Burns Supper In Caithness
As Burns night is in January there are not usually many visitors around
and Burns suppers tend to be attended by local people. If you are in
the area at that time or anywhere in Scotland it is always worth asking
around if there are any tickets available for one of these suppers.
They range from the purely traditional form to some very hilarious
evenings with many great speakers both serious and humerous. In
Caithness several village halls hold annual Burns Suppers. Other
organisations such as Women's Guilds, Round Table to mention a couple also
hold annual suppers.
Robert Burns Live
Christopher Tait performs Burns poetry in the settings of places ell known
to the bard. Buy a video for £12.99 or there abouts.
VIDEO PROMO HERE - Windows Media Player - Excerptes From Tam O'
Shanter in the Kirk Yard at midnight.
A Burns Supper In Full
The Scots Independent Newspaper's Burns Supper
here reproduced on Electric Scotland with audio files for you to listen
to. Several poems.
Robert Burns - Full Text
This is the etext produced by the Gutenberg project and iif you are using
modem may take minute or two to come done to your computer. If you
try to print it out you will need two or three hundred pages. Better
to select any work you need and past it into another document first.
January 25. Robert Burns born at Alloway. 1781
Works as a flax-dresser in Irvine. 1782 Returns to Lochlea after the burning of the
Irvine shop. 1784
Father dies. Robert moves to Mossgiel. 1785 Birth of Elizabeth, daughter by servant Betty
Paton. Meets Jean Armour. 1786 Kilmarnock Poems published. Affair with Jean
Armour. Plans emigration to Jamaica. 1788 Commissioned as exciseman 1790 Tam o' Shanter completed 1791
Goes to Edinburgh 1792
Accused of political disaffection during revolutionary commotion in
Second Edinburgh edition of Poems. 1795 Ill with rheumatic
fever. 1796 July 21 Burns dies at Dumfries. July 25 Son Maxwell born on day of his funeral.
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 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,
Then, horn for horn, they stretch an
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,
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!