January 25 is a special time for Scots at home and around the world. It is a time where people come together to celebrate the life of a man who’s words have inspired millions and who’s outlook on life has served as a lesson to generations of politicians and other public figures.
January 25 belongs to Robert Burns. The national poet of Scotland, Robert Burns is hailed by many as one of the most significant literary figures this, or any, country has produced. Auld Lang Syne (the original manuscript is held in The Mitchell Library, Glasgow) may be his most recognisable work, but his contribution stretches far wider than one piece. He was a romantic and a free thinker. His call for equality and freedom rings as true today as it did when he was alive in the 18th Century. Indeed, when Scotland’s Parliament was reconvened back in 1999 it was the words of Burns that rang out the loudest.
In every corner of the globe, Burns Suppers are being held tonight in his honour. Haggis will be eaten, whisky will be drunk and poems will be recited. A Burns Supper is a sight to behold. If you want to know more about what happens at one of these incredible nights – visit www.rabbie-burns.com/the_supper/index.cfm
As the pictures clearly show, the Haggis (a meat or vegetarian savoury pudding) is the centre piece of the Burns Supper. As it enters the room led by a lone piper, a distinguished member of the audience ‘Addresses the Haggis’. Read for yourself the words of the address, written by Burns himself!
Address To A 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 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 hindmost, on they drive,
Till a' their weel-swall'd kytes belyve
Are bent like drums;
The auld Guidman, maist like to rive,
'Bethankit' hums.