Here we squat at the very bottom of a True Yankee Winter, all our hedge & hillsides whitely shrouded, the deer crowd 'neath the ledges and the old river steams, and we break our branches short, and we bank our embers deep.
S'truth, 'twill be a wee scrid nippy when I don the kilt late this afternoon, to venture oot to the Inn of the Tartan Fox for a Rabbie Burn's Supper, where I & me ilk shall sup on skirlie & cullen skink & o' course the haggis ("mighty chieftain o' the pudding race"), and stomp our feet to pipers & fiddlers & stand in our chairs, declaiming stuff like: "Scots wha' ha'e wi' Wallace bled, Scots wham Bruce ha'e often led, Welcome to thy gory bed, Or Victory!!"
Aye, the flasks will flash in the passin' tonight, thinks me, and auld John Barleycorn shall whirl the frost from our glenfinnans!
![Twisted Evil :twisted:](./images/smilies/icon_twisted.gif)