… bent my whistle, it’s makin’
some squeeks and a chirple.
Little Bird, Broken Wing
Can not fly cannot Sing
Shall I fix its broken Wing???
Or will I Kill the Flookin Ting
Walden, you have affixed a big, laughing smile to my face this day. 
Dubhlinn, you have unsettled me. Big time.
My Ulster roots must be showing. Time for another dyejob. 
But soft, what light through yonder schrawbing fuddle breaks?
“Schrawbing fuddle” meaning the hole in my head, right? Beware.
Toasty, or not Toasty- that is the question:
Whether ‘tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageou5 4tune
Or to take arms against a foul-mouthed ohmadawn,
And by opposing end them. To die- to sleep-
No more; and by a sleep to say we end
The heartache, and the thousand natural shocks
That a schrawbing fuddle is heir to. ‘Tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wish’d. To die- to sleep.
To sleep- perchance to dream: ay, there’s the feckin rub!
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause. There’s the respect
That makes a feckin calamity of so long life.
For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,
Th’ a55hole’s dissin’, the proud man’s contumely,
The pangs of despis’d love, the law’s delay,
The insolence of office, and the spurns
That patient merit of th’ unworthy takes,
When he himself might his quietus make
With a bare bodhran? Who would these schrawbing fardels bear,
To grunt and sweat under a weary life,
But that the dread of something after death-
The undiscover’d country, from whose bourn
No traveller returns- puzzles the will,
And makes us rather bear those feckin’ eejits we have
Than fly to others that we know not of?
Thus conscience does make cowards of us all,
And thus the native hue of resolution
Is sicklied o’er with the pale cast of thought,
And Waldcos of great pith and moment
With this regard their currents turn awry
And lose the name of action.- Soft you now!
The fair Emmline!- Nymph, in thy orisons
Be all my sins rememb’red.
http://chiffboard.mati.ca/viewtopic.php?t=22612&highlight=glauber
So it’s possible and fair to copy and paste any previous post.
Did you notice that Mozzi plays the fife left handed?
Am I missing something here???
Slan,
D.
ok…who told Gary I was a nymph?
haven’t got a clue.
Amar.
Slan,
D.
what?? i didn’t do anything!!
It’s the thought that counts!!
Slan,
D.
Main Entry: nymph
Pronunciation: 'nim(p)f
Function: noun
Etymology: Middle English nimphe, from Middle French, from Latin nympha bride, nymph, from Greek nymphE – more at NUPTIAL
1 : blablabla
2 : blablabla
3 : any of various immature insects; especially : a larva of an insect (as a grasshopper, true bug, or mayfly) with incomplete metamorphosis that differs from the imago especially in size and in its incompletely developed wings and genitalia
i would never call you an immature insect with underdeveloped genitalia.
Gary is in big trouble!!!
Get out while you can!
Slan,
D.
I’m not sure, but I seem to find no picture, in that link, of any left-handed fifing.
This whole tempest in a teapot is ridiculously easy to resolve…
Gary clearly meant that I was a “blablabla.”
Amar…behave.
I’m a blablabla, too. 