Thursday, 15 December 2011

Address to a Haggis!!

T'was the week before Christmas and all through the world minis are making their way to new homes! Yes, not long now and this week Homewardflight is featured on both The Mini Food Blog and Artisans in Miniature Members Showcase - A Seasonal Celebration Tour! Do take a look at both as there's some wonderful work displayed on both sites and well worth losing an hour or two on the Christmas preparation to peruse!!

Here in Scotland, once the Christmas celebrations are over we, of course, have Hogmanay and all the wonderful things that New Year brings. One of these is Burns Night on the 25th of January and we just couldn't resist the opportunity to bring you a Burns Night Supper in miniature! The night when we celebrate the life and works of Robert Burns poems always includes the traditional supper of Haggis, Neeps and Tatties! Neeps are the mashed turnip and Tatties mashed potatoes! We've never seen a miniature Burns Night Supper before and feel this is really quite an exciting wee addition to the Homewardflight collection!

Time to head back to work on more goodies for the Winter season but we'll leave you with Robert Burns "Address to a Haggis", written 225 years ago in 1786!

Val & Sadie

Address to a Haggis

Fair fa' your honest, sonsie face, 
Great chieftain o' the pudding-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, 
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 feckless as 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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