• 26Jan

    Robert Burns was a big litrature dude (he wrote Auld Lang Syne)and my husbands aunt always dissappears off for Burns night in January.

    I decided this warrented a post as this is a dinner to celebrate the poets life and works and is held around his birthday the 25th of January. This year it is the 250th anniversary and there are year long events going on. Furthure info on this can be found at Home Coming Scoutland.

    What has this got to do with food and drink I here you cry!

    Well they have the address to the Haggis. If you don’t know what a haggis is and are a bit squimish you may not want to read on!

    It is minced sheeps lungs, heart and liver (known as sheep’s pluck) mixed with onion, oatmeal, suet, salt, spices and stock – this is then all boiled up in an animals stomache.

    There are now vegitarian versions avalible and I shall be researching these as I think it would be a good event to hold with my Scouts!

    At the Burns Night the haggis is a central part and they have the address at a specific point in the poem they cut the haggis. Here is the address:

    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 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!

    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.

    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?

    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!

    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.

    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!

    There is then a whisky toast and it is served with mash potato and swedes (tatties and neeps).

    If anyone has traditional Scoutish recipies I could try/add here let me know.


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