Burns Night

Tomorrow is Burns Night, one of the more traditional celebrations in the Scots calendar.

(From Wiki: A Burns supper is a celebration of the life and poetry of the poet Robert Burns, the author of many Scots poems. The suppers are normally held on or near the poet's birthday, 25 January, known as Burns Night.)

My father's ancestral family was Scots (and my mother was named Monica, of which the French version is Monique, but sadly my father's name wasn't Andrew :# :D ) so I've decide to cook Burns supper tomorrow night. It's been a while since I last had it.

Haggis, tatties and neeps for the main course, followed by cranachan for dessert, all washed down with a dram of the poet's favourite tipple, of course. :007)

Not sure they'll be serving it at the S&BG, and I can't recall it ever being mentioned by Fleming, but I'm pretty sure that the literary Bond would have tried it in his childhood, along of course with Sean Connery. Will anyone else be joining me?

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"How was your lamb?" "Skewered. One sympathises."

Comments

  • You Know My Name007You Know My Name007 Posts: 29MI6 Agent
    Haggis tattys neeps


    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 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 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

    Good luck to you and your honest, plump 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!
  • Number24Number24 NorwayPosts: 17,546MI6 Agent
    It's great that Scotland has a national celebration for an author!
    I can't think of any other country with a tradition like that.
    Imagine Mark Twain day in the US or Ibsen day here....
    BTW: I immediately understood what a "neep" is, here we say "nepe". It's easy to see the languages are related.
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