8. reeking = steaming
9. deil = devil
10. swall’d = swollen
11. kytes = bellies
12. belyve = soon
13. bent like = tight as
14. auld Guidman = the man of the house
15. rive = tear, i.e. burst
16. olio = stew, from Spanish olla’/stew pot
17. staw = make sick
18. scunner = disgust
19. nieve = fist
20. nit = louse’s egg, i.e. tiny
21. wallie = mighty
22. nieve = fist
23. sned = cut off
24. thristle = thistle
25. skinkin ware = watery soup
26. jaups = slops about
27. luggies = two-“eared” (handled) continental bowls


And now, here is the poem:

Address To a Haggis
by Robert Burns (1759 - 1796)

Fair fa’ your honest, sonsie face,
Great chieftain o’ 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 groaning trencher there ye fill,
Your hurdies like a distant hill,
Your pin wad help to mend a mill
In time o’ need,
While thro’ your pores the dews distil
Like amber bead.

His knife see rustic Labour dicht,
An’ cut you up wi’ ready slicht,
Trenching your gushing entrails bricht,
Like ony ditch;
And then, O what a glorious sicht,
Warm-reekin, rich!

Then, horn for horn, they stretch an’ strive:
Deil tak the hindmaist! on they drive,
Till a’ their weel-swall’d kytes belyve,
Are bent like drums;
Then auld Guidman, maist like to rive,
“Bethankit” hums.

Is there that o’re his French ragout
Or olio that wad staw a sow,
Or fricassee wad mak her spew
Wi’ perfect scunner,
Looks down wi’ sneering, scornfu’ view
On sic a dinner?

Poor devil! see him ower his trash,
As feckless as a wither’d rash,
His spindle shank, a guid whip-lash,
His nieve a nit;
Thro’ bloody flood or field to dash,
O how unfit!

But mark the Rustic, haggis fed,
The trembling earth resounds his tread.
Clap in his wallie nieve a blade,
He’ll mak it whistle;
An' legs an’ arms, an’ heads will sned,
Like taps o’ thristle.

Ye Pow’rs wha mak mankind your care,
And dish them out their bill o’ fare,
Auld Scotland wants nae skinkin ware
That jaups in luggies;
But, if ye wish her gratefu’ prayer,
Gie her a haggis!

(End of poem)

You know something? It is my considered opinion that even with nigh onto 30 explanatory notes, you still will never understand Burns’s poem.

But I hope that Ian, a lad with a Scottish name who lives in Lancashire and shoots parrots in his spare time, has had his fill of things Scottish today.

I really saw myself the other evening

If you click here you will see Besse Cooper, currently the world’s oldest person. She turned 115 on Friday, August 26, 2011, and lives right here in Georgia. She attained the title when a woman in Brazil died in June.

In my part of the state -- the part we lump together and call “North Atlanta” -- we also have Dr. Leila Denmark, who is 113. She is currently the 7th-oldest person alive in the world. Much beloved locally, she was the oldest practicing pediatrician in the world when she retired at the age of 103 in 2001.

Compared to them, I’m still a youngster at 70.

There’s a guy about my age in England who writes a blog called Grumpy Old Ken that is usually a real hoot. Now and then, though, he makes us stop laughing and brings a tear to the eye.
A good example is this recent post of his, which includes a poem about an old man being cared for by nurses.

Ken mentioned the current state of his teeth, his eyesight, his knees, and his departing hair as signs of his own rapid decline. With me, it’s something else altogether. I could deny it until the other evening, but I cannot deny it any longer.

The other evening, Mrs. RWP and I were watching television when she suddenly said, “Would you get me a Q-tip?”

Being the helpful, thoughtful, and thoroughly obedient husband that I am, I immediately arose and walked toward the master bedroom because the master bedroom leads to the master bathroom and that’s where the Q-tips are. I thought I heard Mrs. RWP say, “Where are you going?” but I didn’t answer because she knew darned well where I was going.

I retrieved a Q-tip and brought it back to Mrs. RWP, who was still sitting in her chair watching television. I stood in front of her and held up the Q-tip. She had a quizzical look on her face.

“What is that?” she said.

“You asked me to get you a Q-tip,” I said, growing a little impatient and wondering whether Mrs. RWP was at last beginning to lose it. “Here it is.”

“I didn’t ask for a Q-tip," Mrs. RWP replied. “I asked if you would get me a few chips.”

We both had a good laugh.

It was a simple mistake.
I told myself anyone could make it.

But I'm the one who did.

In his post, Grumpy Old Ken quoted a couple of famous lines written by Robert Burns:

“O wad some Power the giftie gie us
To see oursels as ithers see us!”

You know what? I really saw myself the other evening.

Even prose can be poetic

Earlier this morning I was reading today’s edition of The Writer’s Almanac when the whole thing turned into a rhyming poem. Today, it turns out, is the birthday of Virginia Woolf. Her first masterpiece, it said, was Mrs. Dalloway. After going on some more about Virginia Woolf (it also mentioned her To the Lighthouse and The Waves and her long essay, A Room of One’s Own), another factoid announced that today is also the birthday of the man who wrote, “The best laid schemes o’ mice an' men / Gang aft agley” and “Should auld acquaintance be forgot, / And never brought to mind?” and “O my luve’s like a red, red rose, / That’s newly sprung in June; O my luve’s like the melodie / That’s sweetly played in tune” -- none other than Robert Burns, who, said The Writer’s Almanac, was born in 1759 in Scotland in the town of -- wait for it -- Alloway.

All of a sudden it struck me that Dalloway and Alloway rhyme and I thought of (a) my childhood friend John Galloway and (b) how the entire reading for today in The Writer’s Almanac was suddenly transformed from dull prose into a kind of lovely poem that someone like Ogden Nash might have written on a very good day.

The effect was short-lived, however, because a short final paragraph in which the writer of The Writer’s Almanac used the phrase “Burns’ poems” when any editor worth his or her salt knows it should be “Burns’s poems” brought me back to reality.

If you think “Burns’ poems” is just fine you obviously have never read The Elements of Style by William Strunk, Jr. and E.B. White. Strunk, who was White’s English professor at Cornell in 1919, had written the little book himself as a textbook for his classes. White re-published it in later years, adding an Introduction.

Here is Rule 1 from Will Strunk’s first chapter, Elementary Rules of Usage:


1. Form the possessive singular of nouns by adding ’s.

Follow this rule whatever the final consonant. Thus write,

Charles’s friend
Burns’s poems
the witch’s malice

Exceptions are the possessives of ancient proper names in es and is, the possessive Jesus’, and such forms as for conscience’ sake, for righteousness’ sake. But such forms as Moses’ laws, Isis’ temple are commonly replaced by

the laws of Moses
the temple of Isis

The pronominal possessives hers, its, theirs, yours, and ours have no apostrophe. Indefinite pronouns, however, use the apostrophe to show possession.

one’s rights
somebody else’s umbrella

A common error is to write it’s for its, or vice versa. The first is a contraction, meaning “it is.” The second is a possessive.

It’s a wise dog that scratches its own fleas.

(End of first page of Chapter 1 of The Elements of Style)


E.B. White, in his Introduction to the second edition of Strunk’s book, said:

“Some years ago, when the heir to the throne of England was a child, I noticed a headline in the Times about Bonnie Prince Charlie: “CHARLES’ TONSILS OUT.” Immediately Rule 1 leapt to mind.

Charles’s friend
Burns’s poems
the witch’s malice

Clearly, Will Strunk had foreseen, as far back as 1918, the dangerous tonsillectomy of a prince, in which the surgeon removes the tonsils and the Times copy desk removes the final s. I commend Rule 1 to the Times, and I trust that Charles’s throat, not Charles’ throat, is in fine shape today.”

I note happily that Will Strunk foresaw not only Charles’s tonsillectomy but also today’s edition of The Writer’s Almanac with the phrase “Burns’ poems” that jumped out of the blue to shatter my Alloway-Dalloway-Galloway reverie and return me to the cold light of day.

Just for good measure, I am going to throw in here Rule 13 in Strunk’s own words:

13. Omit needless words.

Vigorous writing is concise. A sentence should contain no unnecessary words, a paragraph no unnecessary sentences, for the same reason that a drawing should have no unnecessary lines and a machine no unnecessary parts. This requires not that the writer make all his sentences short, or that he avoid all detail and treat his subjects only in outline, but that every word tell.


E.B. Write called that paragraph “sixty-three words that could change the world.”

Elements of Style has its critics. Not everyone likes it or agrees with its rules. The world changes, time marches on, and language is not static.

But I like what Dorothy Parker said in her review of Elements for Esquire magazine in 1957: “If you have any young friends who aspire to become writers, the second greatest favor you can do them is to present them with copies of The Elements of Style. The first greatest, of course, is to shoot them now, while they’re happy.”