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 o’ a grace
As lang’s my arm.
Tonight is Burns Night, a celebration of the noted Scottish poet Robert Burns. Started by some of Burns’ friends to mark anniversaries of his death, the occasion is marked by copious haggis consumption - above is the start to Burns’ Address to a Haggis - alongside speeches, further poetry recital, bonhomie, and the liberal consumption of whisky. In the memorable words of one commenter a few years back:
But all joking aside, we’d love to hear about your own Burns Night adventures, wherever you happen to reside. Even England.
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There are two sorts of Burns' Nights. Rip-roaring. fiddle-playing, poetry declaiming, jig-birling,over-indulging, drunken blellum, uproariously funny, whisky drinking, friendship protesting nights where the mirth and fun grows fast and furious and the landlord's laugh is ready chorus,or po-faced, Holy Willie, wee Wee Free, cotillion-prancing, Abernethy biscuit, poker-arsed, lace- cuffed,skean dhu, wrath-nursing, White Heather Club, nights where the dead stand about in open presses and each in his cold hand holds a light, and smiles his neighbour an ill-wished farewell.
The latter take place in Edinburgh.