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Happy Robbie Burns Day!


Wetcoaster

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The keening wail of the bagpipes, the steaming filling spilling out of sheep guts... yes it is that time again as we Scots (well I am one quarter courtesy of my late maternal grandmother born outside Edinburgh) celebrate the birth of Scotland's heart, poet Robbie Burns.

Only a Scot could compose a tribute to a filled sheep's stomach, eh? Here is Burns' famous:

ODE 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,

You 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-reeking, 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 mak it whissle;

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

Like taps o’ thrissle

Ye pow’rs wha mak mankind your care,

An’ dish them out their bill o’fare,

Auld Scotland wants nae skinking ware

That jaups in luggies;

But, if ye wish her gratefu’ pray’r,

Gie her a Haggis!

A translation for you poor souls who have nae a drop of Scots blood:

And of course my personal tribute... copious amounts of the amber nectar so cherished by Scots and those who wish they were - single malt Scotch. In my case for this most cherished of days I forgo my usual The Macallan 12 year old in favour of THE MACALLAN SHERRY OAK 18 YEARS OLD HIGHLAND SINGLE MALT SCOTCH WHISKY

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I lift a glass or two and say to you

Lang mae yer lum reek!

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Co là breith sona dhut, Rabbie!

Canna wait for the carvin' a' the haggis tonight! Scots wae hae!! ::D

(Ok, and the crackin' a' the Drambuie bottle!)

Lang mae yer lum reek to all my fellow Scots!!

May the best ye hae ivver seen be the warst ye'll ivver see.

May the moose ne'er lea' yer girnal wi a tear-drap in its ee.

May ye aye keep hail an hertie till ye'r auld eneuch tae dee.

May ye aye juist be sae happie as A wuss ye aye tae be.

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I learned this song at my Scots grandfather's knee.....and it makes me terribly homesick every time I hear it....... it gets airplay every Burns Night........

Away to the westward, I'm longing to be

Where the beauties of heaven ’unfold by the sea

Where the sweet purple heather blooms fragrant and free

On a hill-top, high above the Dark Island.....

Oh Isle of my childhood I'm dreaming of thee

As the steamer leaves Oban, and passes Tiriodh

Soon I'll capture the magic that lingers for me

When I'm back, once more upon, the Dark Island..........

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Go fetch to me a pint o wine,

And fill it in a silver tassie;

That I may drink, before I go,

A service to my bonnie lassie:

The boat rocks at the Pier o' Leith,

Fu' loud the wind blaws frae the Ferry,

The ship rides by the Berwick-law,

And I maun leave my bonnie Mary.

The trumpets sound, the banners fly,

The glittering spears are ranked ready,

The shouts o' war are heard afar,

The battle closes deep and bloody.

It's not the roar o' sea or shore,

Wad make me langer wish to tarry;

Nor shouts o' war that's heard afar-

It's leaving thee, my bonnie Mary!

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