KIDPROJ MCC: Robert Burns Night

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Robert Burns Night - United Kingdom
by Peter Daly

20 January

USA : Robert Burns Night : (Dick Platt) ---------------------------------------

       o
        o             Robert Burns Night
     o  o                January 20
   ........     Scotland, England, Newfoundland
    '....'
      ||
      ||     .^^^^^^^.
     ^^^^     '.....'

There are parties and poetry readings and much drinking. The celebration meal is Scots Whiskey and Haggis (Oatmeal and fat in a sheeps stomach bag). Haggis is so YUKKIE that you need the whiskey to drown the taste :-)

Robert Burns - Scottish poet.

The mouse.

Poor wee timourous beastie
What panic in thy breastie

can't remember the rest

Peter Daly <peted@gn.apc.org>

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Not all of us find haggis to be yukki. BTW, the fat content isn't so high, but it's made from the liver, lungs, heart of the sheep, all ground up and mixed with oatmeal and spices and cooked in the sheep's stomach, although today they tend to steam it in a more acceptable container, like a plastic bag. If you like liver or liver pate', it's really quite good. Some people just can't get used to the idea of what it is or how it's made.

Dick Platt <ehavent@biomed.med.yale.edu>

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A Robert Burns Night in the USA would include a full course dinner, followed by speeches (short) toasts and entertainment. The menu (as served by the St. Andrew's Society of CT):

Haggis with bashit neeps and champit tatties (that's mashed turnip and mashed potatoes for you Sassaenachs)

The haggis is piped in with great ceremony, toasted with Scotch whiskey, and then Burns' poem, _To a Haggis_ is recited in full.

Cock-a Leeky Soup
Baked Fish
Steak Pie, Green Peas and Potatoes
Trifle
Rolls and Butter
Tea and Coffee

BTW, the affair described above is just as American as it is Scottish, just as pizza is as American (or more) as it is Italian.

Dick Platt
Deputy Commissioner for Clan Gunn for CT
<ehavent@biomed.med.yale.edu>

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Address to the Haggis

By Robert Burns

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 the, 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 make her spew Wi' perfect sconer, 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!

Dick Platt
<ehavent@biomed.med.yale.edu>

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