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 :
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! | Translation
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! |
