Burn's Night Festivities

Yesterday was my first Burn's Night experience. Burn's Night is an evening of Haggis, whiskey in honor of the Scottish poet, Robert Burns. There are specific traditions incorporated in this evening, including the Burn's supper of which I took part yesternight at Bara's house. The traditional order of the evening as I understand it is as follows:

Welcome of the Host

The Selkirk Grace
Some hae meat and canna eat,
And some wad eat that want it.
But we hae meat, and we can eat,
Sae let the Lord be thankit.

Entrance of the haggis

Usually accompanied by some bagpipe music, kind of like a little parade for the main course and then there is the address to the Haggis (following) after which the Haggis is stabbed in front of the company gathered.

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.	(sonsie = cheeky) (aboon = above) (painch = stomach, thairm = intestin
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.	(hurdies = hips)
His knife see rustic Labour dicht, An' cut you up wi' ready slicht, Trenching your gushing entrails bricht, Like ony ditch; And then, O what a glorious sicht, Warm-reekin, rich!	(dicht = wipe, here with the idea of sharpening) (slicht = skill) (reeking = steaming)
Then, horn for horn, they stretch an' strive: Deil tak the hindmaist! on they drive, Till a' their weel-swall'd kytes belyve, Are bent like drums; Then auld Guidman, maist like to rive, "Bethankit" hums.	(deil = devil) (swall'd=swollen, kytes = bellies, belyve = soon) (rive = tear, ie burst)
Is there that o're 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?	(olio = olive oil, staw = make sick) (scunner = repugnance)
Poor devil! see him ower 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!	(nieve = fist, nit = louse's egg, ie. tiny)
But mark the Rustic, haggis fed, The trembling earth resounds his tread. Clap in his wallie nieve a blade, He'll mak it whistle; An' legs an' arms, an' heads will sned, Like taps o' thristle.	(wallie = mighty, nieve = fist) (sned = cut off) (thristle = thistle)
Ye Pow'rs wha mak mankind your care, And dish them out their bill o' fare, Auld Scotland wants nae skinkin ware That jaups in luggies; But, if ye wish her gratefu' prayer, Gie her a haggis!	(skinkin ware = watery soup) (jaups = slops about, luggies = two-handled continental bowls)

Supper

After giving the Haggis its proper due, a meal is enjoyed. Traditionally, the Haggis is served with tatties and neeps. For a more detailed account of my first experience with Haggis, please see take a look at my next blog. :o)

After the meal there are a series of speeches shared in a specific order. I think that the BBC does a great couple of videos for the example of the speech 'Toast to the Lassies' and speech 'Response to the speech of the Lassies' at the following link. Robert Burns BBC

Our lovely hosts for the evening prepared a big screen experience of a video of Robert Burns, however the dinner conversation carried on so delightfully that before we knew it, it was time to depart. We will have to save the video for another day. However, before I part away from this blog I will tip my hat to another tradition of Burn's Night which is to read some of Robert Burn's poetry. Perhaps this is one with which you may be familiar:

A Red, Red Rose

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 bonie 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;
And 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' 'twere ten thousand mile!