Scots exiles prepare for supper.

Thousands of exiled Scots are preparing to mark the 250th anniversary of their national bard across the South West.
Burns suppers are planned in Devon, Cornwall, Jersey and Guernsey to celebrate the poet Robert Burns.
Scottish societies and Burns clubs have organised the annual dinners, which normally include haggis.
"In some ways I'm even more Scottish since I moved down south -
I wouldn't miss a Burns supper now," John Anderson from Cornwall said.
Mr Anderson, who is originally from East Kilbride, settled in Cornwall 12 years ago when he left the Royal Navy.
Immortal memory
He and a group of friends now celebrate Burns Night every year.
"I look forward to it and even though I don't eat it at any
other time of year, I always enjoy my haggis," Mr Anderson told BBC
News.
In the Channel Islands, the Scottish Society of Jersey
organises functions throughout the year, including a celebration for St
Andrew's Night, Burns Night and Hogmanay.
Haggis will also be on the menu at the Old Government House Hotel in Guernsey.
More than 80 guests attended the Exeter and District Caledonian Society's annual supper on Friday.

President Stewart McKinlay, who moved from Greenock to Devon in
1981, said the evening followed tradition with both guests and haggis
piped in.
Plymouth Robert Burns Club, which was formed in 1948, will
address the haggis, toast the lassies and the bard's immortal memory at
its supper in Estover.
The World Robert Burns Federation - which has members in
Russia, Canada, Australia, Japan, Egypt and the United States - said an
estimated 500,000 Burns suppers will be held at home and abroad.
Born in Alloway in 1759, Burns was a prolific writer, penning
hundreds of poems and songs. He died in Dumfries at the age of 37,
having never left his native land.
Maxwell Burns, the youngest of the poet's 12 children, was born of the day of his father's funeral.

address to a haggis by robert burns



1.
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.
2.
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.
3.
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!
4.
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.
5.
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?
6.
Poor devil! see him owre his trash,
As fecl;ess 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.
7.
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.
8.
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!

When someone cracks that code let me know

the english version.doesn't sound as good though.lol

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

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

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

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

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!

if anybody is interested here is a link to the robert burns site
http://www.robertburns.org/

That's better ........

Stomach, tripe or guts
Well are you worthy of a grace
As long as my arm

Now I remember why I steer clear of haggis.

haggis i luv it.