Saturday was Robbie Burns' Day and those of both Scottish ancestry (and Scottish at heart) descended upon the Saltcoats Community Hall to enjoy an evening of food, fun, and good cheer.
For the uninitiated, Robbie Burns was a Scottish poet who lived in the late 1700s. His poems were written in the Lowland Scots language, as Scottish Gaelic was primarily spoken in the Highlands. Born on January 25, 1759, his friends held a memorial dinner some 15 years after his death. His friends weren't sure of the precise date of his birthday, however, and held the first Burns Dinner July 21, 1801. Later checking the records, they fixed that and held the dinner each year thereafter on the Scottish Bard's birthday.
The traditional order was followed in Saltcoats, beginning with the piping of the Haggis – that is, a bagpiper signals the beginning of the ceremony where the haggis dinner is brought in and presented, followed by the Selkirk grace, known well to any Scot:
“Some hae meat an canna eat,
And some wad eat that want it;
But we hae meat, and we can eat,
And sae the Lord be thankit.”
The host then recited the traditional Address 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 o' a grace
As lang's my airm.
“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 dicht,
An' cut you up wi' ready slicht,
Trenching your gushing entrails bricht,
Like ony ditch;
And then, O what a glorious sicht,
Warm-reekin, rich!
“Then, horn for horn, they stretch an' strive:
Deil tak the hindmaist! 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 o're 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 ower 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 wallie nieve a blade,
He'll mak it whistle;
An' legs an' arms, an' heads will sned,
Like taps o' thristle.
“Ye Pow'rs wha mak mankind your care,
And dish them out their bill o' fare,
Auld Scotland wants nae skinkin ware
That jaups in luggies;
But, if ye wish her gratefu' prayer,
Gie her a haggis!”
After the haggis was piped in with due ceremony, the whisky toast signalled time to eat. The festivities only started from there, with fun had by all.
