Burns Night celebrates the man who is considered Scotland's most popular, if not greatest, poet, Robert Burns (1759-96). Credited with the creation of the traditional New Year's Eve song, Auld Lang Syne.
For more information on Rabbie Burns click here and you may also plan a trip to visit his homeland.
In the following a video about the most famous Scottish poet you can get the answers to the questions below?
1. When did Robert Burns begin to write songs to impress girls?
2. When did the red rose spring?
3. What was Burn's father job?
4. After being a farmer, what was Burns's job?
5. Burns wrote about the idea of the rich and the poor should be equal inspired in what Revolution?
6. At what age did he die?
7. Name two of the most famous Burns's poem?
Burns Night is celebrated in grand style, with the haggis piped to the table by the piper dressed in traditional tartan kilt and sporran, and accompanied by plentiful supplies of "tatties" (potatoes), "neeps" (the orange root vegetable variosly called swede or turnip pureed with butter and freshly ground black pepper) and "nips" (shots of good whisky).
The haggis is toasted and "addressed" and the meal punctuated by speeches and recitations as it follows:
1. Piping in the guest.
2. Chairman's welcome.
3. The Selkirk Grace: A short but important prayer read to usher in the meal.
Some hae meat and canna eat
And some wad eat, that want it,
But we hae meat, and we can eat,
Sae let the Lord be thankit.
4. Piping in the haggis.
5. Address to the haggis. (read the full poem below).
6. Toast to the haggis.
|Photo by Manu Catman|
14. Reply to the toast to the lassies.
15. Vote of thanks.
16. Auld Lang Syne
If you want to have more info on Burns night just click on their web where you will find out what menu you will be served and some more information about haggis.
In the following link you can customized your own Address to a Haggis.
Address to the Haggis
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 o' 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 sleight,
Trenching your gushing entrails bright,
Like ony ditch;
And then, O what a glorious sight,
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 lyke drums;
Then auld Guidman, maist like to rive,
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 ower his trash,
As feckless as a wither'd rash,
His spindle shank, a guid whip-lash,
His nieve a nit;
Thro' bloody 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,
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!