Last night I joined the ranks of those who love haggis.

Poor haggis, much maligned and eternally sneered at, usually by those who have never even tasted it. There’s a metaphor for life in there somewhere.

Twas of course a Robbie Burns celebration, with two friends (and their daughter) all decked out in tartan as expected.

We began with some lovely single malt, cheese and oatcakes, then salad.

Then, with much ceremony, the recitation of Burn’s words.

Address To A Haggis
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.

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 sleight,
Trenching your gushing entrails bright,
Like ony 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 lyke 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 ower 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 mak 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!

What I hadn’t realized was that even if you don’t know all of the vocabulary, the Address To A Haggis is actually a very funny and  entertaining bit of work.  How can you not love:

An’ cut you up wi’ ready sleight,
Trenching your gushing entrails bright,
Like ony ditch;
And then, O what a glorious sight,
Warm-reekin, rich!

And as the poem suggests, we cut it open and scooped out all of the steamy richness inside! The haggis itself is lighter than I ever expected, tasting more of liver (kind of like a Pâté) than oatmeal, and with a little gravy and potatoes quite yummy.  It’s a more sophisticated dish than I would have believed.

Really, give it a try!