"Ye Pow'rs wha gie us a' that's gude
Still bless auld Caledonia's brood,
Wi' great John Barleycorn's heart's bluid
In stoups or luggies;
And on our boards, that king o' food,
A gud Scotch Haggis!"
Haggis
- 1 sheep's stomach bag plus the lungs, liver and heart.
- 1 lb lean mutton
- 6 oz steelcut oatmeal
- 8 oz shredded suet
- 2 large onions, chopped
- 1 cup beef stock
Soak the stomach bag in salted water overnight. Place the lungs, liver and heart in a saucepan with the windpipe hanging over the edge. Cover with water and boil for 1 1/2 hours. Drain well and cool. Remove the windpipe and any gristle or skin. Mince the liver and heart with the mutton.
Toast the oatmeal until golden brown. Combine with minced mixture, suet and onion. Season well and add beef stock to moisten. Pack into the stomach bag until it is about half-full. The stuffing will swell during cooking. Secure each end with string. Prick the haggis all over with a large needle to avoid bursting and boil steadily for 3 to 4 hours. Makes 6 to 8 servings.
To a Haggis
by
Robert Burns
Fair fa' your honest, sonsie face,
Great Chieftan o' the Puddin-race!
Aboon them a' ye tak your place,
Painch, tripe, or thairm:
Weel are ye wordy of 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;
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, scronful' 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' bluidy 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.
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