Burn's Night with The Glenlivet - Definitive Compact Guide to Burn's Night on the 25th January

PIPING IN THE GUESTS
Welcome your guests, with the sound of Scottish
pipes, to an evening of celebration. Banging of the
chair signifies the beginning of the meal.

THE SELKIRK GRACE
Get in the mood by reciting, in Scots(!),
Burns’ Grace:
Some have meat and cannot eat,
Some cannot eat that want it:
But we have meat and we can eat,
Sae let the Lord be thankit.

ADDRESS TO THE HAGGIS
Stand to welcome the evening’s star attraction – the haggis – piped in by
traditional Scottish music and, of course, the whisky bearer must ensure glasses
are well lubricated for the toast. Elect one of your dinner guests to deliver a
rendition of To the Haggis. Standing with knife poised, the reader should skewer
the haggis on cue –
‘An’ cut you up wi’ready sleight, Trenching your gushing entrails bright’.
Ending with the final toast, ‘THE HAGGIS!’

THE MEAL
Traditionally the haggis is doused with whisky, The Glenlivet 18 is a fine choice.
Cock-a-leekie Soup
-
Haggis, Neeps & Tatties
-
Clootie Dumplings or Typsy Laird
-
Cheesboard & Bannocks
A creative license can be applied

ENTERTAINMENT
At the conclusion of the meal, guests partake in performing some of Robert Burns’ greatest songs and poems, gaining merit for enthusiasm and true Scots gusto. Between these ditties, speeches are performed:

Robert Burns – the host speaks of the bards life, literary genius, politics and of course his nationality, finishing with a toast, ‘To the Immortal Memory of Robert Burns!’

Toast to the Lassies – the humorous highlight to the evening, praising womens’ roles in today’s world, making particular reference to those in the room, drawing on selective quotes from Burns’ works. The women may then follow with a retort.

The evening culminates in a vote of thanks from the host and a rousing performance of Auld Lang Syne.

TO THE HAGGIS
Fair fa’your honest, sonsie face, Great chieftain o’the pudding-race! Aboon them a’ye tak your place, Painch, trip, 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 brent like drums; Then auld Guidman, maist like to rive,	Is there that owre his French ragout Or olio that wad staw a sow, Or fricassee wad make her spew Wi’perfect sconner, Looks down wi’sneering, scornfu’view On sic a dinner? Poor devil! see him owre his trash, As feckless as 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

Buy the The Glenlivet 12 and The Glenlivet 18