So this is a delayed post from about a month ago that I forgot I had written!  Apologies to anyone Scottish who is offended that I would have a moment of memory lapse and forget Rabbie Burns!

Who would have suspected that here, in Kathmandu, one would have their first official Burns Supper!  Celebrating the late and great Scottish poet, Robert Burns, one of our friends, who is a proud Scotsman had been asked to perform the "Ode to the Haggis" for an official military Burns Supper.  Besides the necessary accent he also possessed a lovely kilt to wear for the occasion.  A small group of us gathered to be the guinea pigs, test subjects to ensure he had memorized the 8-stanza poem without a pause, stumble, or incorrect gesture (the gestures were exceptionally important in conveying the meaning of the poem…who would know what he was saying otherwise!)

There was shortbread, haggis, and bagpipes.  And although most of us had no idea what he was saying, it sounded just perfect.  What was the better part was the quiz afterwards of key Scottish words…blimey!  I think I have better luck guessing Nepali words and their meanings.

So, without further ado, here is the famous 8-stanza poem for your enjoyment.  Thanks to G & M for the crash course in all the stereotypes of Scottish culture 🙂

Address To A Haggis (from the Robert Burns World Federation who also have a translation for those who need it)

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 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 sleight,
Trenching your gushing entrails bright,
Like ony 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 lyke drums;
Then 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 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 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!