Individual Liberty — Individual Responsibility 

Burns Night

Tonight (or was it last night), we celebrated Burns Night with the Plateau Scottish Country Dancers and the Tacoma Scots Pipe Band. Burns night is actually supposed to be celebrated on January 25th, the anniversary of the birth of Scotland's national bard, Robert Burns, but January 17th seems to have been close enough. Naturally enough, it's a chance to dress up in semi-formal attire. Most of my kilt outfit has arrived, except the sporran and the kilt itself, so I'm still wearing a borrowed kilt. Sidney wanted in on the picture too, so there she is.

One of the more interesting things about Burns night is the opportunity to eat Haggis, and of course to listen to poetry by Robert Burns. Before the meal, the haggis is presented. It is escorted by the chef, a piper and a pair of escorts. Then comes the recital of the “Address To The Haggis,” during which the haggis is cut open.

Transcribed below is Robert Burns' “Address To The Haggis” as found on About.com.

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 ye 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 strech an' strive:
Deil tak the hindmost! 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 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' bluidy 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!

This was my first time eating haggis. I must say I was pleasantly surprised. It turned out to be quite tasty, if a bit dry. I think I'll be trying it again at the next Highland Games.