Burns Night 2012

Hinc lucem et pocula sacra

Welcome to our 253rd Celebration of the Scottish Bard At the 4th Annual Burns Nicht Supper Elephant & Castle Pub 25 January 2012 Society Chairman: Peter Hansen (Hughes) Event Organiser: Blair Lapres (Darwin) Host: David Humphries (King’s)

Event Organiser: Josef Martens (Wolfson)

Hostess: Elizabeth Schill (St. Edmund’s)

Celebrating a Year of Revolution!

Nicht Programme 

6:30 Drinks Reception

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7:00 Seating & Supper Orders

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7:15 Robert Burns and Revolution (David Humphries)

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7:30 Address to the Haggis (David Humphries)

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7:35 Toast to the Lads and the Lassies (Peter Hansen & Elizabeth Schill)

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8:30 Tea and Coffee

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Burns Original

Address To A Haggis

by Robert Burns 25 January 1759 – 21 July 1796 English Translation

i. 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. ii. The groaning trencher there ye fill, Your hudies 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. iii. His knife see rustic Labour dight, An' cut ye up wi' ready slight, Trenching your gushing entrails bright, Like onie ditch; And then, O what a glorious sight, Warm-reeking, rich! iv. 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. v. 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? vi. 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; Tho' bluidy flood or field to dash, O how unfit. vii. But mark the Rustic, haggis-fed, The trembling earth resounds his tread, Clap in his walie nieve a blade, He'll make it whistle; An' legs, an' arms, an' heads will sned Like taps o' thrissle. viii. 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 gratfu' prayer, Gie her a Haggis!

i. Fair is your honest happy face Great chieftain of the pudding race Above them all you take your place Stomach, tripe or guts Well are you worthy of a grace As long as my arm ii. The groaning platter there you fill Your buttocks like a distant hill Your skewer would help to repair a mill In time of need While through your pores the juices emerge Like amber beads iii. His knife having seen hard labour wipes And cuts you up with great skill Digging into your gushing insides bright Like any ditch And then oh what a glorious sight Warm steaming, rich iv. Then spoon for spoon, They stretch and strive Devil take the last man, on they drive Until all their well swollen bellies Are bent like drums Then, the old gent most likely to rift (burp) Be thanked, mumbles v. Is there that over his French Ragout Or olio that would sicken a pig Or fricassee would make her vomit With perfect disgust, Looks down with a sneering scornful opinion On such a dinner vi. Poor devil, see him over his trash As week as a withered rush (reed) His spindle-shank a good whiplash His clenched fist. the size of a nut.

Through a bloody flood and battle field to dash Oh how unfit vii. But take note of the strong haggis fed Scot The trembling earth resounds his tread Clasped in his large fist a blade He'll make it whistle And legs and arms and heads he will cut off Like the tops of thistles viii. You powers who make mankind your care And dish them out their meals Old Scotland wants no watery food That splashes in dishes But if you wish her grateful prayer Give her a haggis!