Um! Um! Um! Can't go out t' fetch th' fiddler 'n' th' gal with th' clarinet, without you gals a'skeerin' th' fellers half out thar socks (them's ez whar's 'em o'course). Well I figger it won't do no harm t' mend a fence er two by askin' my own kind feller, Akiba, t' take'em up a mess o' soup 'n' sammiches 'n' fruit 'n' sody's 'n'coffee and hef a dozen fresh-made pies. (Reckon they orta take kindly t' my pecan pies; got some French apple 'n' lemon chess 'n' raspberry/nectarine t' send 'em, too, 'n' a-plenty more left fer us'ns.) Thet ol' keg a thar'n t'won't last 'em th' night, so jes t' prove we's still on frien'ly terms, I'm a'gonna git my fella t' brang 'em th' bottle a Calvados I keeps fer t' make (a kosher version of) Canard á la Normandie, on speshul 'casions. Thet orta hold 'em awhile!

Looks like this hyar ev'nin's done spread out t' a three-day ree-treat, so I s'spose we'll hefta hev some akshul supper sometime soon. Got a big pot a beef 'n' barley soup on th' fire, 'n' lotsa greens 'n' 'maters 'n' cukes 'n other salad fixin's, if anyone's a gittin' hongery long 'bout now. How's 'bout th' non-cookin' ladies bringin' snacks 'n' whistle-wetters, soft er hard, it makes no never mind?

Now I promised Peter T. a "man-lovin" Yiddish song so he don't hefta worry no more 'bout any evil intentions toward those with th' congenital misfortune a bein' unable t' sit t' pee. This'uns got sump'n fer ever'one: y' see, this here gal, she's a'doin'erran's fer her Ma, 'n' ever' feller she meets up with, looks better'n th' last, 'til she meets a pertic'ler nice Polish boy, 'n' thet settles thet.

A YINGELE FUN POLYN
(Yiddish, Transliteration)

Di Momme ho't mikh geshikht
Koif'n a yashtchik.
Ho't zikh in mir farliebt,
A bocher a prikashtchik
Oy! Iz dus a bocher'l!
A shayns un a fynes!
A mir far zy-ne bayndeleckh,
Oy! Ketsele du mynz!

Un di Momme ho't mikh geshikht
Koyl'n a hin. R!-r!-r!-r!-r!-r! *
Ho't zikh in mir farliebt, --
Dem shoykhets a zin.
Oy! Iz dus a shoykhet'l!
A shoykhet'l in a zydener kapote,
Oy! Shenk mir aza chusend'l,
Oy! Ty-ere, ziser tate!

Un di Momme ho't mikh geshikt
Fregn a shyla
Ho't zikh in mir farliebt
Der ruv oyf a vy-le
Oy! Iz dus a rebenu!
Oy, (Gevalt!) Iz dus a tzadik!
Mir far zy-ne payeleckh,
Un mir far zaynem spodik!

Nor as di Momme ho't mikh geshikt,
In mark arayn nokh kolyn
Hob ikh mikh farliebt
In a yingele fun Polyn.
Oy! Iz dus a yingele!
Mit eygelekh vos brennen!
Ich vil shoyn gur kayn ander'n,
In lebn mir nisht kenen!

*(terrified chicken noise, high-pitched string of rolled r's)

(Here's a singable translation. It is a work in progress, since I don't feel confident enough of my knowledge of Scots vocabulary to give it the authentic Scots flavor I'd like. Why, Scots? Easy! There IS NO "plain English" translation for Oy! Would LOVE assistance "ethnically upgrading" my English lyrics, if there's a Scotswoman about!)

A LADDIE FRA' POLAND

Oh, my mother sent me forth,
A basket (for) to buy;
Am I to blame, my beauty caught
The basket-seller's eye?
Och! Is this no' a brave youth?
Sae handsome an' sae fine!
Such strong and cunning bones has he --
Ah! Sweet wee cat o' mine!

Again, my mother sent me out,
To kill a fine, fat hen. R!-r!-r!-r!-r!-r!
Another fellow fell for me --
This time the butcher's son!
Och! An' such a wealthy man,
Dressed a' in a coat o' silk!
Send such a husband, Athair, Dear,
For I'll ne'er see his ilk!

An' next my mother bid me seek
A G-dly man's reply;
Twas then I took the fancy
O' our gentle young rabbi!
Och! Sure he is a pious man!
A scholar, wise and pure,
With gleaming, curly side-locks,
And hat of softest fur!

(But) when mother sent me forth once more,
To fetch a hod o' coal,
T'was then I lost my ane heart,
To a bonny, black-eyed Pole!
Och! Sae rare a laddie,
With glowin' coals for eyes! --
I'll lo'e him true, my whole life thro'
Nae other will I prize!

Hope thet'll make amends t' th' fellers, and keep th' rest of us'ns singin' yit awhile. Off t' fetch out th' vittles. Who'll hev th' next go?

Back in a bit,

Shula