Burns Night

Update - I've just revisted this post and seen how weird the fonts have gone, hope this fixes it a little though only a complete re-write will fix properly - sorry.

It's Burns night here in Scotland and we traditionally celebrate with a Burns Supper. Last year we had it in the Arctic Circle. except when it was all made it turned out Andy had bought the meat haggis instead of the veggie one, so I couldn't have it. I was so upset - and hungry.

No time to blog with pictures but I like a vegetarian haggis from here on Burns night (and any other cold night for that matter). Eugh I hear many of you say, but strust me VEGGIE HAGGIS IS DELICIOUS. I've lost count of how many meat eaters now thrive on MacSween's veggie haggis instead of the meat variety. It is served with Neeps and Tatties (that's turnips and potatoes to non Scots). Very delicious comfort food.

Here thanks to the MacSween site are traditional Burns Poems often read as part of the Burns Supper (it's all very ordered you know).

Burns Poems
Here is the text of the most popular poems used at Burns Night events - The Selkirk Grace, To A Haggis and Auld Lang Syne...

Selkirk Grace

Some hae meat and canna eat
And some wad eat that want it:
But we hae meat and we can eat,
And sae the Lord be thankit.

To A Haggis

Fair fa' your honest, sonsie face,
Great Chieftan o' the Puddin'-race!
Aboon them a' ye tak your place,
Painch, tripe, or thairm:
Weel are ye wordy of 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;
Then 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 sconner
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' bluidy 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 mak 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 you wish her gratefu' pray'r,
Gie her a Haggis!

Auld Lang Syne*

Should auld acqaintance be forgot
And never brought to mind?
Should auld acqaintance be forgot,
And auld lang syne?

For auld lang syne, my jo,
For auld lang syne,
We'll tak' a cup o' kindness yet,
For auld lang syne.

And there's a hand, my trusty fiere!
And gie's a hand o' thine!
And we'll tak' a ight gude-willie waught,
For auld lang syne.

For auld lang syne, my jo,
For auld lang syne,
We'll tak' a cup o' kindness yet,
For auld lang syne.

Robert Burns 1759-1796

* This version is taken from The Kilmarnoch Edition.