Alternative Copy
Alternative Copy
Alternative Copy

To a house

Evening all…

Tonight is Burn’s Night, that night of the year when Scottish folk the world over celebrate Scottish-ness in general and the life and work of poet Robert Burns (officially the greatest Scot of all time) in particular.

It’s best done with pipes and dancing, toasts to haggis and lassies, a few drams plentiful supply of whisky, and lots of tartan!

Tonight I want to share with you a very special tribute to Burns.

Steve Raine is top chap, very friendly and designs super sexy building jobs for a living (he’s an architect). This morning at a networking breakfast we were both at, his 40 seconds introduction to his business was brilliant and won him a huge round of applause! Not a bad bit of marketing, and a great use of language!

It’s best read aloud in your finest Scottish accent! Enjoy ;)

To a House

Wee, sleeket, cowran, tim’rous hoosie,
O, what panic’s in thy chimney breastie!
I wad na right ya off sae hasty,
Even wi’ bricks that rattle!
I wad be laith to rin an’ demolish thee,
Yir listed, it wid be a helluva battle!

You truly need a new extension
Or even perhaps a loft conversion,
An’ justify that cost o near a million,
Which makes me startle,
An’ me, yir poor, architect companion,
An’ fellow-mortal!

But housie, yir hopes are nae in vain,
Yer awfy solid and made o’ stane:
Wi a best laid plan fa Steve Raine,
Gang aft wi joy,
An’ lea’e us wi’ oot any grief an’ pain,
Ye look gid, nae need tae be coy!

Thy wee-bit housie, no longer, in ruin!
Wi great big windaes for plenty a viewin’!
An’ nae need now, to build a new ane,
It’s a guid hoosie for sure!
Wi style, panache, an’ flair a-oozing,
It must be Steve Raine Architecture!

Just for comparison, here’s the original below, penned by Burns in 1785:

Too a mouse

Wee, sleeket, cowran, tim’rous beastie,
O, what 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!

But Mousie, thou are 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!

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!

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