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Hail to the Chief O Puddin's - Upload and Update
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By:
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Johnisred
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Mood:
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befuddled
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Date:
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01/27/2008 10:54:32
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Music:
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Automatic - is that a Monster
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Fellow Redheads, I've uploaded pics of the burns night - erm 2 to be exact as the others weren't great (new phone so unaware of features). 
Anyway,the Burns night was good the haggis itself was excellent sadly it was a starter. The main meal was chicken and vegetables with raspberry mousse for dessert which was excellent. Not much of a ceilidh but I did have a good time with friends and much drink was drunk and home at by 2.30am! To try and make up for the disappointment of haggis photos, another pic of me and my brother was uploaded. Still here is the Address to the Haggis poetry:
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; 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 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 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!
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