Burns Night

Hello agian. So, this is a post about something that happened in January. Oops! Anyway, Burns Night happens every year on January 25th, and this year, Bedlam Theatre held its second Burns Supper. I will tell you what I remember of that Burns Supper, but if you want to know more, visit:

So I went to the Bedlam Burns Supper with Allan and Alyce. When we arrived, there was a cocktail reception. Photos:

Then we went in to the theatre, and had supper on the stage, under the Scottish flags. Apparently, Burns Night requires haggis, and the haggis must be brought in to the sound of bagpipes. It was! That was fun. It was also tasty. James made it:

and I was impressed.

Alyce, doubtful about haggis:

Haggis! Neeps! Tatties!

Neeps = Turnips, Tatties = Potatoes

After, there was revelry:

I don't know why that picture is so odd or what the two men in the front are doing, but that's what you get at a theatre party, I suppose.

Anyway, go to the BBC link to learn more about Rabbie Burns! Here is 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.

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 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 make 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!


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