A Burns supper is a celebration of the life and poetry of the poet Robert Burns, author of many Scots poems.
The suppers are normally held on or near the poet's birthday, Jan. 25, sometimes also known as Robert Burns Day (or Robbie Burns Day).
Burns suppers are most common in Scotland and Northern Ireland, but occur wherever there are Burns Clubs, Scottish Societies, expatriate Scots, or aficionados of Burns' poetry.
The first suppers were held in memoriam at Ayrshire, Scotland at the end of the 18th century by Robert Burns' friends on July 21, the anniversary of his death.
Burns suppers may be formal or informal and typically include haggis (a traditional Scottish dish celebrated by Burns in Address to a Haggis), Scotch whisky and the recitation of Burns' poetry.
Order of play:
1. The Selkirk Grace
2. "Piping" of the haggis
3. Address To a Haggis
4. Supper
5. Immortal memory
6. Toast to the Lassies
7. Reply to the Toast
Here's what Robbie Burns suggested you say to a haggis: (Now the official opener to Burns events)
Address To A Haggis:
Fair fa' your honest, sonsie face, Great chieftain o' the puddinrace! 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 millIn time o' need, While thro' your pores the dews distil Like amber bead.
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-reekin, rich! Then, horn for horn, they strech 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.
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 whiplash, His nieve a nit; Thro' bluidy 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!
