Genealogy Forum UK

Burn's night tonight and we're keeping to schedule with Haggis, mashed neeps, mashed potatoes and a (slightly off topic) purée of carrot and parsnip with green peppercorns.

I love haggis - with mashed potato - don't like swede in there

Thats one thing I have never tried . What does it taste like ?

dudleytaylor wrote:Thats one thing I have never tried . What does it taste like ?

A bit like black country faggots but not so rich.

I think I would like to try a Haggis.

i would rather eat haggis than faggots anyday one of mate goes to scotland every year and bring a haggis back for me it got to be well seasoned for my taste

peterd wrote:i would rather eat haggis than faggots anyday one of mate goes to scotland every year and bring a haggis back for me it got to be well seasoned for my taste

So would I Pete, my mom still makes real black country faggots, but I can only east half a one as long as I have a plate full of potatoes.

Luv it.......Thought Burns Night was tomorrow night ???????

I've only had it once, in a cafe in Glasgow - definatly try it again!

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

Robert Burns.