Rabbie Burns Day

Well, all you Scots, and to all who celebrate it, the time has come again to remember Scotland's National Hero, (one of many), Robert Burns, born on 25th January 1759, and died at the young age of 37, on 21st July 1796.

Born in Ayrshire on the west coast of Scotland, his poems and love songs have been translated into everymajor language, and his influence and relevance is stronger today than it was during his lifetime in the late 18th Century.

Around the world tributes to Robert Burns are held through the ritual of Burns Supper. Originally started a few years after his death by a group of his friends and acquaintances, to honour his memory, the suppers are now celebrated annually on the date of his birth.

Having myself turned vegeterian within the last year, this Burns Supper will be the first one I have experienced as a non-eater of meat, therefore I will be having vegeterian haggis, with neeps (turnips), and tatties (mashed potato). I have tried it before and in many many ways it is better than regular haggis, or at the minimum just as good.

Now, with all this talk about Burns Suppers, and haggis, I thought it only fitting to leave you all with a taster of the Man's work, so here, from BlogDangerous, is our tribute to Rabbie Burns, Address To A Haggis:

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.

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.

His knife see rustic Labour dight,

An' cut you up wi' ready sleight,

Trenching your gushing entrails bright,

Like only 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,

Tilla' 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 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!

But mark the Rustic, haggis-fed,

That 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.

Ye Pow'rs, wha mak manikind your care,

And dish them out their bill o' fare,

Auld Scotland wants nae skinking ware

that jumps in luggies;

But, if ye wish her gratefu' prayer

Gie her a haggis!

...And on that note folks, i'm awa' tae gie her n aw ma faemlie a wee haggis an aw! Cheers

Happy Burns Night! Enjoy everyone.