KingstonSeagull
New member
Anyone celebrating Burns Night tonight? If so in what way? I for one just had a piece of shortbread and will enjoy a whisky with my tea tonight.
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Great chieftain o' the pudding-race!
- Thread starter KingstonSeagull
- Start date
Prince Monolulu
Everything in Moderation
Had my porridge this morning, might put my Proclaimers LP on later.
Pavilionaire
Well-known member
- Jul 7, 2003
- 31,267
We'll be eating Hall's Haggis with mashed potato and mashed swede/carrot.
I intend to have a couple of fingers of Laphroaig and Glenfiddich along the way too.
The Mrs is Scotch - born and bred in Dunfermline, the Kingdom of Fife.
I intend to have a couple of fingers of Laphroaig and Glenfiddich along the way too.
The Mrs is Scotch - born and bred in Dunfermline, the Kingdom of Fife.
There is enough unintelligible gibberish on here as it is without celebrating someone who seemed to make a career out of spouting it.
HB&B?
KingstonSeagull
New member
- Thread starter
- #6
A bit of Scottish hatred from the welsh I see?
Caught a sonsie face in Aldi. Skulking in a corner but nowhere near the Frikadellan.
NB: Scotch Broth on sale in the concourse. Good idea to have some soup, but alas it looked like something James Wilson coughed up.
https://nortr3nixy.nimpr.uk/showthread.php?332613-Anybody-spotted-any
NB: Scotch Broth on sale in the concourse. Good idea to have some soup, but alas it looked like something James Wilson coughed up.
https://nortr3nixy.nimpr.uk/showthread.php?332613-Anybody-spotted-any
Last edited:
I'm not Welsh, I just live here!
theboybilly
Well-known member
Mrs is Scottish, or a Scot. I love Fife mind, great golfing country especially Elie & Earlsferry or Ladybank
Tricky Dicky
New member
Why should I ? I'm sure they don't celebrate my "crap in a paper bag day" - though, to be fair, I celebrate that one more than once a year.
As we're on the subject:
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Seagull58
In the Algarve
Will the missus be having a couple of fingers too?
s5.bha
New member
- Aug 3, 2003
- 837
Oh I was born there............my Dad was from Kelty , my Mum from Dunfermline !
el punal
Well-known member
You timorous wee beastie! Or however it's spelled, means, pronounced, etc.
Haggis? Yes.
Neeps (actually swede)? Yes.
Single malt? Yes.
A bit of some bl**dy awful poetry? Not on your life!
Neeps (actually swede)? Yes.
Single malt? Yes.
A bit of some bl**dy awful poetry? Not on your life!
Superphil
Dismember
I shall be enjoying some of the "mighty fuhrer of the sausage people" a little later, with Swede, Carrot and for the heck of it some turnip possibly too, oh, and to drink, a simple Laphroig.
Cheshire Cat
The most curious thing..
[h=2]Address to a Haggis[/h]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
[h=3]Address to a Haggis Translation[/h]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!
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
[h=3]Address to a Haggis Translation[/h]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!
ferring seagull
Well-known member
- Dec 30, 2010
- 4,607
