"I think your colleague is in trouble..."

Ouch would be an appropriate word to describe the Rabbie festivities of Saturday night at the Burns Club supper, the highlight being a marvelous and magnificent "Immortal Memory" to the great poet that I honored by promptly losing mine own. Alas, such was inevitable when the bottles on the table are free, and full of not wine but Bowmore. You keep telling yourself it won't happen again, then it does and where are you then? As I found myself typing earlier today:

"That's the way she goes boys. Sometimes she goes, sometimes she doesn't, 'cause that's the way she fucking goes."

Indeed. Off we go, merry wanderers, to another eve awaiting laughter.

Fairy
Either I mistake your shape and making quite,
Or else you are that shrewd and knavish sprite
Call'd Robin Goodfellow: are not you he
That frights the maidens of the villagery;
Skim milk, and sometimes labour in the quern
And bootless make the breathless housewife churn;
And sometime make the drink to bear no barm;
Mislead night-wanderers, laughing at their harm?
Those that Hobgoblin call you and sweet Puck,
You do their work, and they shall have good luck:
Are not you he?

PUCK
Thou speak'st aright;
I am that merry wanderer of the night.
I jest to Oberon and make him smile
When I a fat and bean-fed horse beguile,
Neighing in likeness of a filly foal:
And sometime lurk I in a gossip's bowl,
In very likeness of a roasted crab,
And when she drinks, against her lips I bob
And on her wither'd dewlap pour the ale.
The wisest aunt, telling the saddest tale,
Sometime for three-foot stool mistaketh me;
Then slip I from her bum, down topples she,
And 'tailor' cries, and falls into a cough;
And then the whole quire hold their hips and laugh,
And waxen in their mirth and neeze and swear
A merrier hour was never wasted there.
But, room, fairy! here comes Oberon.

Fairy
And here my mistress. Would that he were gone!