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Burns Night – A Celebration of Robbie Burns

By January 25, 2016January 24th, 2018Authors, Video

January 25th marks the birth of that great Celtic poet Robert (Rabbie) Burns and since 1801, five years after his passing, every year, on the anniversary of his birthday Burns Night Suppers have been held across his homeland and indeed the world over to celebrate the life and works of The Scottish Bard.

A typical meal on Burns Night consists of Haggis, Scottish smoked salmon, cock-a-leekie soup or stovies, neeps and a good Scotch Whiskey to wash it all down with.

Rabbie Burns penned the poem Address to a Haggis to show his appreciation of and adoration of this traditional Scottish fare which consists of  a sheep’s pluck (heart, liver and lungs) minced with onion, oatmeal, suet, spices, and salt and traditionally stuffed into a sheep’s stomach. It may sound unpleasant but it is in fact a truly delightful and filling meal, especially when served with the obligatory neeps and tatties.

At the beginning of the meal the Haggis is brought in with all due pomp and ceremony, accompanied by bagpipes in a tradition known as piping in the haggis and then properly addressed using  Rabbie Burns poem before being cut open and served to the guests.

Did you catch all of that? Yes it’s true, although the Scottish accent may be one of the most beautiful of the British Isles it is also true that it is not the easiest to understand when you’re not used to hearing it.

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 worthy 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

Address to a Haggis Translation

Fair and full is your honest, jolly face,
Great chieftain of the sausage race!
Above them all you take your place,
Stomach, tripe, or intestines:
Well are you worthy of a grace
As long as my arm.

The groaning trencher there you fill,
Your buttocks like a distant hill,
Your pin would help to mend a mill
In time of need,
While through your pores the dews distill
Like amber bead.

His knife see rustic Labour wipe,
And cut you up with ready slight,
Trenching your gushing entrails bright,
Like any ditch;
And then, O what a glorious sight,
Warm steaming, rich!

Then spoon for spoon, the stretch and strive:
Devil take the hindmost, on they drive,
Till all their well swollen bellies by-and-by
Are bent like drums;
Then old head of the table, most like to burst,
‘The grace!’ hums.

Is there that over his French ragout,
Or olio that would sicken a sow,
Or fricassee would make her vomit
With perfect disgust,
Looks down with sneering, scornful view
On such a dinner?

Poor devil! see him over his trash,
As feeble as a withered rush,
His thin legs a good whip-lash,
His fist a nut;
Through bloody flood or field to dash,
O how unfit.

But mark the Rustic, haggis-fed,
The trembling earth resounds his tread,
Clap in his ample fist a blade,
He’ll make it whistle;
And legs, and arms, and heads will cut off
Like the heads of thistles.

You powers, who make mankind your care,
And dish them out their bill of fare,
Old Scotland wants no watery stuff,
That splashes in small wooden dishes;
But if you wish her grateful prayer,
Give her [Scotland] a Haggis!



Rabbie Burns died due to complications after dental surgery at the relatively young age of 37. His poetry and lyrics live on in the hearts of every Scotsman and delight those of us who’ve not a clue what he’s talking about but are happy just to bask in the beauty of the Scots language used to its fullest extent by the Scottish Bard himself, Robert Burns.

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