Happy Birthday to You Robert Burns
The first Burns Supper was in July 1802 on the fifth anniversary of his death. Nine of his closest friends met at the cottage in Alloway in celebration of his life. The evening was a triumph and so it turned into a firm date in the diary, this time celebrating his birth on 25th January.
Just a really fabulous reason to have a bit of a party in late dark January. Now we are all over our food & alcoholic comas of Christmas…..So lets go again and have a riotious & fun supper with laughter & poems.
No hard or fast rules here ………. although the running order usually works like this:
Host say’s a few words, everyone sits and the Selkirk Grace is said, starter eaten Smoked Salmon a good option here. Haggis piped in (handy to have a clever piper as BFF) the host preforms Address to a Haggis, all toast and haggis is served with a good stab of your trusty Skean Dhu, usually kept in your right hose (stocking/sock). A couple of Burns recitals preformed then the important bit, toast to the Lassies. All rounded off with Auld Lang Syne, no hard fast rules, jokes, poems, dancin all a great option.
Invite friends & family….. folk you like.
The Supper is large amounts of Haggis, Neeps (Swede) & tatties (mashed potato) all washed down with Whisky………so hasta la vista to Dry January & Hello to a meaty fun feast with carbs for China.
Happy Birthday to you Robert……X
poem
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 stretch 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!
