250 years ago today, Scotlands national poet Rabbie Burns, was born. Burns suppers will be taking place all over the world to celebrate the birth of one of the worlds most famous poets.

Will anyone else be celebrating the traditional way, with a dinner of Haggis, neeps and tatties, washed down with a wee dram of Whisky? Anyone planning to attend a Burns Supper?


YouTube: Address Tae 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,

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 stow a sow,
Or fricasee 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'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!