Burns Night is tonight, when a few Scots decide to eat Haggis Neeps and Tatties with a large glass of whiskey or Irn Bru, while many munch on takeaway pizza on curry on pre-packaged microwave meals, some of us will actually eat a sturdy traditional feast on behalf of our most noted poet Robert Burns.
Robert Burns - esteemed poet of Scotland (to be honest I find a lot of his poetry dry, tedious and painful)
Haggis neeps and tatties -
1 cleaned sheep or lamb’s stomach bag
2 lb. dry oatmeal
1 lb chopped mutton suet
1 lb lamb’s or deer’s liver, boiled and minced
1 pint (2 cups) stock
the heart and lights of the sheep, boiled and minced
1 large chopped onion
1/2 tsp… each: cayenne pepper, Jamaica pepper, salt and pepper
Toast the oatmeal slowly until it is crisp, then mix all the ingredients (except the stomach bag) together, and add the stock. Fill the bag just over half full, press out the air and sew up securely. Have ready a large pot of boiling water, prick the haggis all over with a large needle so it does not burst and boil slowly for 4 to 5 hours. Serves 12.
Address to a Haggis, by Robert Burns:
Fair fa’ your honest, sonsie face, cheerful
Great chieftain o’ the puddin-race!
Aboon them a’ ye tak your place, Above
Painch, tripe, or thairm: paunch/guts
Weel are ye wordy of a grace worthy
As lang’s my arm.
The groaning trencher there ye fill,
Your hurdies like a distant hill, buttocks
Your pin wad help to mend a mill skewer
In time o’ need,
While thro’ your pores the dews distil
Like amber bead.
His knife see rustic Labour dight, wipe
An’ cut you up wi’ ready sleight, skill
Trenching your gushing entrails bright Digging
Like onie ditch;
And then, O what a glorious sight,
Warm-reekin, rich! -steaming
Then, horn for horn, they strech an’ strive: spoon
Deil tak the hindmost! on they drive,
Till a’ their weel-swall’d kytes belyve, bellies/soon
Are bent like drums;
Then auld Guidman, maist like to rive, burst
‘Bethanket!’ hums.
Is there that owre his French ragout
Or olio that wad staw a sow, sicken
Or fricassee wad mak her spew
Wi’ perfect sconner, disgust
Looks down wi’ sneering, scornfu’ view
On sic a dinner?
Poor devil! see him owre his trash,
As feckless as a wither’d rash, weak/rush
His spindle shank, a guid whip-lash,
His nieve a nit; fist/nut
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, choice
He’ll make it whissle;
An’ legs, an’ arms, an’ heads will sned, trim
Like taps o’ thrissle. tops/thistle
Ye Pow’rs wha mak mankind your care,
And dish them out their bill o’fare,
Auld Scotland wants nae skinking ware watery
That jaups in luggies; splashes/porringers
But, if ye wish her gratefu’ prayer,
Gie her a Haggis!