Hypo Hippo said:
Lol @ Crunchie! That's not so hard to figure out. But then again, I've been reading tons of historical romances set in England. Have to be able to figure out stuff like that if you are going to make any sense out of the book!
Peanut! It's about time to showed up! I was having peanut withdrawals! It's a good thing Beagle set up that spring behind all of us. We need it!
*splutter* choke* what you mean reading books set in ENGLAND helps you figure out what I said!
I know the Scots language isn't too difficult to get but I never really was able to compare it to ye Olde English. We got made to read Shakespere plays when we were at school but I think they were a bit different to the Rabbie Burns poems we also looked at heh. My Scots has been watered down a tad but here's a taste of what it should sound like!
My favourite poem by Robert (Rabbie) Burns..
Tae a Moose
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!
