World Famous Burns Supper

No one could ever imagine a Burns' supper without the Scottish ritual of the "Address to a Haggis," which has been a unique and symbolic part of the national tradition, identity and culture for about 200 years. This poem is usually performed in a very theatrical and flamboyant manner and even though the language might be daunting (even to some Scots), it is one of Burns' most important works, full of humor, but also deep social and political meaning.

At the time, Britain was experiencing a political struggle between Scotland and England, which is regarded as the main reason why this poem was written. As a uniquely Scottish product, the Haggis is used as a way to symbolise the Scottish nationalism in a proud, however light-hearted way. Thus, the poet has used the most ordinary of things into a vehicle to demonstrate his passion about the strength of the Scottish culture and identity.

Albert Einstein once said that "If at first an idea is not absurd, then there is no hope for it".

We do not know if this is what Burns had in his mind when composing this poem, but what we know for sure is that the "Address to a Haggis" has constituted the heart of every celebration for Burns and Scotland and will always be alive in our heart and memory.

Standard English Translation

Fair full your honest, jolly face,
Great chieftain o' the puddin-race!
Above them all you take your place,
Stomach, tripe, or intestines:
Well are you worthy of a grace
As long as my arm.

The groaning trencher there you fill,
Your hudies 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 wipe,
An' cut ye up wi' ready slight,
Trenching your gushing entrails bright,
Like onie ditch;
And then, O what a glorious sight,
Warm-reeking, rich!

Then spoon for spoon, the stretch and strive
Devil take the hindmost, on they drive,
Till all their well swollen bellies by-and-by
Are bent like drums; most like to burst,
Then old Master of the house,
'The grace!' hums.

Is there that over his French ragout,
Or olio that would sicken a sow,
Or fricassee would make her throw-up
With perfect disgust,
Looks down with sneering, scornful view
On such a dinner?

Poor devil! see him over his trash,
As feeble as a withered rush,
His thin legs a good whip-lash,
His fist a nut;
Through bloody flood or field to dash,
O how unfit.

But mark the Rustic, haggis-fed,
The trembling earth resounds his tread,
Clap in his ample fist a blade,
He will make it whistle;
And legs, and arms, and heads will crop
Like tops of thistle.

You powers, who make mankind your care,
And dish them out their bill of fare,
Old Scotland want no watery ware,
That splashes in small wooden dishes;
But is you wish her grateful prayer,
Give her a Haggis!

Fair fa' your honest, sonsie face,
Great chieftain of the sausage 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 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 dight,
And cut you up with ready slight,
Trenching your gushing entrails bright,
Like any ditch;
And then, O what a glorious sight,
Warm steaming, 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; maist like to rive
Then auld Guidman,
'Bethankit!' hums.

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 fecl;ess as a wither'd rash,
His spindle shank a guid whip-lash,
His nieve a nit;
Tho' bluidy 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 whistle;
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 gratfu' prayer,
Gie her a Haggis!