Burns Night

January 25th is the birthday of Scotland's iconic poet and lyricist, Robert Burns...  though the majority of his poem were written in Scots dialect, they are nonetheless accessible by those who can interpret the language of the Scots and divulge the hidden knowledge imparted to the few, the proud, who ken whit ah mean.

Usually the Bard's birthday is celebrated with a spread of Scottish delicacies.  Usually it is started off with traditional cock-a-leekie soup;
the main course must include Haggis and neeps & tatties; the sweets typically include a clootie Dumpling (a pudding prepared in a linen cloth or cloot) or Typsy Laird (a Scottish sherry trifle); to finish, a cheeseboard with bannocks (oatcakes) and tea/coffee.  The Scotch pours freely - as there are many toasts throughout the night. 

The most essential edible element of the Burns Night is the Haggis - a dish that will be forever linked to Rabbie, as he canonized it in his Address to a Haggis:


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 wordy 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



Usually a number of people will recite poems or sing songs or make toasts - as a bit of a wimpy introvert, I usually sit this part out, but found that it was such a lovely way to pass a winter's evening...  it fills the cold, dark night with such a feeling of calm, happiness and mirth.

On the 25th, I may try to make some haggis from my freezer full of lamb... if it turns out, I will share the results! LOL!


If you have a favorite Burns poem, please share it!