“I find that singing makes the time pass, Doctor. Not gloomy songs, but cheerful ones. Don’t you know any songs? Isn’t there some Scotsman named Brown, or Bowen who wrote some songs?”
He stopped cleaning the fish and looked at her with an expression of deep pain.
“Might you be referring to Rabbie Burns, the bard of Scotland?”
Daphne thought about it for a moment.
“That sounds right. He wrote a song about a red rose, and one about a hag.” Her brow scrunched. “Though why someone would want to write a song about a hag is beyond me.”
He closed his eyes, then opened them and looked at her.
“Not a hag, Miss Farnham, a haggis. A haggis is a dish enjoyed by the people of Scotland.”
“Really? What is it?”
Dr. Murray described, with loving detail, the inner workings of the mysterious haggis. Daphne looked at him, speechless for a long moment.
“I would think raw fish a treat after that!”
Today is the birthday of Robert Burns, the bard of Scotland. I will forgo the haggis but raise a dram of Scotland's finest product (no, not haggis, that other product) tonight and toast the man who gave us so much wonderful poetry and music. Slàinte!