MOST RECENT DINNERS
Haggis at St. Andrews
Hou’s aw wi ye Nauts?
We were going to write you a great invite about all things Scottish, hurling, Highlands, epic battles, the difference between plaid and tartan, and the
undergarment etiquette of wearing kilts… But you know all that, and you’ve probably solved the latter mystery on your own…
And then, we re-read the great Rabbie Burn’s poem Address to a Haggis. Since the man had even stronger feelings about Haggis than we do, we thought we’d let him speak for us this time. This poem gets recited on his birthday, a holiday in Scottland, just before they slice into the sheep’s stomach.
So, put on your plaid skirts, ladies and gents, and get out your flashes and pipes. Tuesday night’s Haggis isn’t some New York City “ffffaux haggois.” It’s as close to the real deal as you can possibly get in the U.S.: Sheep’s stomach, heart, liver, beef bung (ask us about that after dinner…). Rabbie Burns would be pleased and raise a glass to you all. Oh, and check out the rest of the menu, it looks fantastic.
Adress 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 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 sleight,
Trenching your gushing entrails bright,
Like ony 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 lyke drums;
Then 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 sconner,
Looks down wi’ sneering, scornfu’ view
On sic a dinner?
Poor devil! see him ower 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 mak 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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