I have decided to rename our homeschool Gang Aft Agley after a line in one of my favorite poems by one of my favorite poets.
It is so perfect I don’t know why I didn’t think of it sooner.
The other day was January 2nd, the day I promised to turn from a pumpkin into a prussian schoolmarm. I got up early, woke the children, put on Mozart, read my Bible, organized our new MT materials and finally sat down for MM.
At which point I was informed that a big football game had been planned with a young man leaving in the evening to go back to the Army, possibly going to Iraq. (blackmail?) The game would begin at 10:00 am. Didn’t I remember saying yes? (This is a major problem for the over 40 mom.)
OH.
After the game we are doing SCHOOL. I should have known better. Rollinses count by ones. It can take them hours to shoot one more basketball or make one more pass.
Then my dh invited me to go out to Macaroni Grill with our gift card from the children. Hard to say no.
While driving home and sitting nicely at a red light, a young man, not unlike my own, turned his head to look at something ( I can only imagine), and rammed into us with his Ram. It hurt. And it hurt my husband’s feelings; he likes his car. By the time we arrived home I was too sore to care if the children ever got an education. Tim and I sat staring numbly into space until I had to get up to make spaghetti for supper.
To a Mouse
On this website you will see the real poem and what I consider a completely unnecessary English translation. I feel angry about the translation . So you don’t know what gang aft agley means? Read the poem a couple of times and it will all be clear. Read it with notes if need be but please do not translate it. Read it with a Scottish accent; it is lovely. (This paragraph sounds bitter, read it lightly not seriously.)
Never mind looking at the link here is the poem in all of its Scottish beauty. Half the beauty of the poem is the unfamiliar vocabulary. Isn’t it interesting how you almost know what the strange words mean from the context and even if you don’t the poem isn’t spoiled? I get the feeling I know Robert Burns intimately from this poem. He is a sinner just like me and he has had hard times and they have made him patient, merciful and full of empathy.
Wee, sleekit, cow’rin, tim’rous beastie,
O, what a 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!
I doubt na, whiles, but thou may thieve;
What then? poor beastie, thou maun live!
A daimen icker in a thrave
‘S a sma’ request;
I’ll get a blessin wi’ the lave,
An’ never miss’t!
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!
Thou saw the fields laid bare an’ waste,
An’ weary winter comin fast,
An’ cozie here, beneath the blast,
Thou thought to dwell-
Till crash! the cruel coulter past
Out thro’ thy cell.
That wee bit heap o’ leaves an’ stibble,
Has cost thee mony a weary nibble!
Now thou’s turn’d out, for a’ thy trouble,
But house or hald,
To thole the winter’s sleety dribble,
An’ cranreuch cauld!
But, Mousie, thou art 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!
Still thou art blest, compar’d wi’ me
The present only toucheth thee:
But, Och! I backward cast my e’e.
On prospects drear!
An’ forward, tho’ I canna see,
I guess an’ fear!
is to non-fiction.
