robbie burns b'day

Are you be cooking yor own haggis today or be going to a "Burns Supper"?
This year I'm not making it to one. I had an oatmeal scone with me coffee.
You should be takeing Wayne to one as the drinking of expensive scotch goes
on and on.
I like the poetry and pipes but have give up trying acquire a taste for
Scotch. It's like feeding ice cream to a pig.



"Jeff Miller" wrote in message
news:9UrJd.23205$EG1.19350@lakeread04...
"On this day in 1759 Robert Burns was born in Alloway, Scotland, and on
this night lovers of Burns or Scotland or conviviality will gather
around the world to celebrate the fact. Burns was elevated to national
hero in his lifetime and cult figure soon afterwards, the first Burns
Night celebration occurring almost immediately upon his death. This is
due partly to the poetry and partly to the legendary details of the
ploughman-poet life -- his years as a poor tenant farmer; his enthusiasm
for women (fifteen children, six born out of wedlock); a patriotism that
would not allow him to take money for his songs; his death at
thirty-seven. Though many poems are philosophical and political, there
are more than enough on the Highlands-lassies-wee dram themes to go
around this evening. Amidst much piping and toasting and
auld-lang-syne-ing, there will be an enthusiastic reading of "Ode to a
Haggis" -- more enthusiastic, for some, than its eating -- in which
Burns first trashes the cuisine and character of the French and then
trumpets that "Great Chieftain o' the pudding-race":

. . . 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' bluidy 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's wha mak mankind your care,
And dish them out their bill o' fare,
Auld Scotland wants nae shinking ware
That jaups in luggies;
But, if you wish her gratefu' pray'r,
Gie her a Haggis!"

[or, as translated for us non-haggis eaters]

"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

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

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

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!"

(quote pilfered from steve king, today in literature web site, and
robert burns)

I intend to depart from the confinement of my office and retire to the
bar down the street for a glass of their best scotch (which isn't too
good, but will do) in honor of ol rahbie... i'll leave the haggis to
the true spirits...

jeff

B J Conner wrote:
Are you be cooking yor own haggis today or be going to a "Burns Supper"?
This year I'm not making it to one. I had an oatmeal scone with me coffee.
You should be takeing Wayne to one as the drinking of expensive scotch goes
on and on.
I like the poetry and pipes but have give up trying acquire a taste for
Scotch. It's like feeding ice cream to a pig.



"Jeff Miller" wrote in message
news:9UrJd.23205$EG1.19350@lakeread04...

"On this day in 1759 Robert Burns was born in Alloway, Scotland, and on
this night lovers of Burns or Scotland or conviviality will gather
around the world to celebrate the fact. Burns was elevated to national
hero in his lifetime and cult figure soon afterwards, the first Burns
Night celebration occurring almost immediately upon his death. This is
due partly to the poetry and partly to the legendary details of the
ploughman-poet life -- his years as a poor tenant farmer; his enthusiasm
for women (fifteen children, six born out of wedlock); a patriotism that
would not allow him to take money for his songs; his death at
thirty-seven. Though many poems are philosophical and political, there
are more than enough on the Highlands-lassies-wee dram themes to go
around this evening. Amidst much piping and toasting and
auld-lang-syne-ing, there will be an enthusiastic reading of "Ode to a
Haggis" -- more enthusiastic, for some, than its eating -- in which
Burns first trashes the cuisine and character of the French and then
trumpets that "Great Chieftain o' the pudding-race":

. . . 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' bluidy 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's wha mak mankind your care,
And dish them out their bill o' fare,
Auld Scotland wants nae shinking ware
That jaups in luggies;
But, if you wish her gratefu' pray'r,
Gie her a Haggis!"

[or, as translated for us non-haggis eaters]

"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

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

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

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!"

(quote pilfered from steve king, today in literature web site, and
robert burns)

"Jeff" wrote in message
ink.net...
I intend to depart from the confinement of my office and retire to the bar
down the street for a glass of their best scotch (which isn't too good, but
will do) in honor of ol rahbie... i'll leave the haggis to the true
spirits...

jeff

I shared haggis with Lachan McIntosh [ chief of the clan ] in Moy [ near
Inverness] during a visit in summer of 1988 and don"t plan to indulge
again.

But yesterday I did sip a little of the Laphroaig given to me by the Swede
at Penn's last year.


think he was punishing me for offering.

him a bowl of watery grits one morning

So I am justly reminded that I don't enjoy haggis, single malt, or Robbie's
poetry.

Jeff- when is EE's birthday and didn't he drink manhattans?

Joe

On Wed, 26 Jan 2005 13:43:31 GMT, "Joe McIntosh"
wrote:

(snipped)

So I am justly reminded that I don't enjoy haggis, single malt, or Robbie's
poetry.

How can anyone not like haggis? The ingredients list doesn't match up
with modern tastes, but if you can ignore that, it's a wonderous
extremely large hot sausage and nutritious to boot. I'll go with you
on the single malt, but my first drinking failure was on Scotch.
Robbie's poetry? Iffy. Some very good, some just maudlin, some just
middling. It was his cute spelling and grammar that got him the
attention, if not the fame.

Cyli
r.bc: vixen. Minnow goddess. Speaker to squirrels.
Often taunted by trout. Almost entirely harmless.

http://www.visi.com/~cyli
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