Burns Night

Saturday was Logan's birthday, but it was also the birthday of famous Scottish poet Robert Burns. Burns died in 1796, and the first Burns Night supper was held in 1802. It was held on January 29 because the first Burns Club got his date of birth wrong (x).

Burns is widely regarded as the national poet of Scotland and is celebrated worldwide. He is the best known of the poets who have written in the Scots language, although much of his writing is also in English and a light Scots dialect, accessible to an audience beyond Scotland. He also wrote in standard English, and in these writings his political or civil commentary is often at its bluntest.

He is regarded as a pioneer of the Romantic movement, and after his death he became a great source of inspiration to the founders of both liberalism and socialism, and a cultural icon in Scotland and among the Scottish Diaspora around the world. Celebration of his life and work became almost a national charismatic cult during the 19th and 20th centuries, and his influence has long been strong on Scottish literature. In 2009 he was chosen as the greatest Scot by the Scottish public in a vote run by Scottish television channel STV.

As well as making original compositions, Burns also collected folk songs from across Scotland, often revising or adapting them. His poem (and song) "Auld Lang Syne" is often sung at Hogmanay (the last day of the year), and "Scots Wha Hae" served for a long time as an unofficial national anthem of the country. Other poems and songs of Burns that remain well known across the world today include "A Red, Red Rose"; "A Man's a Man for A' That"; "To a Louse"; "To a Mouse"; "The Battle of Sherramuir"; "Tam o' Shanter"; and "Ae Fond Kiss" (x).

A Burns supper is a supper held in Burns' honour - Burns suppers are most common in Scotland and Northern Ireland however there has been a surge in Burns' Night celebrations in the UK events industry seeing the evening being celebrated outside their traditional confines of Burns Clubs, Scottish Societies, expatriate Scots, or aficionados of Burns' poetry (x).

While there was talking of us MSc students attending a Burns' night céilidh (a traditional Gaelic social gathering, which usually involves playing Gaelic folk music and dancing) we aren't exactly A+ at organization, and Friday we were still trying to organize something, while also discovering that a majority of the Burns Night céilidhs were sold out (x). I thus decided to have a very informal Burns Night potluck at my flat Saturday night. There were about 12 people in attendance, and a *lot* of good food (I am still eating the leftovers) and an entire huge trash bag of bottles were also left in my possession to haul down four flights of stairs and down the street (as I told David, the next time I have a party, the rule is going to be you drink out of a can or you don't drink at all). Eve "made" haggis, and I learned that the traditional way of preparing haggis in many Scottish households is to boil it. Which was slightly disillusioning. But Ali read "Address to a Haggis" by Burns, in Scots, so it was still all very Scottish.

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 worthy 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 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 scunner,
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 (x)

I neglected to take any pictures, but it was a great night spent with friends, laughing a *lot* and eating some delicious food.