Haggis!

Happy Burns Night! Today is the birthday of Robert Burns (1759-1796), "poet, balladeer and Scotland's favourite son" (also the author of the New Year's song "Auld Lang Syne") and we celebrated appropriately with the traditional Burns Supper of haggis, neeps and tatties. Translation: sheep's guts and oatmeal in an intestine, turnips and potatoes. Yum!

I went to the Covered Market after my tutorial today and picked up original and vegetarian versions of haggis, and some lovely turnips and potatoes. It was pretty exciting - I haven't had haggis since I was in Edinburgh (I think). I remembered that the vegetarian version was delicious and the meat version was edible with ketchup! The first two ingredients in the meat haggis are "sheep offal, beef fat." Mmmm. But the rest is oatmeal and really tasty spices, so it's almost edible. Almost. People who are okay with liver would probably be okay with this, but we aren't those people.


The vegetarian version replaces the meat with lentils and other grainy things, and it's quite wonderful. Both haggises (haggi?) come already cooked, but it took 45 minutes to heat up the vegetarian one and an hour and a half for the meat. We had a really great time and ate our haggis accompanied by an audio recording of Burns' "Ode to a Haggis." He definitely liked the stuff. Traditionally, you're really supposed to read it yourself and slice into the haggis at the right moment in the poem:

His knife see rustic Labour dight,
An' cut you up wi' ready sleight,
Trenching your gushing entrails bright,
Like ony ditch;
And then, O what a glorious sight,
Warm-reekin', rich!

...but it's just too much work to try to pronounce it! In my first Burns Supper in Edinburgh, my wonderful Scottish roommate Lizzie did the honors in the official way, and it was great. You can read about the Burns Supper traditions here.

So here's a brief photo tour of our Burns Supper, followed by "To a Haggis" in the original Scots language and then English.


To a Haggis (Original Scots)

Fair fa' your honest, sonsie face,
Great chieftain o' the pudding-race!
Aboon them a' yet tak your place,
Painch, tripe, or thairm:
Weel are ye wordy o'a grace
As lang's my arm.

The groaning trencher there ye fill,
Your hurdies like a distant hill,
Your pin was 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 sleight,
Trenching your gushing entrails bright,
Like ony 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;
Then 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 make her spew
Wi' perfect sconner,
Looks down wi' sneering, scornfu' view
On sic a dinner?

Poor devil! see him owre his trash,
As feckles as wither'd rash,
His spindle shank, a guid whip-lash;
His nieve a nit;
Thro' blody 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 mak it whissle;
An' legs an' arms, an' hands will sned,
Like taps o' trissle.

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!

English Translation

Good luck to you and your honest, plump face,
Great chieftain of the pudding race!
Above them all you take your place,
gut, stomach-lining, or intestine,
You're well worth a grace
as long as my arm.
The overloaded serving tray there you fill,
Your buttocks shaped like a distant hilltop,
Your wooden skewer could be used to fix a mill
if need be,
While through your pores your juices drip
like liquid gold.
His knife see the serving-man clean,
And then cut you up with great skill,
Making a trench in your bright, gushing guts
To form a ditch,
And then, 0h! What a glorious sight!
Warm, steaming, and rich!
Then, spoonful after spoonful, they eagerly eat,
The devil will get the last bit, on they go,
Until all their well-stretched stomachs, by-and-by,
are bent like drums,
Then the head of the family, about to burst,
murmurs “Thank the Lord".
Is there a pretentious soul who, over his French ragout,
Or Italian cuisine that would make a pig sick,
Or French stew that would make that same pig ill
with complete and utter disgust,
Looks down with a sneering, scornful attitude,
on such a meal? (as Haggis)
Poor devil! See him over his trash!
As feeble as a withered bullrush,
His skinny leg no thicker than a thin rope,
His fist the size of a nut,
Through a river or field to travel,
Completely unfit!
But look at the healthy, Haggis-fed person!
The trembling earth respects him as a man!
Put a knife in his fist,
He'll make it work!
And legs, and arms, and heads will come off,
Like the tops of thistle.
You Powers who look after mankind,
And dish out his bill of fare,
Old Scotland wants no watery, wimpy stuff
That splashes about in little wooden bowls!
But, if You will grant her a grateful prayer,
Give her a Haggis!