This weekend we attended a Burn’s supper to celebrate the birthday of the Scottish poet Robert Burns.
Burns really had a way with his words and that’s why we still celebrate him today.
One of my first gifts from Hubs (BF at the time) was a stone with Burns poetry so celebrating good ol’ Robbie Burns really holds a special place in my heart.
Here are a few photos from the evening.
Dress: Adrianna Papell Lace Overlay Sheath Dress (Deep Purple)
During a traditional Burn’s supper, you eat haggis–which we did–and dance–which we did A LOT.Last year I broke my foot and this year it’s really bruised and REALLY sore. Hopefully it’s just a bruise and nothing more. Before dancing, we eat a meal, which starts with haggis. Rather than explaining what haggis is, I’ll let the info graphic from Pinterest. The originial source HERE
Below is a video of the haggis being paraded into the ballroom and addressed –the bag pipes were amazing.
Robert Burns wrote about the haggis and that’s the poem that’s being read. If you can’t understand it, I’ve included the words below.
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 worthy 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 slight,
Trenching your gushing entrails bright,
Like onie 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 like drums;
The 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 scunner,
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
What did you do this weekend?