Sunday, January 31, 2010

Burns Night in Seoul

Just before Christmas, I ripped open a present from my mother and burst out laughing. It is the funniest gift I have ever received and it came in handy over the past weekend - it was an Instakilt. A towel printed like a kilt? Pure genius! After all, space is limited when you travel and I can now take one item that will serve to keep me dry and outfit me for any formal Scottish occassions I come across. Between that and the see-you-Jimmy hat that Ally picked up for me when he was home, I was fully prepared for Burns night.


Gabby and the Scotch broth.

Ally's address to the haggis.

Gus giving the toast to the lassies.

Lorraine giving the toast to the laddies.

Jay doing the toast to the Queen.

The kilts photo.

The couples photo.

Address to a Haggis
Rabbie Burns

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.

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 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 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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