Frosty Flakes 2 and Burns

I am continuing very slowly with the Frosty Flakes BOW. Trouble is I keep on doing other things as well, so progress is slow. I did not like the block below, as the stitches are so big (quite a few are like this in the pattern), so I took it out and did the stitches smaller.

Here are three more blocks.

I know I am very late talking about Burns - how could I forget him - but we had an awful lot on. We had a Burns Supper on the island, and it was great. There were the usual poems and speeches, the dinner - haggis and clapshot (mashed potatoes and turnip mixed together), clootie dumpling (a fruity pudding steamed in a cloth = cloot) and cream, tea or coffee, any nip (shot) to toast Rabbie, shortbread and chocolates and then a dance. We had a great time, all for $11.50. At 11.50pm the soup and sandwiches came out and then the dance continued. A great night!! 

A few days later, we had a Burns Supper for WI members. I had to do the address to the haggis. (see below). I found a translation of the poem (also see below), so that non-Scots could understand what I was saying. Again we had haggis and clapshot and trifle. No dance this time, but we had two competitions -
1.  a scottish souvenir and
2. design your own tartan.
I got a first for a Scottish brooch - a luckenbooth (This Scottish brooch usually of engraved silver in the shape of a heart or two hearts entwined and is used chiefly as a love token or betrothal brooch. Sometimes there is a crown. The heart (love) and crown (loyalty) both appear on the claddagh ring too. Luckenbooth brooches are of late 19th or early 20th century origin. Sometimes the brooch was pinned to the couple's firstborn's blanket as a good luck charm. Luckenbooths are usually worn by women.) and a third for my tartan design. I had great fun designing it on this site - http://www.house-of-tartan.scotland.net/interactive/weaver/index.html

Hope you enjoy the poem(s).
Till next time.
tich

Address To A Haggis

1786

Fair fa' your honest, sonsie face, Great chieftain o' the pudding-race! Aboon them a' yet 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 was help to mend a mill In time o'need, While thro' your pores the dews distil Like amber bead. His knife see rustic Labour dight, An' cut you up wi' ready sleight, Trenching your gushing entrails bright, Like ony ditch; And then, O what a glorious sight, Warm-reekin', rich! Then, horn for horn, they stretch an' strive: Deil tak the hindmost! 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 owre his French ragout Or olio that wad staw a sow, Or fricassee wad make her spew Wi' perfect sconner, Looks down wi' sneering, scornfu' view On sic a dinner? Poor devil! see him owre his trash, As feckles as wither'd rash, His spindle shank, a guid whip-lash; His nieve a nit; Thro' blody flood or field to dash, O how unfit! But mark the Rustic, haggis-fed, The trembling earth resounds his tread. Clap in his walie nieve a blade, He'll mak it whissle; An' legs an' arms, an' hands will sned, Like taps o' trissle. Ye Pow'rs, wha mak mankind your care, And dish them out their bill o' fare, Auld Scotland wants nae skinking ware That jaups in luggies; But, if ye wish her gratefu' prayer Gie her a haggis! Translation  To a Haggis (Haggis is a wholesome savoury pudding, a mixture of mutton and offal. It is boiled and presented at table in a sheep's stomach) All hail your honest rounded face, Great chieftain of the pudding race; Above them all you take your place, Beef, tripe, or lamb: You're worthy of a grace As long as my arm. The groaning trencher there you fill, Your sides are like a distant hill Your pin would help to mend a mill, In time of need, While through your pores the dews distil, Like amber bead. His knife the rustic goodman wipes, To cut you through with all his might, Revealing your gushing entrails bright, Like any ditch; And then, what a glorious sight, Warm, welcome, rich. Then plate for plate they stretch and strive, Devil take the hindmost, on they drive, Till all the bloated stomachs by and by, Are tight as drums. The rustic goodman with a sigh, His thanks he hums. Let them that o'er his French ragout, Or hotchpotch fit only for a sow, Or fricassee that'll make you spew, And with no wonder; Look down with sneering scornful view, On such a dinner. Poor devil, see him eat his trash, As feckless as a withered rush, His spindly legs and good whip-lash, His little feet Through floods or over fields to dash, O how unfit. But, mark the rustic, haggis-fed; The trembling earth resounds his tread, Grasp in his ample hands a flail He'll make it whistle, Stout legs and arms that never fail, Proud as the thistle. You powers that make mankind your care, And dish them out their bill of fare. Old Scotland wants no stinking ware, That slops in dishes; But if you grant her grateful prayer, Give her a haggis.