No message, save, of course, Happy Birthday. Surely, the best of times.

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It's Burns Night.

Traditionally, I'd inflict the entirety of Tam O'Shanter on you on this night, but it's a bit long and my head hurts, so instead I give you the 1793 poem "Sonnet on the Author's Birthday." Please enjoy.

On hearing a Thrush sing in his Morning Walk.

SING on, sweet thrush, upon the leafless bough,

Sing on, sweet bird, I listen to thy strain,
See aged Winter, 'mid his surly reign,

At thy blythe carol, clears his furrowed brow.

So in lone Poverty's dominion drear,

Sits meek Content with light, unanxious heart;
Welcomes the rapid moments, bids them part,

Nor asks if they bring ought to hope or fear.

I thank thee, Author of this opening day!

Thou whose bright sun now gilds yon orient skies!
Riches denied, thy boon was purer joys—

What wealth could never give nor take away!

Yet come, thou child of poverty and care,
The mite high heav'n bestow'd, that mite with thee I'll share.

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Who's birthday is it? LJ says yours is Friday.

Robert Burns's.

Thus, "Burns Night."

Heh, coincidentally, today's also my wedding anniversary. My wife and I even managed to predict the gifts we gave each other - pleasantly unsurprised, as the case turned out to be.

I'm such a geek I have to point out that the subject of this post is quoting 'Star Trek II' and that's awesome.

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