Daughters of the British Empire in Tennessee
Not Ourselves but the Cause.....
Copyright © 2007 by"Jim McCulloch"
All Rights reserved
jmcculloch@dbeintennessee.com
Burns Night 2011
This year Centre Court member Gill Perkins and her husband Phil decided to hold the 2011 Burns Night at their home.
This turned out to be a very successful evening with guests from many nations turning up to see what a Burns Night was all about.
The "Address to the Haggis" is one of the hight points of the night and Phil elected to make the Haggis himself. It turned out to be of excellent quality as well as quantity. There was sufficient to make the Traditional Haggis in a bag, some Haggis Meatloaf, (yes you read that right) Haggis Shepherds Pie and another Haggis named Haslin Haggis.
Gill prepared Scottish Salmon and a wonderful Aberdeen Angus Casserole.
Many of the guests brought more British food treasures such as Scotch Eggs, Sausage Rolls, Mashed Tatties and Neeps.
There was salads, Salsa Sauce fresh bread and many desserts to finish the meal off.
At the appropriate time Phil, Marcus Bob and Jim formed the traditional procession and to the sounds of Scottish Bagpipes paraded the Haggis around the entire company of guests finishing up in the kitchen where Phil addressed the Haggis and toasted it with a glass of Single Malt Scotch.
Marcus led the Selkirk Grace and then Jim made the Speech to the Lassies, Joan replied to the Laddies and the traditions were rounded offf with Jim toasting Gill our wonderful hostess and to the entire company of ladies for the wonderful food.
See below for the "Address to the Haggis" and "The Selkirk Grace"
Phil addresses the Haggis as Marcus,
Jim and Bob look on.
Jim with Bob showing a picture of
Robert Burns
Marcus resplendant in his
Scottish Regalia
The Haggis
Some hae meat and canna eat,
And some wad eat that want it;
But we hae meat, and we can eat,
And sae the Lord be thankit
The Selkirk Grace
To the 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!
