The Robbie Burns Hash

Run #874, January 27, 2003
Hare: WIPOS
Location: Seekonk Library, Seekonk, Massachusetts
Scribe: Basket
Hounds: Async, Dr. WHO, WIPOS, Oozing Syph, Fawangii Boner, SESYB, Basket, Bondo, Jake, Ben, and Seamus
Late Cumers: KNO, Eager Beaver, and Mr. Peabody
Dress Code: Kilts for the brave - WIPOS gear for the intelligent
Weather: Low teens to single digits before hash ends. Clear Sky. Brisk Wind 20-40 knots.

It was an unusually cold night, and wind was whipping snow up me kilt like wind devils on the Moors. As 6:30 approached, car engines with heaters on full blast were turned off, and we started to emerge into the cold night air. It was colder than a witch’s nipple covered with ice cream, which may be tasty, but very dangerous. Much like tonight’s run, standing on ice covered tarmac, looking across a field of deep snow. Thoughts of our Hare setting a mercifully short trail, especially since a number of us were standing in Kilts, and our boys were shriveling down to frozen pea size.

The pack decided to get this show on the road, so off we headed through a fence into the snowdrifts. Seamus’ leash was dropped somewhere, and by the time I returned to my car, took my frozen keys out of the gas cap and opened the door to look for it, the pack was long gone. “On On” in a delicate voice was called over the car tops in the wind, as the arrival of Eager Beaver and KNO was made known.

She was dressed a beautifully pleated kilt, underneath an extremely heavy, and I’ll bet warm, topcoat. KNO was WIPOScized in winter garb that would be the envy of most normal people. Asking which direction the pack went left me at a loss, so we ran straight into the field looking for footprints. It was a much-traveled area, so not much help was found, but reversing our path, we could hear sounds radiating from a distant clump of trees.

We climbed a hill and could hear the pack running not too far off, but had to make our way down a steep and ice covered bank. Straight ahead was what appeared to be a field, but mid-way across, it was more evidently a frozen pond. The pack could be seen now running the circumference, with torches ablaze and On On’s carrying over the lonesome ice. I ran straight ahead towards the front of the pack, thinking I had shortcutted a good deal of the trail. Looking behind me, I could see the lights of the bimbo and her squeeze slowly making their way down the embankment. He must have been afraid of falling, and she held back to help. He is from the BH3, you know.

As I got closer to the pack and the end of the ice, the snow cover became less and less, as if the wind suddenly blew it all away. As a matter of fact, the ice was crystal clear, almost nonexistent. Standing on the last edge of snow-covered ice, I peered at the clear ice to determine how thick it may be, when suddenly I was standing crotch-deep in, not quite, frozen water.

I turned back to find Seamus looking forlorn and possibly thinking why he was following me to begin with, when he crashed in himself. With not many options left, I raised a leg above the ice and broke off a bit and moved forward.  Seamus followed, as I continued crashing my way to shore, and thankful that it was not any deeper. As I climbed, through thorns, on the bank, I could feel my fingers start to crack, and my arse start to creak. I had to eventually get on all fours to claw my way to the top, amid cheers and catcalls at my adversity. “You’re gonna die!” Bondo called out. “Shortcutting Bastard!” said Oozing. “That’ll teach you, you silly bastard!”…Etceteras, etceteras, etceteras…. What a considerate bunch of A holes. The warmth they showed was almost enough to thaw the ice of my you-know-what's.

We all traveled along the riverbank, loosing trail once or twice, before arriving at the beer stop. The Hare couldn’t have picked a colder location. On the banks of a river, wind blowing across, straight up our skirts, and mine now a frozen crust like a hoop skirt of the 50’s.

Beer and song ensued for some time, as we waited for our late arrivals. Bondo not having much humanity for the late cummer-hashers, and took off for the finish, once he had had enough. The Sweater Jake had on, was also frozen much like my kilt. He evidently found water too, and Bondo removed it, surprisingly, thinking of the X Grand Master not himself. Maybe there’s hope.

The On In trail was pretty dull. All side streets back to 152 and into the Library Parking lot. We did have a few heads turn, as we entered, and we were a sorry looking lot. We found our cars and some dry clothes. Not thinking I needed any when I packed the car, as this was my only kilt, I kept the frozen cloth wrapped around me and drove over to the bar.

We were to circle up outside, so I ran in with a cooler filled with the feast of Scots. Haggis, Taddies and Neaps, gravy, now this is the stuff that keeps what’s under the kilt warm on a cold winter’s night. The barmaid asked what was in the container as Bondo and I entered the side door. “Haggis” I exclaimed, and she looked at our attire, turned around at the bar, and asked if she was on Candid Camera? Then had us explain why we do, what we do, when we do it.  She said it’d be fine to eat sheep organs in the bar, and I ran outside to circle-up.

The Hare got his Down-Down, along with SESYB (Hashit) for complaining that someone wasn’t there. Then we realized it was Bondo missing, and promised to move the Hashit in his direction very soon. Fawangii Boner got one for having his priorities all wrong and doing something else on Mondays. The happy couple announce wedding intentions, and a round of  “Just Say No!” was followed quickly. We’ve been invited to join them on St. Margaret this summer for the sorrowful occasion.

Then we Swing Lowed and went into to bar, where Bondo was sucking down a Guinness in proper fashion. Beers were ordered, and a glorious trio of Oozing, Dr. WHO and Basket recited Burn’s Address to a Haggis, and we cut the bonnie beast. Yummies were heard across the table, and we were just glad Async wasn’t there…more for the rest of us. A toast of single malt made it’s way around the table and more beer and lesser food was ordered and consumed in fine fashion.

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.

On On

Basket Boom Boom