First Workshop
Some Scottish guy once wrote:
The best-laid schemes o’ mice an ‘men
Gang aft agley,
An’lea’e us nought but grief an’ pain,
For promis’d joy!
Which is Scots (don’t call it “scotch” — they hate it when you do that) for Plan all you want, it’s still gonna get screwed up. Royally. And so it goes with our first workshop.
The workshopped works are from:
- Elizabeth Bull: Narrative 1
- jennyb: The Suburban Life Ain’t What It Seems
- Eazy EBF: Narrative One
- Sugar Magnolia: The Adventures of the Jolly Postman
We’ll workshop some or all of these works in class. And we will learn from this experience.
UPDATE: The Peer Review forms are here, so click on the link and print out as many as you need. I’ll also add them to the sidebar for easier reference throughout the semester.
September 24th, 2007 at 9:56 pm
Just to let you know this link will actually take you to my blog. If it can be called that.
http://eazyebf.blogspot.com/2007/09/narrative-1.html
-Eazy E
September 25th, 2007 at 1:02 am
This link will also get you to my blog, apparently I made about four webpages for my one email because I couldnt sign in a bunch of times but here ya go
http://raspberrysun.blogspot.com/
September 25th, 2007 at 11:04 am
Robert Burns. He’s the Scottish guy.
September 25th, 2007 at 11:11 am
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!
September 27th, 2007 at 11:10 am
Yay scottish cant!