Dec 12

Again, how are we here? We’re halfway to Christmas! That can’t be right.

It’s also quite late so you’re getting another lightening round of the blog. Today we had English Breakfast tea, belatedly, around 6:40. That’s twenty minutes later than usual, but after last night we thought we would sleep in – except we’re too set in our routine to fall back asleep, so we gave up and went into the office anyway.

Then we went to the Scottish Dance Christmas party and the evening out afterwards, and now here we are, still unable to bring ourselves to use Dickenson, but still short of poems about dancing. As much as possible we like to give you variety, so we try not to repeat them.

But we also thought something so quintessentially British as English Breakfast with milk should have a British poem. So here’s one by a writer who was also a musician. You can here it in the meter – a lot of Hardy’s poems can be set to hymn tunes. And if they don’t fit hymn tunes there’s a good chance they fit fiddle music.

A Commonplace Day
Thomas Hardy
The day is turning ghost,
And scuttles from the kalendar in fits and furtively,
To join the anonymous host
Of those that throng oblivion; ceding his place, maybe,
To one of like degree.

I part the fire-gnawed logs,
Rake forth the embers, spoil the busy flames, and lay the ends
Upon the shining dogs;
Further and further from the nooks the twilight’s stride extends,
And beamless black impends.

Nothing of tiniest worth
Have I wrought, pondered, planned; no one thing asking blame or
praise,
Since the pale corpse-like birth
Of this diurnal unit, bearing blanks in all its rays –
Dullest of dull-hued Days!

Wanly upon the panes
The rain slides as have slid since morn my colourless thoughts; and
yet
Here, while Day’s presence wanes,
And over him the sepulchre-lid is slowly lowered and set,
He wakens my regret.

Regret—though nothing dear
That I wot of, was toward in the wide world at his prime,
Or bloomed elsewhere than here,
To die with his decease, and leave a memory sweet, sublime,
Or mark him out in Time . . .

—Yet, maybe, in some soul,
In some spot undiscerned on sea or land, some impulse rose,
Or some intent upstole
Of that enkindling ardency from whose maturer glows
The world’s amendment flows;

But which, benumbed at birth
By momentary chance or wile, has missed its hope to be
Embodied on the earth;
And undervoicings of this loss to man’s futurity
May wake regret in me.

Dec 10

Double figures already?!

Welcome to the lightening round of Chorister at Home, where a conspiracy of TTC train delays, dancing and walking home (see above re TTC delays) forced us to make our tea and drink it while searching for poetry.

The tea today is Turmeric Spiced Herbal. Moving swiftly on to other news…Well, okay. It’s not that quite rapid-fire a post. Here’s the thing: We were going to find you a poem about dancing, because also see above re dancing. We had an excellent teacher in tonight briefing us, and she had some fabulous selections including easy Lea Rigg and the trickier Smiling Lila. All Greek to you, I know.

[Stopping to note; If anyone reading does also dance Scottish, say so! We’d love to know!]

The thing about the Tuesday Grannies is that they are the loveliest women ever, and they’re very keen on their tea. But we did get lots of dancing in, because today’s effusive teacher is nothing if not effusive and efficient, but anyway. Turns out unless you like Emily Dickenson (she drives us batty), there’s just nothing good and readily available about dancing. Okay. Nothing good and new. We’ve given you all the best Pat Batt RSCDS poems over the last however many years. So no dancing poems. Look, we just can’t inflict Dickenson on you. Or us. We have limits.

So have this, instead. Bet you know it.

The Summer Day
May Oliver
Who made the world?
Who made the swan, and the black bear?
Who made the grasshopper?
This grasshopper, I mean —
the one who has flung herself out of the grass,
the one who is eating sugar out of my hand,
who is moving her jaws back and forth instead of up and down —
who is gazing around with her enormous and complicated eyes.
Now she lifts her pale forearms and thoroughly washes her face.
Now she snaps her wings open, and floats away.
I don’t know exactly what a prayer is.
I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down
into the grass, how to kneel down in the grass,
how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields,
which is what I have been doing all day.
Tell me, what else should I have done?
Doesn’t everything die at last, and too soon?
Tell me, what is it you plan to do
with your one wild and precious life?

The tea? We told you, Turmeric. Plenty of heat to it, and we don’t mean the water temperature. On a bitterly cold day (not this one, then) or if you’ve got a head cold (we do not) it’s probably perfect. For any other occasion…Well, it tastes the way you imagine a cold cure would taste. It’s perfectly serviceable. It’s just not what we necessarily go to tea for. And that’s okay. You can’t win every calendar door. Especially not when you pull the tea out of the calendar at random.

Until tomorrow, when we will also have been dancing. But at least we’ll know better than to try and be topical about it.

Dec. 12

Tonight’s tea was a Japanese Sencha. We love Sencha, but it’s an incredibly fussy tea. Leave it a split-second too long and it turns from green tea to extremely bitter drink. We left it a split-second too long.

In our defence, we’re just back from the annual Christmas Party for the Tuesday Scottish Country Dancers. You want to dance with these Tuesday folk. They ask things like, ‘Have you ever seen a man in a kilt, wearing oven mitts, try to put on ladies’ panties?’

See? Now you know everything about 1950s Hogmanay in Scotland.

They’re also notorious for body-checking one another when dancing mirror reels. In our slow dance step. I love the Tuesday group. We have so much fun going wrong together.

There are, actually, Scottish Country Dance poems…But we’re pretty sure we’ve used up the best ones. So here’s a poem to go with your Japanese Sencha. It’s short, so you can avoid that fatal over-steeping error.

Goes Out, Comes Back
Kobayashi Issa

Goes out,
Comes back —
The love life of a cat

We love these little poetic gems by Issa. There’s tremendous humanity in them. And it proves people worshiped cats before us. Miss Marschallin could have told you that, but would you have believed her?

Dec 2: La Vie en Rose

No root canals, but there was a ceilidh, so things are definitely moving in the right direction.

Ceilidhs are always good fun for getting new people into Scottish Country dance. We’re convinced they were designed to be danced drunk – that’s definitely how a lot of kilted, would-be-Scots Americans danced them back in St Andrews.

There was pizza afterwards but we didn’t hang about for that. Blame the tooth trouble. Instead we had today’s tea. There should be a great segue here, about how it was a Scottish tea…

But according to the Trip Around the World Calendar, we went to Paris with Cupid’s Breakfast.

Yeah, no, we have nothing either. Poor Cupid is Greek, and the tea is a beautiful black tea with roses that anyone can buy us more of. You know, if they feel bad about not understanding what to feed us post root canal. Just a thought.

Let’s presume marketing thought it was romantic. It’s definitely a gorgeous tea.

Let’s see if we can find you a poem a bit more French than the tea, though.

Le Pont Mirabeau, or Under the Mirabeau Bridge

Guillaume Apollinaire

Under the Mirabeau bridge flows the Seine
And our loves
Must I remember them
Joy always followed pain

The night falls and the hours ring
The days go away I remain

Hand in hand let us stay face to face
While underneath the bridge
Of our arms passes
The water tired of the eternal looks

The night falls and the hours ring
The days go away I remain

Love goes away like this flowing water
Love goes away
Life is so slow
And hope is so violent

The night falls and the hours ring
The days go away I remain

Days pass by and weeks pass by
Neither past time
Nor past loves will return
Under the Mirabeau bridge flows the Seine

The night falls and the hours ring
The days go away I remain

Dancing Days

Today’s tea was Forever Frosty.

We aren’t sure if it’s supposed to replace Forever Nuts but hope it is. It has a lot of those same flavours but is a superior tea. It’s less sweet, less pink and has a long-in-the-mouth flavour that rounds out the taste.

The ingredients claim it features marshmallow. We can’t taste it, but we did get hints of orange and cloves. Somewhat bizarrely it smells of, but doesn’t taste like pine needles. We’re not complaining so much as observing. It’s a lovely smell and pairs handily with a good herbal tea. But it’s monumentally bizarre.

We’re late on the whole blog thing tonight because it was the Scottish Country Dance Christmas Dance. It was our first monthly dance since covid. We’ve been going to weekly sessions for over a year now, but have been cantering up to the montly balls.

This one was lots of fun. We can tell we’re where we should be in the intermediate class because in a program rife with corner- and ladies’ chains, we barely registered them. In fact, looking over the selection this afternoon we wrote the lot off as easy. Well, except that one dance with a one-person poussette. Candidly, I think the whole society is pretending that dance never happened. This is why no one dances the old dances.

As is tradition when the blog coincides with the Christmas dance, we eked out a Pat Batt poem for you. She dances Scottish and she has a rare eye for observations. Enjoy ‘The Intermediate Class.’

The Intermediate Class
Pat Batt ©2000

Well now I’m Intermediate –
My feet are doing nicely –
The brain still finds it hard to cope
And work things out precisely.

I sometimes feel that I’m a pawn
In a giant game of chess –
But the pattern’s getting clearer
And the chaos getting less.
I’ve mastered chain progression,
I can do a nifty Knot –
But the Rondel and Espangnole,
I admit they’re not so hot.

So – here you find me in the set
And I am number two.
I’m O.K. for the first few bars –
I’ve nothing much to do.
I’ve stepped up very nicely
(It’s lovely to be dancing!)
But – someone’s coming up the set –
Oh, should I be advancing?
Ah no, it’s just a set and turn
And balance in a line –
My confidence comes flooding back
And now I’m doing fine!

I’ve come in for the Allemande
(Arm over on bar one!)
Now I can do it properly
I’m finding it such fun!
I’ve done 8 slip steps to the left
And 8 back to the right,
I’ve turned, and now I’m casting
And the end is now in sight.
I’ve remembered all the proper things
That I’ve been taught to do –
And the nicest thing about it is
My teacher’s happy too!

We contest the bit about the Rondel and Espagnol. Not only do we dance them ably, but the Espagnol is one of our favourite formations. Now Set-to-Partner-Set-to-Corner…And don’t start us on Diamond Poussettes. Awful, awful things.

Here’s Tae Us

It was our Christmas Ball tonight. Terribly grand, you know, the Scottish Country Dance Christmas Ball, with lots of complicated footwork and once figures.

Actually, the occasion is billed as the Family Dance, and never was a program more accessible. We’d walked quite a lot of it before in social groups, but you don’t get much more beginner-friendly than the dance selections we had tonight.

Even so, every year we make mention of this ball, and every year someone says ‘I don’t know how you do it.’ Well, tonight you’re getting a lesson, because us Scottish Country Dancers like our rhymes.

For instance, when dancing the poussette, the adage is:

Away from the centre, quarter turn,
Up or down, quarter turn;
Into the centre, halfway round,
Fall back, fall back.

And here, for reference, is the poussette, danced beautifully by more elegant people than us.

Remember, Away from the centre, quarter turn…

You watch even the experienced dancers still reciting it to one another as they go. We had a wonderful teacher who used to joke that they’d inscribe it on her headstone someday. (They probably will; she dances more than she doesn’t.)

Meanwhile, to dance crossover reels – that’s a reel of three on the opposite side of the set – the rhyme goes:

Ones dance over to begin,
Twos dance out,
And threes dace in.

As for the rest of it, you mostly grab the hands that get offered to you, keep alert to people advancing towards you, and it all sort of muddles out. Occasionally, when it’s done very well, it looks elegant while you’re at it. We’re working on that bit.

Currently we’re unwinding to today’s tea. It’s another tisane, and we’re not taking notes here, but surely there have been more herbal teas than anything else in this calendar? Readers at home, what do you think? This one it White Cranberry, wherein white chocolate meets dried cranberry, apple, raisins and papaya. The cat mug is once again earning it’s keep, now we’ve cracked how to use it without being scalded, and yields up a tea that is surprisingly tropical tasting. We’d blame the papaya, except we couldn’t actually taste it in the cup. The cranberry dominates, as you’d expect, while the white chocolate gives it a burst of sweetness.

The apple tempers both a bit, though we’re not sure the raisins come through. Honestly, there must be raisins in every second tea we sample, and we’re not clear why, because they really don’t steep well. Anyone who has ever soaked raisins in hot water for baking will probably understand this; not for nothing you have to add other stuff to a fruitcake to draw out their flavour!

So that’s tea and two wee verses for you, tonight. But the traditional way to close out a dance is with Burns. Specifically Auld Lang Syne. Only that’s for New Year, and that’s still a ways off. So instead, have Green Grow the Rashes, O. It makes for a lovely strathspey, but doubles as an equally enjoyable read – with or without tea.

Green Grow the Rashes, O
Robert Burns

Chor. – Green grow the rashes, O;
Green grow the rashes, O;
The sweetest hours that e’er I spend,
Are spent amang the lasses, O.

There’s nought but care on ev’ryy han’,
In ev’ry hour that passes, O:
What signifies the life o’ man,
An’ ‘there na for the lasses, O.
Green grow&c.

The war’ly race may riches chase,
An’ riches still may fly them, O:
An’ tho’ at last they catch them fast,
Their hearts can ne’re enjoy them, O.
Green grow &c.

But gie me a canine hour at at e’en,
My arms about my dearie, O;
An’ war’ly cares, an’ war’ly men,
May a’ gae tapsalteerie, O!
Green grow &c.

For you sae douce, ye sneer at this;
Ye’re nought but senseless asses, O:
The wisest man the warl’ e’er saw,
He dearly lov’d the lasses, O.
Green grow, &c.

Auld Nature swears, the lovely dears
Her noblest works she classes, O:
Her prentice hand she try’d on man,
And then she made the lasses, O.
Green grow, &c.

Hopefully you have less trouble with the Scotts than did the glaikit computer, which made a braw, effort to translate it into garden-variety English. You, naturally, not being robotic, will notice it does that anyway on the last verse, spontaneously switching to High English instead of Scotts vernacular. The genius of Burns is arguably how fluidly he mixes both.

We’ll send you off now to dance the hours away as per yet another rhyme, or maybe just enjoy oddly tropical tea. Until tomorrow,

Here’s tae us!
Wha’s like us?
Gey few, and they’re a’ deid!

Dance the Hours Away

Tonight our local social group for the RCSDS (that’s the Royal Scottish Country Dancing Society to the unfamiliar) hosts its 40th anniversary celebration. Clearly it’s a bit of a week for parties. Strictly speaking, we’re imperfect dancers with wobbly timing, but it’s our Christmas send-off before the ball, so we’ll be going and, as is writ in The Dashing White Sergeant, we’ll dance the night away.

In preparation we’ve made up a pot of today’s tea. Remember we said there were herbals we were partial to? This is one of them. It’s called Caramel Shortbread and given our affinity for Millionaire’s Shortbread, this is a combination of things that was always going to go well. It smells strongly of caramel, and while the colour never gets dark, it shouldn’t, being herbal. And unlike other tisanes this calendar has had us trial, it comes to a healthy strength in decent time. Better still, the caramel gives it a nice taste, and infills some of the grounding you would typically get from a more full-bodied tea. It blends nicely with the raisins and apples, and really does taste surprisingly like Millionaire’s Shortbread in a cup. This is no bad thing.

But soon we’ll be off dancing, where it’s fairly good odds someone has actually made up Millionaire’s Shortbread for the occasion. (The RSCDS here is terribly proud of its roots.) And talking of occasions, here’s one of Pat Batt’s wee poetical gems about dancing. Here’s hoping our evening turns out better than her speaker’s! Mind you, since Scottish Country Dance is the elegant cousin to the ceilidh, that’s a pretty conservative bet. Especially since we’ve never met friendlier people.

The Ceilidh
Pat Batt, 1992

I’m supposed to run a Ceilidh
For our next St. Andrew’s night –
But I’m in a deep depression
For the future’s far from bright.Our gallant Demonstration Team
Is now reduced to five –
Fiona’s in Australia
And Ann’s run off with Clive.

John could do a sword dance
Or perhaps a Highland Fling –
But he will do it in trousers,
Which isn’t quite the thing.

And Ian plays the bagpipes –
He plays them fairly well –
But always full fortissimo,
And indoors that’s sheer Hell!

Mrs Gertrude Macintosh –
Our President’s close friend –
She’s bound to play that waltz in C
That never seems to end.

The vicar’s daughters – Faith and Hope
Are keen to do a turn –
They’ve started ballet classes
And they’ve got a lot to learn!

Their mother plays the cello
And makes a nasty sound
Whilst her offspring, like young kangaroos
Leap round – and round – and round.

And that woman who does monologues
(She looks a bit like me) –
There’s no way you can stop her
As far as I can see.

They say it’s only jolly fun –
It’s more than I can bear,
And the only way to dodge it
Is to make sure I’m elsewhere.

I know – I’ll join the navy
Seasick and homesick daily –
I might loathe every minute,
But at least I’ll miss the Ceilidh!

N.B. We happen to love a good ceilidh. In fact, in missing them we stumbled into the RSCDS thinking they were the same. They are not. But we tell you what; she’s not wrong about indoor bagpipes!

Dance Away the Hours Together

It’s not quite the middle of night by the castle clock, and there aren’t any owls, this being Toronto, but it’s certainly late enough. We spent the evening out at the Christmas Dance for Toronto’s Scottish Country Dance set, and only sat out two dances. To say we’re still beginning, and didn’t know them all, that’s no small thing. We muddled some, and we stumbled through a few, but we’re terribly proud of the fact that we negotiated the Anniversary Dance – sprung on us a fortnight back without warning -almost without error. Our most egregious sin was slipping a right shoulder instead of left in a reel, and considering how confusing we found the dance when it first leapt out of the woodwork, this is a triumph of the highest order. Okay, it is if you’re us and if you understand about reels and slipping shoulders.

To make it make that much more sense to you, here’s our favourite of the dances to be getting on with. It’s a reel that goes to the name of Jessie’s hornpipe. They don’t here, as they did this evening, veer wildly into Christmas carols midway through, but no matter. At least our wittering will have a bit of context for you.

We’re relaxing now with Sleigh Ride tea, evidence that not all sweet teas are cloying. Hibiscus and beetroot make it pink, and there’s apple, cinnamon, and raisins in it among other things. Almond gives it a subtly nutty taste, and while this, like previous calendar teas in it, has coconut in it, it doesn’t overwhelm the tea. And because we lack a musical off-switch, we’re still humming Jessie’s hornpipe. It was the last dance of tonight’s set and a good note to end on.

Back in November when we went to a workshop, we were advised ‘Dancing is friendship set to music.’ This evening was a testament to that. We never wanted for partners, and whole sets were generous with advise, and gracious when we absolutely mangled the sequence. It’s a highly social thing, Scottish Country, which is why we love it so much. We’re not much good at improvised dancing. In fact we’re bad at all kinds of improv, whether it’s charades, dancing or those add-a-sentence stories. But Scottish Country Dance has steps, sequence, and always you’re in conversation with someone. Don’t know where to go? Look at your partner. Waiting in fourth place? Look up the set to the dancing couple. It’s not Austen’s dances exactly, but nor is it a far cry from them either. And dancing them, we can well see why so many of her set pieces hinge on dances.

With that in mind, here’s another Pat Batt poem, all about what to do when dancing. a Scottish Country Dance, and how to spot those of us who know what we’re doing (or even just look like we do).

Eyes Right!

Part Batt

If you ask the question
How to know a Scottish Dancer
It’s really very simple
For there only is one answer.

The easy way to spot him
Is his roving, rolling eye,
And if you don’t believe me –
Well, I will tell you why.

He has one eye on his partner
And one eye on the set,
He has to watch a lot more things
I haven’t mentioned yet.

He has to cover up and down
And watch his teacher too –
How else is he supposed to learn
The footwork he must do?

One eye swivels to his corner,
One eye squints along the line –
When he’s completely cross-eyed
The you know he’s doing fine!

And often you will notice
A fleeting, haunted glance –
That’s when he copies someone else
Who really knows the dance.

Well there’s the explanation – but
I’ll tell you one thing more –
There’s one place where he must not look –
and that is at the floor.

(Previously published in Reel 229)

Back in Scotland the only way to end a dance was hands joined, singing Auld Lang Syne -crossed arms on the last verse. We didn’t do it this evening -Scottish Country is much too refined for that – but it doesn’t feel right to close the night without it. So here’s a second poem as we make up the difference. We bet you know it, but maybe not all the verses.

Auld Lany Syne

Robert Burns

Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
And never brought to mind?
Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
And auld lang syne!

Chorus.-For auld lang syne, my dear,
For auld lang syne.
We’ll tak a cup o’ kindness yet,
For auld lang syne.

And surely ye’ll be your pint stowp!
And surely I’ll be mine!
And we’ll tak a cup o’kindness yet,
For auld lang syne.
For auld, &c.

We twa hae run about the braes,
And pou’d the gowans fine;
But we’ve wander’d mony a weary fit,
Sin’ auld lang syne.
For auld, &c.

We twa hae paidl’d in the burn,
Frae morning sun till dine;
But seas between us braid hae roar’d
Sin’ auld lang syne.
For auld, &c.

And there’s a hand, my trusty fere!
And gie’s a hand o’ thine!
And we’ll tak a right gude-willie waught,
For auld lang syne.
For auld, &c.

A Round Reel of Poetry: Tea for Accompaniment

It’s elegance meets….well the slightly less elegant tonight, as you’re getting tea and a verse with a dose of tartan. Though next to the ceilidhs we learned on, Scottish Country is the elegant cousin, so it’s not too amiss. Mondays are our dancing evening, and we’re strongly tempted to land you with Mairi’s Wedding, because we’ve not done that one yet here, and it would fit the pattern of our day. You’re not getting it, because it drives us fairly batty, even sung.

Besides, we’re sipping Silver Dragon Pearls tonight, and really, there are limits. Sometimes this Advent Calendar comes through in high style, and a tea this delicate, floral -and yes, high-grade -really deserves dignified accompaniment. Alas, we never claimed to be dignified. And since we’re still thinking in reels and jigs, you’re getting a wee verse about Scottish Country Dancing, no names given. Trust us; it’s much funnier this way.

Black_Watch_-_Campbell_tartan

A New Dance

Part Batt

Guess who’s written a brand new dance,
With a brand new figure in it,
Not easy to learn – but worth a try,
As you’ll hear, if you give me a minute.

It is, of course, a “meanwhile” dance
And sounds, perhaps, complex,
But it’s quite straightforward as long as you know
Your number, your partner, and sex.

Threes and fours on the opposite side –
You’ll find it better that way.
You’ve curtsied and bowed, so now get set
And cross your fingers and pray!

An inverted rondel is how it begins
And then the new figure you’ll see
With simple instructions on sheets 1 and 2
And diagrams 1, 2 and 3.

Two highland settings, a knotted barette,
And end in the form of a square.
Crossing reels, look behind you, and with any luck
You’ll find that your partner is there.

Your partner is there, but ignore him or her,
The pattern now subtly alters –
You grab someone else and all promenade round
Backwards – but only three quarters.

The Mic-Mac Rotary bit comes next,
You loop and you loop again,
A quadruple figure of eight, and then
A five-and-a-half-bar chain.

A two-and-a-half-bar turn ends the dance,
An experience no one should miss.
Wherever, whenever, whatever you’ve danced
You’ve never met something like this!

I hope you enjoy it – I think that you will –
And I do hope you think it’s alright
To give yo this preview of what he might dream
When he’s having a very bad night!

(Previously published in Reel 204)

saltire

After all that, you’re getting Mairi’s Wedding after all. If nothing else, it will give you a flavour of what all those verses are on about. It was also the first Scottish Country Dance we ever had thrown at us, and if you can look at it and tell us even one way in which that makes sense, we’ll bow to your wisdom. Personally, we’re still boggled.