For those who aren’t Scottish and don’t know, today (January 25) is Scottish poet Robert Burns (1759 – 1796) birthday (or Rabbie Burns day if you are). I’m not exactly sure how a few friends commemorating the death of one of their number turned into a special Scottish event, but there you have it.
Many Scots from all around the world will don the tartan and gather in their version of tonight to drink whisky, eat haggis and listen to a recitation of Burn’s poem “Address to a Haggis” (see below). Formal gatherings will follow a set menu and procedure which puts me in mind of other formal celebrations such as weddings and funerals.
I find this a satisfying parallel, as in my youth I enjoyed any number of drunken celebrations of things which also followed this pattern.
And towards the end of the evening there will be recitations of Burns songs and poetry – hopefully including one of my favourites To A Mouse, On Turning Her Up in Her Nest With The Plough in which:
The best laid schemes o’ mice an’ men
Gang aft agley
Has a nice ring to it don’t you think? You might know it better as plans going awry or astray.
So tonight I encourage you to mix a wee whisky with water (or neat if you are made of sterner stuff) and join me in celebrating the life of the author of Auld Lang Syne, and enjoying “foreign” language poetry.
Address to a Haggis, Robert Burns
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Original text |
“English” translation |
| Fair fa’ your honest, sonsie face, Great chieftain o’ the puddin’-race! Aboon them a’ ye tak yer place, Painch, tripe, or thairm: Weel are ye wordy o’ a grace As lang’s my airm. |
Nice seeing your honest, chubby face, Great chieftain of the sausage race! Above them all you take your place, Belly, tripe, or links: Well are you worthy of a grace As long as 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. |
The groaning platter there you fill, Your buttocks like a distant hill, Your pin would help to mend a mill In time of need, While through your pores the dews distill Like amber bead. |
| His knife see rustic Labour dicht, An cut you up wi ready slicht, Trenching your gushing entrails bricht, Like onie ditch; And then, Oh what a glorious sicht, Warm-reekin, rich! |
His knife see rustic Labour sharpen, And cut you up with practiced skill, Trenching your gushing entrails bright, Like any ditch; And then, Oh what a glorious sight, Warm-steaming, rich! |
| Then, horn for horn, they stretch an strive: Deil tak the hindmaist, on they drive, Till a’ their weel-swall’d kytes belyve Are bent like drums; Then auld Guidman, maist like to rive, ‘Bethankit’ hums. |
Then, spoon for spoon, they stretch and strive: Devil take the hindmost, on they drive, ‘Til all their well-swollen bellies soon Are tight as drums; Then old Master, most likely to burst, ‘Thanks Be’ hums. |
| Is there that ower his French ragout, Or olio that wad staw a sow, Or fricassee wad mak her spew Wi perfect scunner, Looks down wi’ sneering, scornfu view On sic a dinner? |
Is there one, that over his French ragout, Or olio that would give pause to a sow, Or fricassee that would make her spew With perfect loathing, Looks down with sneering, scornful view On such 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, Oh how unfit! |
Poor devil! See him over his trash, As feeble as a withered rush, His spindly leg a good whip-lash, His fist a nit: Through bloody flood or field to dash, Oh how unfit! |
| But mark the Rustic, haggis-fed, The trembling earth resounds his tread, Clap in his wallie nieve a blade, He’ll make it whissle; An legs an arms, an heads will sned, Like taps o thrissle. |
But mark the Rustic, haggis-fed, The trembling earth resounds his tread, Clap in his sturdy fist a blade, He’ll make it whistle; And legs and arms, and heads will cut, Like tops of thistle. |
| 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! |
You Pow’rs, that make mankind your care, And dish them out their bill of fare, Old Scotland wants no watery ware That slops in bowls: But, if You wish her grateful prayer, Give her a Haggis! |