April 14, 2008, is my father’s 100th birthday. He would have loved today’s techno-inspired gadgets, and been disturbed by the decline of the readers of hardcover books.
Here’s a dish of cold pineapple and a wee taste of a poem by Bobby Burnes (from Tam O’ Shanter) for you, my centenarian papa. (Now the brogue has got me going, sipping the good, late-night words.)

While we sit bousing at the nappy,
An’ getting fou and unco happy,
We think na on the lang Scots miles,
The mosses, waters, slaps and stiles,
That lie between us and our hame,
Where sits our sulky, sullen dame,
Gathering her brows like gathering storm,
Nursing her wrath to keep it warm…
Inspiring bold John Barleycorn!
What dangers thou canst make us scorn!..
To gie them music was his charge:
He screw’d the pipes and gart them skirl,
Till roof and rafters a’ did dirl…

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