Monday, January 25, 2016

25 janvier : Burns night and Adress to a Haggis

Le 25 janvier, c'est la nuit consacrée au poète Robert Burns, dit « fils préféré de l'Écosse », et surnommé the Bard of Ayrshire « le barde de l'Ayrshire »...

Lors de la Burns Night (la nuit de Burns), on récite l'ode au haggis, 'Address to a Haggis', un texte de Burns, avant de manger ce plat écossais.
*[aparté] Personnellement j'aime beaucoup ce plat, accompagné de purées de pommes de terre et de navet, les fameux neeps and taties. C'est pourquoi ce blog se nomme "Au Pays du Haggis" !*

Vous trouverez un article un peu plus complet sur Robbie Burns et la Burns night ici.
Pour conclure cet article, écoutez l'Address to a Haggis, la version de l'Ambassade du Royaume Uni en France ici :  

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!


Fair is your honest happy face      Great chieftain of the pudding race Above them all you take your place Stomach, tripe or guts                      Well are you worthy of a grace           As long as my arm
The groaning platter there you fill
Your buttocks like a distant hill
Your skewer would help to repair a mill
In time of need
While through your pores the juices emerge
Like amber beads
His knife having seen hard labour wipes
And cuts you up with great skill
Digging into your gushing insides bright
Like any ditch
And then oh what a glorious sight
Warm steaming, rich
Then spoon for spoon
They stretch and strive
Devil take the last man, on they drive
Until all their well swollen bellies
Are bent like drums
Then, the old gent most likely to rift (burp)
Be thanked, mumbles
Is there that over his French Ragout
Or olio that would sicken a pig
Or fricassee would make her vomit
With perfect disgust
Looks down with a sneering scornful opinion
On such a dinner
Poor devil, see him over his trash
As week as a withered rush (reed)
His spindle-shank a good whiplash
His clenched fist, the size of a nut.
Through a bloody flood and battle field to dash
Oh how unfit
But take note of the strong haggis fed Scot
The trembling earth resounds his tread
Clasped in his large fist a blade
He’ll make it whistle
And legs and arms and heads he will cut off
Like the tops of thistles
You powers who make mankind your care
And dish them out their meals
Old Scotland wants no watery food
That splashes in dishes
But if you wish her grateful prayer
Give her a haggis!

No comments: