Address To a Haggis

For the first time in three years, we managed to celebrate Burns Night with some fellow Scots - or at least one Scot, the Spaniard she met in Aberdeen and is married to and their American-born child, and two Tunisians who moved here from Aberdeen a year ago, and their two Scottish-born children, one of whom is in Toots's year at Trinity.  The third family invited, who also lived in Aberdeen and have Scottish-born kids who go to Trinity, were moving house so couldn't join the rammy.  But still, these folks are about as Scottish, or token Scottish, as we're gonna get around here, and it's nice to finally have some like-minded souls around.  Even if we end up talking mostly about the food that we miss!

So, it was an absolute joy to host a Burns supper for folks that actually like it (the Don not withstanding).  I say Burns supper, but as well as the traditional haggis, neeps and tatties, we also managed to produce home made Scotch Broth, and stovies, Nairn's oatcakes and beetroot, followed by home made sticky toffee pudding and sauce, shortbread, Tunnock's Caramel Wafers, and tablet, all washed down with some Irn-bru and Bellhaven's Scottish Ale.

It was an affa fine feast.

Toasting the 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.

Hurry it up Rabbie ye blether

The groaning trencher there ye fill,

Your hurdies like a distant hill,

Your pin wad help to mend a mill

In time of need,

While thro your pores the dews distil

Like amber bead.

His knife see rustic Labour dicht,

An cut you up wi ready slicht,

Trenching your gushing entrails bricht,

Like onie ditch;

And then, Oh what a glorious sicht,

Warm-reekin, rich!

Then, horn for horn, they stretch an strive:

Deil tak the hindmaist, 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 o're his French ragout

Or olio that wad staw a sow,

Or fricassee wad make her spew

Wi' perfect scunner,

Looks down wi' sneering, scornfu' view

On sic a dinner?

Getting in to the spirit of things...

Poor devil! see him ower 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 wallie nieve a blade,

He'll mak it whistle;

An' legs an' arms, an' heads will sned,

Like taps o' thristle.

Ye Pow'rs wha mak mankind your care,

And dish them out their bill o'fare,

Auld Scotland wants nae skinkin ware

That jaups in luggies;

But if ye wish her gratefu' prayer,

Gie her a haggis!

But don't worry, we'll still gie these cowboys the chance to taste the sheep's inards again come Monday ;)