Burns Night

[Sticks]

25th January is Burns night.

A time for the celebration of the poetry of Robert Burns.

For culture vultures here is "Ode 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 of 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 sconner,
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!


For chefs here is the recipie


http://www.stickings90.freeserve.co.uk/images/haggis.jpg

I quite like Haggis and I am upset that my usual supplier has stopped selling haggis because they find it too expensive to get a licence to sell "cooked" meats. More over regulation :mad:

[Mairi]

Thanks for that, Sticks xx

This is my favourite verse from:

A Man's A Man For A' That

Then let us pray that come it may
(as come it will for a' that)
That Sense and Worth o'er a' the earth
Shall beat the gree an a' that
For a' that and a' that
It's comin yet for a' that
That man to man the world o'er
Shall brothers be for a' that

Happy Burns Night Everyone!!

:wavey::love:

[Romantic Old Bird]

Here's my favourite Burns:

O MY Luve 's like a red, red rose
That 's newly sprung in June:
O my Luve 's like the melodie
That's sweetly play'd in tune!

As fair art thou, my bonnie lass,
So deep in luve am I:
And I will luve thee still, my dear,
Till a' the seas gang dry:

Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear,
And the rocks melt wi' the sun;
I will luve thee still, my dear,
While the sands o' life shall run.

And fare thee weel, my only Luve,
And fare thee weel a while!
And I will come again, my Luve,
Tho' it were ten thousand mile



http://www.galegroup.com/images/free_resources/poets/bio/burns.jpg

Sniffle, sniff sniff!.

[Sticks]

To a Mouse


Wee sleekit, cow'rin, tim'rous beastie,
O, what a panic's in thy breastie!
Thou need na start awa sae hasty,
Wi bickering brattle!
I wad be laith to rin an chase thee,
Wi murdering pattle!

I'm truly sorry man's dominion
Has broken Nature's social union,
An justifies that ill opinion,
Which makes thee startle
At me, thy poor, earth-born companion.
An fellow mortal!

I doubt na, whyles, but thou may thieve:
What then? poor beastie, thou maun live!
A daimen icker in a thrave
'S a sma request;
I'll get a blessin wi the lave,
An never miss't!

Thy wee-bit housie, too, in ruin!
Its silly wa's the win's are strewin!
An naething, now, to big a new ane,
O foggage green!
An bleak December's win's ensuin.
Baith snell an keen!

Thou saw the fields laid bare an waste,
An weary winter comin fast.
An cozie here, beneath the blast,
Thou thought to dwell,
Till crash! the cruel coulter past
Out thro thy cell.

That wee bit heap o leaves an stibble,
Has cost thee monie a weary nibble!
Now thou's turn'd out, for a' thy trouble.
But house or hald,
To thole the winter's sleety dribble,
An cranreuch cauld!

But Mousie, thou art no thy lane,
In proving foresight may be vain:
The best-laid schemes o mice an men
Gang aft agley,
An lea'e us nought but grief an pain,
For promis'd joy!

Still thou art blest, compar'd wi me!
The present only toucheth thee:
But och! I backward cast my e'e,
On prospects drear!
An forward, tho I canna see,
I guess an fear!

[James]

I live in Burns country. When I was at primary school I remember winning a Burns recital competition with this:

To A Mountain Daisy

On turning down with the Plough, in April, 1786.


Wee, modest crimson-tipped flow'r,

Thou's met me in an evil hour;
For I maun crush amang the stoure
Thy slender stem:
To spare thee now is past my pow'r,
Thou bonie gem.

Alas! it's no thy neibor sweet,
The bonie lark, companion meet,
Bending thee 'mang the dewy weet,
Wi' spreckl'd breast!
When upward-springing, blythe, to greet
The purpling east.

Cauld blew the bitter-biting north
Upon thy early, humble birth;
Yet cheerfully thou glinted forth
Amid the storm,
Scarce rear'd above the parent-earth
Thy tender form.

The flaunting flow'rs our gardens yield,
High shelt'ring woods and wa's maun shield;
But thou, beneath the random bield
O' clod or stane,
Adorns the histie stibble field,
Unseen, alane.

There, in thy scanty mantle clad,
Thy snawie bosom sun-ward spread,
Thou lifts thy unassuming head
In humble guise;
But now the share uptears thy bed,
And low thou lies!

Such is the fate of artless maid,
Sweet flow'ret of the rural shade!
By love's simplicity betray'd,
And guileless trust;
Till she, like thee, all soil'd, is laid
Low i' the dust.

Such is the fate of simple bard,
On life's rough ocean luckless starr'd!
Unskilful he to note the card
Of prudent lore,
Till billows rage, and gales blow hard,
And whelm him o'er!

Such fate to suffering worth is giv'n,
Who long with wants and woes has striv'n,
By human pride or cunning driv'n
To mis'ry's brink;
Till wrench'd of ev'ry stay but Heav'n,
He, ruin'd, sink!

Ev'n thou who mourn'st the Daisy's fate,
That fate is thine-no distant date;
Stern Ruin's plough-share drives elate,
Full on thy bloom,
Till crush'd beneath the furrow's weight,
Shall be thy doom!

[Kaz]

On 25 January each year, Scots around the world (and also the odd one or two in Scotland) celebrate the life of the great poet Rabbie Burns. The way that this day is celebrated is with several bottles of whisky, several half-remembered poems and several helpings of tatties (or potatoes), neeps (or turnip) and haggis (or haggis).

Over the last couple of years, the number of haggis has dwindled to frightening levels. There are various reasons for this, such as the great Haggis Cull of 1971 when 50,000 haggis were slaughtered in a bid to keep the numbers down, people in the Highlands who hunt haggis for a living, despite the fact that it has been illegal for years, and the fact that haggis are just plain stupid and tend to run out onto oncoming traffic.

Most of you probably do not know what a haggis looks like as they are very elusive indeed, so here is a picture of one.

http://www.wallydug.demon.co.uk/haggis/images/haggiss.gif

As you can see, two of its legs are longer than the other two. This is a male haggis as the legs on the left hand side are longer than those on the right; the female's right legs are longer than those on the left. You may wonder why this is the case.

Haggis are found mainly in the Highlands of Scotland and can often be seen running around mountains. [There is a school of thought that says that haggis and Nessie are distantly related, but scientists are unable to verify this, despite using the latest DNA techniques.] As mentioned earlier, haggis are extremely thick creatures. As such, they can only run round the mountains one way. If you were to take a haggis and turn it around, it would lose its balance, fall over, be unable to stand up and then die.

In order to procreate, the male and female both run round a mountain, in opposite directions, and when they meet, jump up and do the business.

Hence the term "take a running jump".

Initially, haggis thrived in Scotland due to the wilderness and abundance of heather. When the first motor cars reached the Highlands in the 1930's, they did not pose a threat to the haggis as they, unbelievably, quickly worked out that by sitting in the centre of the lane, no harm could come to them as the car passed directly overhead.

Until, of course, the arrival of the Robin Reliant.

In recent years, the popularity of Rabbie Burns has grown so much that the Burns' Supper season starts in November and finishes in March. This has led to such an increase in demand for haggis that in the late 1970's, the first Haggis Processing Centre was set up in Sutherland. The most recent centre was opened in 1995 at Loch Lomond and can be seen on the left as you travel north on the A82.

The haggis are bred in farms on the summit and, when they are required, they are rounded up and herded towards these pipes. The force of gravity is then used to throw the haggis down these pipes to the bottom.

Hence the term "haggis hurl".

Here, they are transferred to the squashers, and this is where the haggis are squashed into the correct ovoid shape. From here, they are then sent onwards to the supermarkets and butchers. This process is completely automated and is controlled from a high-tech control room.
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So now you know!!! :thumbs:

:colour: :laugh: :colour:Happy Burns Night!:colour: :laugh: :colour:

[Sticks]

If you believe that, then can I offer you a stake in Nelson's colum before they take it down to "improve" Trafalgar square (soon to be renamed along with Waterloo station to avoid causing offence to our European neighbours)

Meanwhile for genuine haggis see my first post on this thread.

[Kaz]

Ten things you never knew about Haggis

1. The correct plural of haggis is haggii, although under certain grammatical circumstances it can be haggises or even “wee yins”. The name Haggii comes from the Latin for “harried ones”.

2. The Haggis Hunting season runs from when they hatch (30 November) until 25 January. The 31st of December is particularly anticipated by Haggis hunters as it is when great herds of Haggii migrate north for winter. The correct term for stalking a haggis is “havering”.

3. Lewis Carroll’s nonsense poem “The Hunting Of The Snark” was originally called “The Hunting Of The Haggis” until he found out the Scottish beast actually existed.

4. Seeing a live haggis is supposed to be a sign of imminent good fortune. Earl Nyaff of Uirsgeul reputedly encountered one on his way to Ayr races in 1817 and subsequently won £50. True, he was badly trampled by the winner and flogged for race fixing after being falsely accused by his own brother, but at least he made a tidy profit.

5. An alcoholic drink derived from the haggis has yet to be invented, despite many centuries of intensive research.

6. The haggis is unusual in that it is neither consistently nocturnal nor diurnal, but instead is active at dawn and dusk (crepuscular), with occasional forays forth during the day and night.

7. Haggis eggs are inedible, and can be easily confused with deer droppings. On the whole they are best avoided.

8. Some myths say the spider watched by Robert the Bruce was trying to escape from a haggis foraging for food.

9. Haggis fur is waterproof but not showerproof.

10. No-one has ever succeeded in breeding haggii in captivity.


Would I lie? :laugh: :spin: :laugh:

[Mairi]

There is a tame haggis which is kept in a cage in a shop window in Oban. It is a very shy creature though and tends to hide from the general public but I did once catch just a glimpse of a tiny bit of dark fur!!

By the way, apologies to all other Scots but I can't abide the taste of whisky!! :blush::blush::blush: