The Immortal Memory

We'll tak a cup o kindness, yet, in praise o Auld Lang Syne...

Yes folks, it's the Bard o Allowa's birthday. Rabbie Burns, oor national poet


And I just had my haggis & neep - weel, a neep, potato and parsnip mash and finest Hall's haggis, and of course - the water o life!

A haggis is a peculiarly ancient idea - perhaps even the hunter gatherers merely cooked the innards of the sheep (as that's what it is, folks!) over a fire in the stomach bag so he could eat on the hoof... ha ha. Not everyone likes it, which is a shame, - MacSween's veggie haggis was annoying a certain butcher who was caa-in' it for aathing! - poet, Allan Cunningham heard the following conversation at a Burns' Anniversary Dinner...

'Pray, sir' said a man from the south, 'why do you boil it in a sheep's bag; and, above all, what is it made of?' - 'Sir,' answered a man of the north, 'we boil it in a sheep's bag because such was the primitave way before linen was invented; and as for what it is made of, I dare not trust myself to tell - I can never name all the savoury items without tears; and truly you would not have me expose such weakness in a public company.'

Better nae tae ken if ye ask me!! Dig in wi yer spoon!

Here's Rabbie's praise o Scotland's maist weel-kent dish...

Address to a Haggis

Fair fa' your honest, sonsie face,

Great Chieftan 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 you 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 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 owre his French ragout,

Or olio that wad staw a sow,

Or fricassee wad mak her spew

Wi' perfect scunner,

Looks down wi' sneering, scronful' 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 mak it whissle;

An' legs, an' arms, an' heads will sned,

Like taps o' thrissle.

Ye Pow's wha mak mankind your care,

And dish them oot their bill o' fare,

Auld Scotland wants nae shinking ware

That jaups in luggies;

But, if you wish her gratefu' pray'r,

Gie her a Haggis! *

alternative last stanza

"Ye Pow'rs wha gie us a' that's gude

Still bless auld Caledonia's brood,

Wi' great John Barleycorn's heart's bluid

In stoups or luggies;

And on our boards, that king o' food,

A guid Scotch Haggis!"

These lines make me laugh - especially if you know 'horn' is a horn spoon!


Then, SPOON for SPOON they stretch an' strive,
Deil tak the hindmaist, on they drive,


It makes me think of a hale clan diving towards the plate spoons aloft!

Put a plate o haggis in front of me and my dad and watch it disappear...