Happy Burns Day!

I love Burns Day, as a proud Scot I don’t need any excuse to get my close friends together, have a dram of whisky and some food. Oh and did I mention I LOVE Haggis? I also find it hilarious that you can only buy it in Waitrose in London, like it’s a classy entity which goes against everything it is – the ultimate irony!

Don’t get me wrong, I very much think of London as my home and I have done now for years. I especially think of it as home more now that my childhood home has been sold. London is where my friends are, my network and where I met the love of my life, and maybe most important it’s where Twiglet my cat is!

This doesn’t mean that Scotland does not hold a very treasured place in my heart. No place more then where we have a timeshare lodge called Dunkeld. Every year we would go as a family and spend a glorious week in the forest having wonderful walks with our dog (RIP Todd – still miss you buddy!) and it’s even where I learned to swim. I am lucky enough to have inherited such a special place from my dad, and I love the thought of taking my kids there one day and having the same experiences, telling them of my Scottish heritage – I want them to think of it as a special place for them too.

So tonight you will find me with whisky in hand with a big smile on my face thinking back to those forest family walks. So here is an ode to the wonderful haggis – enjoy

Little Lemon x

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 worthy 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 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 scunner,
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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