I have some Scottish ancestry and whether it is because of that, the fascination with the aural wonder of the poems, or just the fantastic excuse for a celebration at the end of January, I love Burns Night. We will be indulging in the traditional culinary delights here but first I thought I would give you a glimpse to tempt you to join me.

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So come on. Follow me for some fun.

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Who else is having a Sinful Sunday?

Sinful Sunday

15 Replies to “Burns Night”

  1. Just in case anyone wants to know – here is Robert Burns’ Address to a Haggis.

    Fair fa’ your honest, sonsie face,
    Great chieftain o’ the pudding-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 sleight,
    Trenching your gushing entrails bright,
    Like ony 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 make 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 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 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 ye wish her gratefu’ prayer
    Gie her a haggis!

  2. I had the pleasure of watching my father declaim that poem in a wicked Scots accent, before serving an actual haggis. I liked the poem a lot more than the dish! You, on the other hand … those legs go all the way up to your tartan, and it’s lovely 🙂 The 1/8th Scotch part of me salutes you!

    xx Dee

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