Burns Supper

Robert Burns, the national poet of Scotland, was born on January 25, 1759 in the Alloway, Scotland.  He lead a hard life as a lad, but through the experiences gained a love of the people and of the land.  He used those experiences to write poetry.  He pen over 500 poems and lyrics to songs.  Many of his published works traveled the oceans aboard ships and came into circulations in such countries as India, Russia, parts of South America and the United States.  He brought the Scottish language to the world and people loved it.

To celebrate his birth, each year various groups of people host a Supper in his honor.  The format for the Supper has become somewhat standardized, so we'd like to share with you pictures and impressions of the two suppers we attended this year.  The first was in Falkirk on Wednesday, January 25.  The second occurred in Livingston on Friday, January 27.

Each event has a Chairman that takes charge of the event and keeps the program moving right along.

The first event is usually a prayer.  Following the "typical" LDS prayer someone offers the Selkirk Grace.

Some have meat and cannot eat,

Some can not eat that want it

But we have meat and we can eat,

Sae let the Lord be thankit.

To hear it read with the Scottish accent, click the link below:
Burns grace at Kirkcudbright/

The next event is the presentation of he haggis.  This consists of the chef bringing a haggis in on a platter and parading it around the room so all of the guests may see it.

Then a member of the head table will share one of Robert Burns poem entitled, To A Haggis.  You'll definitely want to click the link to read the poem and hear it in Scottish. To a haggis

Here is the English translation:
Fair is your honest happy face
Great chieftain of the pudding race
Above them all you take your place
Stomach, tripe or guts
Well are you worthy of a grace
As long as my arm

The groaning platter there you fill
Your buttocks like a distant hill
Your skewer would help to repair a mill
In time of need
While through your pores the juices emerge
Like amber beads

His knife having seen hard labour wipes
And cuts you up with great skill
Digging into your gushing insides bright
Like any ditch
And then oh what a glorious sight
Warm steaming, rich

Then spoon for spoon
They stretch and strive
Devil take the last man, on they drive
Until all their well swollen bellies
Are bent like drums
Then, the old gent most likely to rift (burp)
Be thanked, mumbles

Is there that over his French Ragout
Or olio that would sicken a pig
Or fricassee would make her vomit
With perfect disgust
Looks down with a sneering scornful opinion
On such a dinner

Poor devil, see him over his trash
As week as a withered rush (reed)
His spindle-shank a good whiplash
His clenched fist.the size of a nut.
Through a bloody flood and battle field to dash
Oh how unfit

But take note of the strong haggis fed Scot
The trembling earth resounds his tread
Clasped in his large fist a blade
He'll make it whistle
And legs and arms and heads he will cut off
Like the tops of thistles

You powers who make mankind your care
And dish them out their meals
Old Scotland wants no watery food
That splashes in dishes
But if you wish her grateful prayer
Give her a haggis!

After that the meal is served.  There are three courses. 

First the soup--typically a broth with barley.

Then the main course--haggis with neeps and tatties.  Neeps are turnips, and tatties are potatoes.  Do not fear the haggis.  Bill has had it four times, and each one tastes a little different.  It all depends on the spices.  One night it looked like a hamburger pattie.  The other night it reminded us of meat loaf.

And finally a desert.

After the meal comes the entertainment.  Perhaps it will be a recitation of poetry.

My Luve is like a Red Red Rose

O my Luve's like a red, red rose,

That's newly sprung in June:

O my Luve's like the melodie,

That's sweetly play'd in tune.

As fair art thou, my bonie lass,

So deep in luve am I;

And I will luve thee still, my dear,

Till a' the seas gang dry.

Till a' the seas gang dry , my dear,

And the rocks melt wi' the sun;

And I will luve thee still, my dear,

While the sands o' life shall run.

And fare-thee-weel, my only Luve !

And fare-thee-weel, a while!

And I will come again, my Luve,

Tho' 'twere ten thousand mile!

To hear this poem read by the Prince of Wales click on this link: Prince of Wales

 At some point in the program there will be a Toast to the Lassies, a rather humorous tribute to the ladies of the group. 

But ladies will have their revenge, for they too get to offer a Toast to the Laddies.

All in all, they were wonderful events and we look forward to next year.