I am a Scot. Sort of. A few generations ago, one of my ancestors arrived in this country from the highlands and proceeded to do the American thing by taking a local wife... very local, at that. But that's not important right now.
What makes me a further Scot (sort of) is my education... I attended a college whose mascot is The Fighting Scot (lately, he's taken a turn toward creepiness, in the same vein as the Burger King, since the school sprang for an actual, molded mascot head and full costume, instead of allowing one of our burliest young men to sport the colors about his loins). We are the Monmouth Scots. For fifty years, our pep band was the Highlanders, a pipe (of the bag variety) and drum band. Parades in this town did not start until the Highlanders were playing "Scotland the Brave".
Needless to say, we know a few good, old-fashioned Scots' drinking songs. Most folks remember best "The Drunken Scotsman", and, I confess, I have "enjoyed" some mornings awakening to its chorus rattling about in my head, too.
Today, however, the weather has turned chilly and windy, the direction of the sort which proves the truest, bravest Scots for what they are. For, as one fellow once explained it, you know you have a true Scots Man if he wears his kilt all year and has sons born late September.
Who needs troosers when you have this getting you dancing out of bed in the morning?
You can thank me after breakfast (we're not having haggis).