About Me

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I am Miss Pancake Taylor. I have come from very far away to take care of my family Craig and Zita and Niamh and Emmet. Sometimes I have helpers; my friends the Blackthorn-Badgers. They are very old Scotsmen. I am very glad to meet you.

Thursday, 14 December 2017

Hark the herald angels sing

Hark the herald angels sing
"Glory to the newborn King!
Peace on earth and mercy mild
God and sinners reconciled"
Joyful, all ye nations rise
Join the triumph of the skies
With the angelic host proclaim:
"Christ is born in Bethlehem"
Hark! The herald angels sing
"Glory to the newborn King!"
  
Christ by highest heav'n adored
Christ the everlasting Lord!
Late in time behold Him come
Offspring of a Virgin's womb
Veiled in flesh the Godhead see
Hail the incarnate Deity
Pleased as man with man to dwell
Jesus, our Emmanuel
Hark! The herald angels sing
"Glory to the newborn King!"

Hail the heav'n-born Prince of Peace!
Hail the Son of Righteousness!
Light and life to all He brings
Ris'n with healing in His wings
Mild He lays His glory by
Born that man no more may die
Born to raise the sons of earth
Born to give them second birth
Hark! The herald angels sing
"Glory to the newborn King!"
Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening

Whose woods these are I think I know,
His house is in the village though.
He will not see me stopping here,
To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer,
To stop without a farmhouse near,
Between the woods and frozen lake,
The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake,
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep,
Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.
 

Robert Frost
How to Scientifically Explain Santa Claus to Your Children

The Santa questions start firing at you before your kids turn five. How does he speed around the world in a single night? How does he know what I want? Sure, you could lie and deny Santa's existence, but be ready for some tears.

The good news is, there are perfectly reasonable answers to the many questions relating to his annual mission. The bad news: The science involved is typically beyond the reach of the average six year old. Most graduate students can't understand the specifics of wormhole formation. Second-graders? Forget it.

Don't worry, though: I am a professional. Follow this simple* guide, and explain Santa's magical mission with science and technology.

How does he deliver so many presents in a single night?

The new movie Arthur Christmas describes a high-tech military-style global operation. In 1994's Miracle on 34th Street, Santa says he can slow time, and in Elf he's got a hot rod sleigh. But none of these techniques could truly get St. Nick into all those living rooms in one night.

Santa clearly uses wormholes, the tunnels through space and time that allow travelers to jump from one side of the cosmos to the other or—in this case, from one neighborhood to the next. But trying to give your kid a primer on relativity, gravity and negative energy would be pointless. Instead, take a piece of paper, draw a picture of your house on one half, then a friend's home on the opposite one. Trace a line from one side of the sheet to the other to represent the standard path—the route Santa would take in an airborne sleigh. Now fold the paper down the middle so the two houses are back-to-back, one on either side.

You don't have to get into the curvature of space-time, but you can tell your kids that Santa uses deep scientific knowledge to see a different map of the universe, one that contains roads most people don't know about. The Jolly Old Elf may have found a way to jump or drop from one house to the next without having to travel along the same line you'd use. If they're still asking questions after that, pull up Time Bandits on Netflix streaming. If that doesn't satisfy, you might have a future physicist.

How does Santa do it all without being seen?

Obviously, his suit allows him to become invisible. Again, though, explaining exactly how this works can be tricky. We see everything around us because objects and people and plants give off light. When he wants to hide, however, Santa's suit cloaks him from view by deflecting and re-routing the light in the room. There are such materials in research labs today, but you're better off showing your kids a simpler example of this kind of cloaking technique, such as this new adaptive camouflage system.

How does he know if I've been good or bad?

The idea of someone watching your every move terrifies most adults, but kids can deal with it. A reasonable explanation would be that Santa has a fleet of robotic flying drones, each of which records HD video and audio, then relays this data, via satellite, back to the North Pole. If your kids are doubtful, show them these videos of Aerovironment Inc.'s amazing new hummingbird aerial vehicle.

Is Santa really immortal?

Of course not. He's just very, very old. And if your little one wants to know how it is that he has lived so long, try a car analogy. When a part of the family sedan breaks down, we take it to the shop to have it replaced, and the car keeps running. The same holds for Santa. When one of his essential parts, such as his egg-nog-soaked liver, needs replacement, his robotic surgeons replace it with an artificial, newly-printed organ. If any more questions follow, bring up this TED talk. They'll either become a doctor or fall asleep. Either way you're set.

How does he read so many wish lists?

Although it's nice to picture the old guy sitting at a desk, glasses perched on the edge of his nose, reading through stacks of illegible wish lists, this would take forever. Kids get a kick out of big numbers, so it might be worth running through some hypotheticals. If Santa were to receive 10 million wish lists, and take a mere 20 seconds to read and choose an item from each one, the whole job would take him a little more than six years. And that's without a break. Instead, I'd suggest that he uses a rapid document scanner in tandem with optical character recognition software. In short, his computers read the notes for him.

Finally, if you're asked why elves have pointy ears, the answer is should be obvious. They are Vulcans.

Wednesday, 13 December 2017

Silent Night

Silent night, holy night!
All is calm, all is bright.
Round yon verge, Mother and Child.
Holy infant so tender and mild,
Sleep in heavenly peace,
Sleep in heavenly peace

Silent night, holy night!
Shepherds quake at the sight.
Glories stream from heaven afar
Heavenly hosts sing Alleluia,
Christ the Savior is born!
Christ the Savior is born

Silent night, holy night!
Son of God love's pure light.
Radiant beams from Thy holy face
With dawn of redeeming grace,
Jesus Lord, at Thy birth
Jesus Lord, at Thy birth

Josef Mohr

Arguably the world’s most popular Christmas carol comes in several different translations from the German original. It started out as a poem by the Austrian Catholic priest Father Josef Mohr in 1816. Two years later, Mohr was curate at the parish church of St Nicola in Oberndorf when he asked the organist and local schoolteacher Franz Xaver Gruber to put music to his words.

An unreliable legend has it that the church organ had been damaged by mice, but whatever the reason, Gruber wrote it to be performed by two voices and guitar. It was first performed at midnight mass on Christmas Eve 1818, with Mohr and Gruber themselves taking the solo voice roles.

Its fame eventually spread (allegedly it has been translated into over 300 languages and dialects) and it famously played a key role in the unofficial truce in the trenches in 1914 because it was one of the only carols that both British and German soldiers knew.
Good King Wenceslas

Good King Wenceslas looked out
On the feast of Stephen,
When the snow lay round about,
Deep and crisp and even.
Brightly shown the moon that night,
Though the frost was cruel,
When a poor man came in sight,
Gathering winter fuel.

Hither, page, and stand by me.
If thou know it telling:
Yonder peasant, who is he?
Where and what his dwelling?
Sire, he lives a good league hence,
Underneath the mountain,
Right against the forest fence
By Saint Agnes fountain.

Bring me flesh, and bring me wine.
Bring me pine logs hither.
Thou and I will see him dine
When we bear the thither.
Page and monarch, forth they went,
Forth they went together
Through the rude wind's wild lament
And the bitter weather.

Sire, the night is darker now,
And the wind blows stronger.
Fails my heart, I know not how.
I can go no longer.
Ark my footsteps my good page,
Tread thou in them boldly:
Thou shalt find the winter's rage
Freeze thy blood less coldly.

In his master's step he trod,
Where the snow lay dented.
Heat was in the very sod
Which the saint had printed.
Therefore, Christian men, be sure,
Wealth or rank possessing,
Ye who now will bless the poor
Shall yourselves find blessing.


Words: John Mason Neale

The Reverend Doctor Neale was a high Anglican whose career was blighted by suspicion that he was a crypto-Catholic, so as warden of Sackville College – an almshouse in East Grinstead – he had plenty of time for study and composition. Most authorities deride his words as “horrible”, “doggerel” or “meaningless”, but it has withstood the test of time. The tune came from a Scandinavian song that Neale found in a rare medieval book that had been sent to him by a friend who was British ambassador in Stockholm.

There really was a Wenceslas – Vaclav in Czech – although he was Duke of Bohemia, rather than a king. Wenceslas (907–935) was a pious Christian who was murdered by his pagan brother Boleslav; after his death a huge number of myths and stories gathered around him. Neale borrowed one legend to deliver a classically Victorian message about the importance of being both merry and charitable at Christmas.
Go, Tell It On The Mountain


While shepherds kept their watching
Over Wandering flocks by night
Behold throughout the heavens,
There shone a holy light:
Go, Tell It On The Mountain,
Over the hills and everywhere;
Go, Tell It On The Mountain
That Jesus Christ is born.

The shepherds feared and trembled
When lo! above the earth
Rang out the angel chorus
That hailed our Saviour's birth:
Go, Tell It On The Mountain,
Over the hills and everywhere;
Go, Tell It On The Mountain
That Jesus Christ is born.

Down in a lowly manger
Our humble Christ was born
And God sent us salvation,

That blessed Christmas morn:

Over the hills and everywhere;
Go, Tell It On The Mountain
That Jesus Christ is born.

When I was a seeker,
I sought both night and day;
I asked the Lord to help me,
And He showed me the way:
Go, Tell It On The Mountain,
Over the hills and everywhere;
Go, Tell It On The Mountain
That Jesus Christ is born.

He made me a watchman
Upon the city wall,
And if I am a Christian,
I am the least of all.
Go, Tell It On The Mountain,
Over the hills and everywhere;
Go, Tell It On The Mountain
That Jesus Christ is born.

While shepherds kept their watching
Over Wandering flocks by night
Behold throughout the heavens,
There shone a holy light:
Go, Tell It On The Mountain,
Over the hills and everywhere;
Go, Tell It On The Mountain
That Jesus Christ is born.

The shepherds feared and trembled
When lo! above the earth
Rang out the angel chorus
That hailed our Saviour's birth:
Go, Tell It On The Mountain,
Over the hills and everywhere;
Go, Tell It On The Mountain
That Jesus Christ is born.

Down in a lowly manger
Our humble Christ was born
And God sent us salvation,

That blessed Christmas morn:

Over the hills and everywhere;
Go, Tell It On The Mountain
That Jesus Christ is born.

When I was a seeker,
I sought both night and day;
I asked the Lord to help me,
And He showed me the way:
Go, Tell It On The Mountain,
Over the hills and everywhere;
Go, Tell It On The Mountain
That Jesus Christ is born.

He made me a watchman
Upon the city wall,
And if I am a Christian,
I am the least of all.
Go, Tell It On The Mountain,
Over the hills and everywhere;
Go, Tell It On The Mountain
That Jesus Christ is born.

Tuesday, 12 December 2017

God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen


God rest ye merry, gentlemen,
Let nothing you dismay,
Remember Christ our Savior
Was born on Christmas Day;
To save us all from Satan's power
When we were gone astray.
O tidings of comfort and joy,
Comfort and joy,
O tidings of comfort and joy!

From God our heavenly Father
A blessed angel came;
And unto certain shepherds
Brought tiding of the same;
How that in Bethlehem was born
The Son of God by name.

"Fear not, then," said the angel,
"Let nothing you affright;
This day is born a Savior
Of a pure virgin bright,
To free all those who trust in him
From Satan's power and might."

Now to the Lord sing praises,
All you within this place,
And with true love and brotherhood
Each other now embrace;
This holy tide of Christmas
Doth bring redeeming grace.


Origin unknown

This is thought to have originated in London in the 16th or 17th centuries before running to several different versions with different tunes all over England. The most familiar melody dates back to at least the 1650s when it appeared in a book of dancing tunes. It was certainly one of the Victorians’ favourites.

If you want to impress people with your knowledge (or pedantry), then point out to them that the comma is placed after the “merry” in the first line because the song is enjoining the gentlemen (possibly meaning the shepherds abiding in the fields) to be merry because of Christ’s birthday. It’s not telling “merry gentlemen” to rest!

 
Lock the Door, Lariston


Lock the door, Lariston, lion of Liddisdale,   
Lock the door, Lariston, Lowther comes on,   
    The Armstrongs are flying,   
    The widows are crying,   
The Castletown’s burning, and Oliver’s gone!           

Lock the door, Lariston,—high on the weather-gleam,   
See how the Saxon plumes bob on the sky,—   
    Yeoman and carbinier,   
    Bilman and halberdier;   
Fierce is the foray, and far is the cry.           

Bewcastle brandishes high his broad scimitar;   
Ridley is riding his fleet-footed grey;   
    Hidley and Howard there,   
    Wandale and Windermere,—   
Lock the door, Lariston; hold them at bay.           

Why dost thou smile, noble Elliot of Lariston?   
Why do the joy-candles gleam in thine eye?   
    Thou bold Border ranger,   
    Beware of thy danger;—   
Thy foes are relentless, determined, and nigh.           

Jock Elliot raised up his steel bonnet and lookit,   
His hand grasped the sword with a nervous embrace;   
    ‘Ah, welcome, brave foemen,   
    On earth there are no men   
More gallant to meet in the foray or chase!           

‘Little know you of the hearts I have hidden here;   
Little know you of our moss-troopers’ might—   
    Lindhope and Sorbie true,   
    Sundhope and Milburn too,   
Gentle in manner, but lions in fight!           

‘I’ve Mangerton, Ogilvie, Raeburn, and Netherbie,   
Old Sim of Whitram, and all his array;   
    Come, all Northumberland,   
    Teesdale and Cumberland,   
Here at the Breaken tower end shall the fray.’           

Scowl’d the broad sun o’er the links of green Liddisdale,   
Red as the beacon-light tipp’d he the wold;   
    Many a bold martial eye,   
    Mirror’d that morning sky,   
Never more oped on his orbit of gold!           

Shrill was the bugle’s note! dreadful the warriors’ shout!   
Lances and halberds in splinters were borne;   
    Helmet and hauberk then   
    Braved the claymore in vain,   
Buckler armlet in shivers were shorn.           

See how they wane—the proud files of the Windermere!   
Howard—ah! woe to thy hopes of the day!   
    Hear the wide welkin rend,   
    While the Scots’ shouts ascend,   
‘Elliot of Lariston, Elliot for aye!’           


James Hogg
Gathering Song of Donald the Black



Pibroch of Donuil Dhu
     Pitbroch of Donuil
Wake thy wild voice anew,
     Summon Clan Conuil.
Come away, come away,
     Hark to the summons!
Come in your war-array,
     Gentles and commons.

Come from deep glen, and
     From mountain so rocky;
The war-pipe and pennon
     Are at Inverlocky.
Come every hill-plaid, and
     True heart that wears one,
Come every steel blade, and
     Strong hand that bears one.

Leave untended the herd,
     The flock without shelter;
Leave the corpse uninterr’d,
     The bride at the altar;
Leave the deer, leave the steer,
     Leave nets and barges:
Come with your fighting gear,
     Broadswords and targes.

Come as the winds come, when
     Forests are rended,
Come as the waves come, when
     Navies are stranded:
Faster come, faster come,
     Faster and faster,
Chief, vassal, page and groom,
     Tenant and master.

Fast they come, fast they come;
     See how they gather!
Wide waves the eagle plume
     Blended with heather.
Cast your plaids, draw your blades,
     Forward each man set!
Pibroch of Donuil Dhu
     Knell for the onset!

by Sir Walter Scott
“Fuzzy-Wuzzy”


WE ’VE fought with many men acrost the seas,   
  An’ some of ’em was brave an’ some was not,   
The Paythan an’ the Zulu an’ Burmese;   
  But the Fuzzy was the finest o’ the lot.   
We never got a ha’porth’s change of ’im:           
  ’E squatted in the scrub an’ ’ocked our ’orses,   
’E cut our sentries up at Suakim,   

  An’ ’e played the cat an’ banjo with our forces.   
    So ’ere ’s to you, Fuzzy-Wuzzy, at your ’ome in the Soudan;   
    You ’re a pore benighted ’eathen but a first-class fightin’ man;           
    We gives you your certificate, an’ if you want it signed   
    We ’ll come an’ ’ave a romp with you whenever you ’re inclined.   

We took our chanst among the Kyber ’ills,   
  The Boers knocked us silly at a mile,   
The Burman give us Irriwaddy chills,           
  An’ a Zulu impi dished us up in style:   
But all we ever got from such as they   
  Was pop to what the Fuzzy made us swaller;   
We ’eld our bloomin’ own, the papers say,   
  But man for man the Fuzzy knocked us ’oller.
           
  Then ’ere ’s to you, Fuzzy-Wuzzy, an’ the missis and the kid;   
  Our orders was to break you, an’ of course we went an’ did.   
  We sloshed you with Martinis, an’ it was n’t ’ardly fair;   
  But for all the odds agin’ you, Fuzzy-Wuz, you broke the square.   

’E ’as n’t got no papers of ’is own,           
  ’E ’as n’t got no medals nor rewards,   
So we must certify the skill ’e ’s shown   
  In usin’ of ’is long two-’anded swords:   
When ’e ’s ’oppin’ in an’ out among the bush   
  With ’is coffin-’eaded shield an’ shovel-spear,           
An ’appy day with Fuzzy on the rush   
  Will last an ’ealthy Tommy for a year.   

    So ’ere ’s to you, Fuzzy-Wuzzy, an’ your friends which are no more,   
    If we ’ad n’t lost some messmates we would ’elp you to deplore;   
    But give an’ take ’s the gospel, an’ we ’ll call the bargain fair,           
    For if you ’ave lost more than us, you crumpled up the square!   

’E rushes at the smoke when we let drive,   
  An’, before we know, ’e ’s ’ackin’ at our ’ead;   
’E ’s all ’ot sand an’ ginger when alive,   
  An’ ’e ’s generally shammin’ when ’e ’s dead.           
’E ’s a daisy, ’e ’s a ducky, ’e ’s a lamb!   
  ’E ’s a injia-rubber idiot on the spree,   
’E ’s the on’y thing that does n’t give a damn   
  For a Regiment o’ British Infantree!   

    So ’ere ’s to you, Fuzzy-Wuzzy, at your ’ome in the Soudan;           
    You ’re a pore benighted ’eathen but a first-class fightin’ man;   
    An’ ’ere ’s to you, Fuzzy-Wuzzy, with your ’ayrick ’ead of ’air—   
    You big black boundin’ beggar—for you broke a British square!