The Breath of Bruichladdich

[Leanne]

The glass is filled with fifteen years of patience born of oak
A memory of citrus falls through peppered ocean spray
A bit of cheek from blonde reflections echo through the smoke
And centuries of peat recall the dreams of yesterday
Each grain of barley selflessly forgoes its chance to breed
And gives its life that it may be remembered eons hence
This wondrous truth in liquid form has been the vital seed
To stir the blood to victories of magnitude immense
A dram of uisge beatha loosens greatness, mind and heart
And spills it forth in malted waves to warm the distant blood
Though Alba and her children may be miles and years apart
The Hebridean springs contain communion in their flood
I’m sure it’s wrong to lecture, but consider it a fault
If you cannot appreciate an Islay single malt


*Happy 253rd birthday, Rabbie Burns!*

[popeye]

The glass is filled with fifteen years of patience born of oak
A memory of citrus falls through peppered ocean spray
A bit of cheek from blonde reflections echo through the smoke
And centuries of peat recall the dreams of yesterday
Each grain of barley selflessly forgoes its chance to breed
And gives its life that it may be remembered eons hence
This wondrous truth in liquid form has been the vital seed
To stir the blood to victories of magnitude immense
A dram of uisge beatha loosens greatness, mind and heart
And spills it forth in malted waves to warm the distant blood
Though Alba and her children may be miles and years apart
The Hebridean springs contain communion in their flood
I’m sure it’s wrong to lecture, but consider it a fault
If you cannot appreciate an Islay single malt


*Happy 253rd birthday, Rabbie Burns!*

oyl drink to that an' a'that an' may a' your single malts be doubles!

[Leanne]

What a lovely sentiment

Slainte mhath!

[popeye]

Call me Ginger Mick, Slainte mhath!

[billy]

is that a single shot? (typical jock)

i hate whisky, blended or malt with water or on it's own but happy birthday non the less, i'll have a vodka

[rayheinrich]

Leanne, Leanne, Leanne; what can be said...

Learning to make Scotch whisky was but childhood training for the
Scot genius who perfected the making of REAL whiskey, straight
bourbon's crown of creation: Lincoln County Process Tennessee Sour
Mash Whiskey. Made from Aztec Maize, not poor man's barley. (The
maize that made human sacrifice possible on a scale only dreamed of
by the feeble bog-people of the Isles.)

One of the improvements, by the way, was hygiene: The abandonment
of tainting God's Brew with the foul smoke excreted from a
smoldering mixture of rotted vegetation and animal feces (peat)
obtained from festering primordial swamps.

But, as Dylan Thomas, who famously preferred Bourbon to Scotch (and
KNEW whereof he drank), was found of saying: "A man survives, he
drinks what we can." So, yes, in the context of survival, the
desperate act of drinking Scotch whisky does indeed make some sort
of pitiful sense.




_____________________________________________________
That was fun, but make no mistake, I mean no disrespect to 
Rabbie Burns on his birthday. I have always appreciated his 
left-wing attitude (being of that persuasion myself) and 
would feel honoured on any day in any universe to drink 
whatever he was drinking.


             __No Churchman Am I__
                                     - Robert Burns

    No churchman am I for to rail and to write,
    No statesman nor soldier to plot or to fight,
    No sly man of business contriving a snare,
    For a big-belly'd bottle's the whole of my care.

    The peer I don't envy, I give him his bow;
    I scorn not the peasant, though ever so low;
    But a club of good fellows, like those that are here,
    And a bottle like this, are my glory and care.

    Here passes the squire on his brother-his horse;
    There centum per centum, the cit with his purse;
    But see you the Crown how it waves in the air?
    There a big-belly'd bottle still eases my care.

    The wife of my bosom, alas! she did die;
    for sweet consolation to church I did fly;
    I found that old Solomon proved it fair,
    That a big-belly'd bottle's a cure for all care.

    I once was persuaded a venture to make;
    A letter inform'd me that all was to wreck;
    But the pursy old landlord just waddl'd upstairs,
    With a glorious bottle that ended my cares.

    "Life's cares they are comforts"-a maxim laid down
    By the Bard, what d'ye call him, that wore the black gown;
    And faith I agree with th' old prig to a hair,
    For a big-belly'd bottle's a heav'n of a care.

                     - - - 



P.S. And a well-crafted poem yourself, Leanne.

"The glass is filled with fifteen years of patience born of oak"

What a line...

[Leanne]

Ah Ray, I might have thought the same when I was younger and more ignorant :p Hygiene is just another word for taking all the life out of things... alcohol is a great steriliser, which is why I expect my insides to be clean enough to eat off.

I was somewhat surprised to find that "A Man's A Man" was used as a kind of anthem for Communist parties around the world (not at Communist parties, though I expect if those bashes were to live up to Rabbie's ideal there would be a good deal more nudity). He suits my Utopic visions quite well -- but then, Australian's are always accused of having a classless society

---

PS. WTF would Dylan Thomas know? He was Welsh, they drink seawater and sheep dip.

[rayheinrich]

Texas isn't classless, it has one. (It's called 'low'.)

PS. WTF would Dylan Thomas know? He was Welsh, they drink seawater and sheep dip.

Sheep dip? Nah, that's Aussie party food.