BOOK LAUNCH – March 13th

“Kate Armstrong’s voice in The Stone Frigate is shockingly honest with gut-wrenching details that makes one desperate to stop reading, but which also compels one to keep turning the pages because this story is too important to ignore. The Canadian military has slowly veered away from some of the misogynistic traditions held dear back then by the Royal Military College, which Kate describes so eloquently in her memoir. Sadly, others are still deeply entrenched in the male-dominated culture of this institution today. The damage is undeniable. It’s time for a hard right.” 

— Major (retired) Sandra Perron, Globe and Mail Best Books author of Out Standing In The Field

ROBBIE BURNS DAY – Community Potluck

Friday, January 25th, 6 – 9 pm

An evening of Scottish food & high jinks to celebrate the Bard’s 206th birthday!  
Music, quizzes, dancing & toasts.
Bring your favourite Scottish inspired dish to share (haggis provided)

and a wee donation to drop in the jar!
 
All Scots, Wannabe Scots and friends of a Scot welcome.

To a Mouse

BY ROBERT BURNS

On Turning up in Her Nest with the Plough, November, 1785

Wee, sleeket, cowran, tim’rous beastie, 
O, what a panic’s in thy breastie! 
Thou need na start awa sae hasty, 
          Wi’ bickerin 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, whyles, 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 monie 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!