25 January 2016

Burns Night - Ode To A Haggis

I couldn't let Burns Night pass without a little mention on my blog now could I! Robert Burns, or Rabbie Burns as us Scots like to call him, was a famous poet born in 1759 who wrote hundreds of poems and sadly passed away at the age of 37 in 1796 after suffering ill health it seems. Burns Night of course falls on the poets birthday where us Scottish celebrate with a traditional burns supper of haggis, neeps (turnips) and tatties (potatoes). Some people take it quite seriously and address the haggis before eating which basically means reading out Robert Burns' poem of Ode To A Haggis. Most of us just have a quiet supper at home but there's lots of events people can attend around Scotland. I'm sure my other half will have his kilt on and be sipping malts throughout the evening. I'll be sure to get some photos!

Anyway please enjoy the lovely address to the haggis by Robert Burns:

Fair fa' your honest, sonsie face, 
Great chieftain o the puddin'-race!
Aboon them a' ye tak your place,
Painch, tripe, or thairm:
Weel are ye worthy o' a grace
As lang's my arm.

The groaning trencher there ye fill,
Your hurdies like a distant hill,
Your pin wad help to mend a mill
In time o need,
While thro your pores the dews distil
Like amber bead.

His knife see rustic Labour dight,
An cut you up wi ready slight,
Trenching your gushing entrails bright,
Like onie ditch;
And then, O what a glorious sight,
Warm-reekin, rich!

Then, horn for horn, they stretch an strive:
Deil tak the hindmost, on they drive,
Till a' their weel-swall'd kytes belyve
Are bent like drums;
The auld Guidman, maist like to rive,
'Bethankit' hums.

Is there that owre his French ragout,
Or olio that wad staw a sow,
Or fricassee wad mak her spew
Wi perfect scunner,
Looks down wi sneering, scornfu view
On sic a dinner?

Poor devil! see him owre his trash,
As feckless as a wither'd rash,
His spindle shank a guid whip-lash,
His nieve a nit;
Thro bloody flood or field to dash,
O how unfit!

But mark the Rustic, haggis-fed,
The trembling earth resounds his tread,
Clap in his walie nieve a blade,
He'll make it whissle;
An legs an arms, an heads will sned,
Like taps o thrissle.

Ye Pow'rs, wha mak mankind your care,
And dish them out their bill o fare,
Auld Scotland wants nae skinking ware
That jaups in luggies:
But, if ye wish her gratefu prayer,
Gie her a Haggis

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