BURNS NIGHT

Robert Burns was born on the 25 th January His work is celebrated each year in Scotland at a burns supper night. Celebrate the 250 th anniversary of Robert Burns’ birth He was a poet and a lyricist and is widely regarded as the national poet of Scotland.

The last years of Burns' life were devoted to penning great poetic masterpieces such as The Lea Rig, Tam O'Shanter and a Red, Red Rose. He died aged 37 and at his funeral more than 10,000 people came to watch and pay their respects. Born to William Burness, a poor tenant farmer, and Agnes Broun, Robert Burns was the eldest of seven. At 15 Robert started writing penning his first verse, "My Handsome Nell“. His first collection of poems was published in 1786 and received much critical acclaim. Although achieving fame he still had to work and took up a job as an exciseman. He continued to write contributing songs to the likes of James Johnston's "Scot's Musical Museum" and George Thomson's "Select Collection of Original Scottish Airs." In all, more than 400 of Burns' songs are still in existence.

A Red, Red Rose Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear, And the rocks melt wi' the sun; And I will luve thee still, my dear, While the sands o' life shall run. And fare-thee-weel, my only Luve! And fare-thee-weel, a while! And I will come again, my Luve, Tho' 'twere ten thousand mile! O my Luve's like a red, red rose, That's newly sprung in June: O my Luve's like the melodie, That's sweetly play'd in tune. As fair art thou, my bonie lass, So deep in luve am I; And I will luve thee still, my dear, Till a' the seas gang dry.

Wee, sleeket, cowran, tim'rous beastie, O, what panic's in thy breastie! Thou need na start awa sae hasty, Wi' bickering brattle! I wad be laith to rin an' chase thee, Wi' murd'ring pattle! I'm truly sorry Man's dominion Has broken Nature's social union, An' justifies that ill opinion, Which makes thee startle, At me, thy poor, earth-born companion, An' fellow-mortal! I doubt na, whyles, but thou may thieve; What then? poor beastie, thou maun live! A daimen-icker in a thrave 'S a sma' request: I'll get a blessin wi' the lave, An' never miss't! Thy wee-bit housie, too, in ruin! It's silly wa's the win's are strewin! An' naething, now, to big a new ane, O' foggage green! An' bleak December's winds ensuin, Baith snell an' keen! Thou saw the fields laid bare an' wast, An' weary Winter comin fast, An' cozie here, beneath the blast, Thou thought to dwell, Till crash! the cruel coulter past Out thro' thy cell. To A Mouse That wee-bit heap o' leaves an' stibble, Has cost thee monie a weary nibble! Now thou's turn'd out, for a' thy trouble, But house or hald. To thole the Winter's sleety dribble, An' cranreuch cauld! But Mousie, thou are no thy-lane, In proving foresight may be vain: The best laid schemes o' Mice an' Men, Gang aft agley, An' lea'e us nought but grief an' pain, For promis'd joy! Still, thou art blest, compar'd wi' me! The present only toucheth thee: But Och! I backward cast my e'e, On prospects drear! An' forward, tho' I canna see, I guess an' fear!

Fair fa'your honest, sonsie face, Great chieftain o' the pudding-race! Aboon them a' yet 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 was 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 like drums; Then auld Guidman, maist like to rive, Bethankit! hums. The Selkirk Grace Some hae meat and canna eat, And some wad eat that want it, But we hae meat and we can eat, And sae the Lord be thankit. Is there that owre his French ragout Or olio that wad staw a sow, Or fricassee wad make her spew Wi' perfect sconner, Looks down wi' sneering, scornfu' view On sic a dinner? Poor devil! see him owre his trash, As feckles as wither'd rash, His spindle shank, a guid whip-lash; His nieve a nit; Thro' blody 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' hands will sned, Like taps o' trissle. 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! Address to a Haggis

The supper traditionally begins with a piper welcoming the guests. The haggis is brought in whilst the piper plays, referred to as Piping in the haggis. This is Followed by the poem address To a haggis, after which the haggis is toasted. A short prayer called The Selkirk Grace is then read to usher in the meal. The main course of haggis, neeps and tatties is then served. The host then warmly welcomes everyone and introduces the evenings entertainment. The Burns Supper

Following the main meal the first entertainment begins, which is usually a Burns’ poem or song. A speech is then given on the life of Robert Burns concluding with a Toast to the Immortal Memory of Robert Burns. The second entertainment commences with another Burns’ poem or song. Next a toast to the lassies is given, followed later by a reply from the lassies. The last part of the evenings entertainment comprises more Burns readings. The supper concludes with the singing of the traditional song Auld Lang Syne