Burns Night

Our friends recently hosted a Burns Supper. What is a Burns Supper, you ask? Good question, as Bill and I had no idea! Robert Burns is Scotland's favorite poet. When he died, his friend started hosting an annual supper in his honor, every year on his birthday. This tradition soon spread, and on January 25th, Burns Suppers are hosted around the world - complete with haggis, neeps (boiled, mashed turnips), and tatties (mashed potatoes), and usually lots of whiskey.

At Brian & Regine's house (the same house where we had thanksgiving) for Burns Night, the men who had kilts wore them, and the ladies draped tartan scarves over their shoulders. 

The appetizer was Scotch Broth (beef stew). Before we ate the main meal, we had to preform the traditions Address to the Haggis, a poem highlighting this amazing food written by Robert Burns. Anyone willing had to read a verse, then have a drink of whiskey.

Burns Night - Scotch Broth

(all blue words are hyperlink'd to their definition if you want to learn what they mean)

Address to a Haggis, by Robert Burns, 1786

Fair fa' your honest, sonsie face, 

Great chieftain o' the pudding-race! 

Aboon them a' yet tak your place, 

Painch, tripe, or thairm: 

Weel are ye wordy o'a grace 

As lang's my arm. 

Verse One read by Brian and Verity reads verse two

The groaning trencher there ye fill, 

Your hurdies like a distant hill, 

Your pin was help to mend a mill 

In time o'need, 

While thro' your pores the dews distil 

Like amber bead. 

Verse three read by Regine

His knife see rustic Labour dight, 

An' cut you up wi' ready sleight, 

Trenching your gushing entrails bright, 

Like ony ditch; 

And then, O what a glorious sight, 

 Warm-reekin', rich! 

Cindy reads verse four

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.

Go, Bill!! (Verse five)

Is there that owre his French ragout 

Or olio that wad staw a sow, 

Or fricassee wad make her spew 

Wi' perfect sconner, 

Looks down wi' sneering, scornfu' view 

On sic a dinner? 

Verse six

Poor devil! see him owre his trash, 

As feckles as wither'd rash, 

His spindle shank, a guid whip-lash; 

His nieve a nit; 

Thro' blody flood or field to dash, 

O how unfit!

Andy reads the seventh verse

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' hands will sned, 

Like taps o' trissle. 

Reading the final verse
(photo taken by a better camera than my phone!)

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!

And with that, we ate and had a few wee drams o' whiskey :-)

Time to Tuck In!