Tonight was my first Formal hall since the holidays.....and it was really great. I went to my college's Burns night.
Definition: Burns Night
A traditional feast of food and drink, Burns Night on 25 January is a great winter pick-me-up. Scots all around the world celebrate the birth of the great Scottish poet Robert "Rabbie" Burns in enthusiastic style. I LOVE MEN IN KILTS. I REALLY REALLY DO!!!! AND I LOVE THE SCOTTISH ACCENT!!!!
It was so lovely and a chosen Scotsmen gets up and recites different poems from Burns. My favorite one was his address/poem to the lassies in the room. Then the chosen Scottish woman gets up in response and lovingly roasts the men back. Lots of standing and toasting with Whiskey. I loved it. I had great company and even better conversation. YEAHHHHHH!!!
Before the ode to the Haggis poem....a bag piper comes in and plays all around the room and a woman carries the ceremonial haggis behind him.
*Side note......they had Vegetarian Haggis and it was great.
**Other side note….how come the Simpson’s haven’t used this as some Story line for grounds keeper Willie….and Monty Burns…
Burns night celebrations traditionally revolve around the haggis, which is served with mashed potatoes and turnip, or "neeps". The haggis is carried from the kitchen with great ceremony and laid before the "chairman" at the high table.
The Rabbie Burns poem Address to a Haggis is recited as the haggis is ceremonially sliced open. This is followed by feasting and, of course, the drinking of much whisky.
Below is the poem recited to the Haggis....
Address to a Haggis
by Rabbie Burns (1786)
Fair fa' your honest, sonsie face,
Great chieftain of the pudding-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 through your pores the dews distil
Like amber bead.
His knife see rustic labour dight,
And cut you up wi' ready slight,
Trenching your gushing entrails bright.
Like ony 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;
Then auld guid man, maist like to rive,
"Bethankit!" hums.
Is there that o'er his French ragout
Or olio that wad staw a sow,
Or fricassee wad make 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 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 mak' it whistle,
And legs, and arms, and head will sned,
Like taps o' thrissle.
Ye powers, wah mak mankind your care,
And dish them out with 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!
