Immortal Memory

Robert Burns.  Ever heard of him?  Along with being a Scot, a famous poet, a Casanova, and the author of Auld Lang Syne, he’s the Immortal Memory celebrated at hundreds of Burns Night Suppers throughout Scotland every late January/early February in honor of his birth some stormy January 25th night in 1759. 

I had heard of Burns Night Suppers shortly after my arrival in this country; and last night at my church I finally discovered for myself the particularities of this Scottish celebration that make it so… celebrated.  That is, when I could understand them.

The night is commenced with the piping in of the Haggis.  The Church of England venerates the crucifix; the Church of Scotland venerates the Haggis.  What is Haggis, you ask?  If you plan to come visit me, skip to the video.  If you don’t, in which case you’ll probably never eat the stuff, it’s (prepare yourself) a sheep’s heart, liver, and lungs ground together with onion, oatmeal and spices, stuffed into an animal’s stomach and boiled for a good long while.  It reminds me of corned beef hash.  Except that it’s… not.

The gentleman directly in front of the camera has told me three stories over and over and over since I arrived at Hope Park Church: 1) The Queen sent him to America; 2) The Queen sent him to Norway; 3) Variations of the first two stories.

Once the Haggis and the evening speakers have been piped in, Burns’ “Address to the Haggis” is recited by a chap in a kilt.  Here’s a piece of it.  The “translation” is below… not that it will help you.

Translation: …their weel-swall'd kytes belyve Are bent like drums; Then auld Guidman, maist like to rive, 'Bethankit' hums. Is there that ower 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 ower…

And here’s the Haggis on my plate, along with the traditional neeps (Swedish turnips) and tatties (mashed potatoes). 

After we’ve eaten our fine Scottish meal, the traditions continue with keynote speakers (some of which I understood), poetry readings (none of which I understood), a toast by the lassies to the chaps in the room, a toast by the chaps to the lassies in the room, a toast to the Haggis, and of course a toast to the man himself, the ever-celebrated Robert Burns.

My best guess is that I actually understood about 50% of the words spoken last night.  Due partly because of the deep and rich Scottish accents of the people in the church, which I’m still trying to understand, but also because of the Old Scottish language in which Burns wrote most of his works.  To my credit, I’ve been guaranteed by many of the attendees that not a single person in that hall would have understood all the words of the poems and songs heard.  Nonetheless, I consider Scottish English a foreign language.

And finally, men in kilts.  Meet Stewart, one of the “youthful” in the church.  He was absolutely dashing in his dress apparel.  I was a little sad when I saw the picture on my camera, only then realizing that I had it on a bad setting for capturing colors indoors.  Imagine jet black hair with a sleek black bow-tie and suit coat with fire red clan colors for tartan.  D.A.S.H.I.N.G.  Kilts are not all that bad…

To Burns, Haggis, and Kilts.  Found only here in Scotland.

“We twa hae paidl’d in the burn        (We too have paddled in the stream)

Frae morning sun till dine,                (From morning sun till dinner time)

But seas between us braid hae roar’d      (But seas between us broad have roared)

Sin ault lang syne.     (Since old long ago)