Londoners can visit a ceilidh, a traditional Scottish gathering.
SHARE:
January 25th marks Burns night, an evening which commemorates the life and work of Scottish poet Robert Burns.
Despite not making it past the age of 40, after dying in 1759, the memory and words of the Ayrshire writer have lived on. Each year Scottish communities celebrate with a traditional feast of haggis, neeps and tatties. This meal is usually accompanied with recitation of Burns’ poems, especially “The Address to a Haggis”.
Reporter for City London News, Callum Clark, spoke with John McShane, vice president of the Burns Club of London. He told Callum how the club celebrates their most important night of the year, despite not being in the land of Scots.
“We have a wreath laying ceremony at the Robert Burns statue on the Embankment near Charring Cross, then we get piped and marched along to the civil service club nearby where we have a lunch, some recitations, singing and a bit of haggis of course!”
“We are a centre for Scots in London who want to celebrate, not just Robert Burns, his life and works, but all Scottish culture and heritage”
Ed Mccabe, founder of London Ceilidh club, says they also have plans to celebrate.
“We have two Burns Night events with haggis, neeps and tatties, with the piping of the haggis and the address to a haggis at St Marys in Marylebone and two regular Ceilidhs being run at Cecil Sharp House, with a band and caller, for three hours of dancing.”
The traditional elements of a Burns night feast: haggis, neeps and tatties
“To think that we have a national day for a poet is extraordinary in my opinion, it is absolutely extraordinary, it is not a warrior, its not a general, it’s not someone who has gone and ‘discovered’ another land, it is someone who wrote poetry” Mr Mccabe finished.
If you want to conduct your own Burns night celebrations, a translation of Robert Burns’ Address to a Haggis can be found below.
Fair and full is your honest, jolly face,
Great chieftain of the sausage race!
Above them all you take your place,
Stomach, tripe, or intestines:
Well are you worthy of a grace
As long as my arm.
The groaning trencher there you fill,
Your buttocks like a distant hill,
Your pin would help to mend a mill
In time of need,
While through your pores the dews distill
Like amber bead.
His knife see rustic Labour wipe,
And cut you up with ready slight,
Trenching your gushing entrails bright,
Like any ditch;
And then, O what a glorious sight,
Warm steaming, rich!
Then spoon for spoon, the stretch and strive:
Devil take the hindmost, on they drive,
Till all their well swollen bellies by-and-by
Are bent like drums;
Then old head of the table, most like to burst,
‘The grace!’ hums.
Is there that over his French ragout,
Or olio that would sicken a sow,
Or fricassee would make her vomit
With perfect disgust,
Looks down with sneering, scornful view
On such a dinner?
Poor devil! see him over his trash,
As feeble as a withered rush,
His thin legs a good whip-lash,
His fist a nut;
Through bloody flood or field to dash,
O how unfit.
But mark the Rustic, haggis-fed,
The trembling earth resounds his tread,
Clap in his ample fist a blade,
He’ll make it whistle;
And legs, and arms, and heads will cut off
Like the heads of thistles.
You powers, who make mankind your care,
And dish them out their bill of fare,
Old Scotland wants no watery stuff,
That splashes in small wooden dishes;
But if you wish her grateful prayer,
Give her [Scotland] a Haggis!
Submitted Article
Headline
Short Headline
Standfirst
Published Article
HeadlineBurns Night: How will the Scottish poet be celebrated in London today?
Short HeadlineBurns Night: How will the Scottish poet be celebrated in London?
StandfirstFor Scottish communities, the evening of January 25th is dedicated to the Ayrshire poet John Burns
January 25th marks Burns night, an evening which commemorates the life and work of Scottish poet Robert Burns.
Despite not making it past the age of 40, after dying in 1759, the memory and words of the Ayrshire writer have lived on. Each year Scottish communities celebrate with a traditional feast of haggis, neeps and tatties. This meal is usually accompanied with recitation of Burns’ poems, especially “The Address to a Haggis”.
Reporter for City London News, Callum Clark, spoke with John McShane, vice president of the Burns Club of London. He told Callum how the club celebrates their most important night of the year, despite not being in the land of Scots.
“We have a wreath laying ceremony at the Robert Burns statue on the Embankment near Charring Cross, then we get piped and marched along to the civil service club nearby where we have a lunch, some recitations, singing and a bit of haggis of course!”
“We are a centre for Scots in London who want to celebrate, not just Robert Burns, his life and works, but all Scottish culture and heritage”
Ed Mccabe, founder of London Ceilidh club, says they also have plans to celebrate.
“We have two Burns Night events with haggis, neeps and tatties, with the piping of the haggis and the address to a haggis at St Marys in Marylebone and two regular Ceilidhs being run at Cecil Sharp House, with a band and caller, for three hours of dancing.”
The traditional elements of a Burns night feast: haggis, neeps and tatties
“To think that we have a national day for a poet is extraordinary in my opinion, it is absolutely extraordinary, it is not a warrior, its not a general, it’s not someone who has gone and ‘discovered’ another land, it is someone who wrote poetry” Mr Mccabe finished.
If you want to conduct your own Burns night celebrations, a translation of Robert Burns’ Address to a Haggis can be found below.
Fair and full is your honest, jolly face,
Great chieftain of the sausage race!
Above them all you take your place,
Stomach, tripe, or intestines:
Well are you worthy of a grace
As long as my arm.
The groaning trencher there you fill,
Your buttocks like a distant hill,
Your pin would help to mend a mill
In time of need,
While through your pores the dews distill
Like amber bead.
His knife see rustic Labour wipe,
And cut you up with ready slight,
Trenching your gushing entrails bright,
Like any ditch;
And then, O what a glorious sight,
Warm steaming, rich!
Then spoon for spoon, the stretch and strive:
Devil take the hindmost, on they drive,
Till all their well swollen bellies by-and-by
Are bent like drums;
Then old head of the table, most like to burst,
‘The grace!’ hums.
Is there that over his French ragout,
Or olio that would sicken a sow,
Or fricassee would make her vomit
With perfect disgust,
Looks down with sneering, scornful view
On such a dinner?
Poor devil! see him over his trash,
As feeble as a withered rush,
His thin legs a good whip-lash,
His fist a nut;
Through bloody flood or field to dash,
O how unfit.
But mark the Rustic, haggis-fed,
The trembling earth resounds his tread,
Clap in his ample fist a blade,
He’ll make it whistle;
And legs, and arms, and heads will cut off
Like the heads of thistles.
You powers, who make mankind your care,
And dish them out their bill of fare,
Old Scotland wants no watery stuff,
That splashes in small wooden dishes;
But if you wish her grateful prayer,
Give her [Scotland] a Haggis!