It’s a joke all Scottish people make with foreigners. Convincing them that it’s a wee three legged beastie that runs around the hill in one direction because one of its legs are longer and it would fall over if it went the other way. I had a friend who used to sell tickets to a haggis hunt on Arthur’s seat.
The food is real. But it’s made from sheep organs. If you ever get a chance to try it, absolutely do. It’s delicious. Possibly the best preparation of sheep ever smalehove and pinnekjøtt from Norway are a close second though.
Fair fa’ your honest, sonsie face,
Great chieftain o the puddin’-race!
It’s a joke all Scottish people make with foreigners. Convincing them that it’s a wee three legged beastie that runs around the hill in one direction because one of its legs are longer and it would fall over if it went the other way. I had a friend who used to sell tickets to a haggis hunt on Arthur’s seat.
lol so it was a joke. I would have totally fell for it if I had not heard of it before and still had a vague impression of what it was.
The food is real. But it’s made from sheep organs. If you ever get a chance to try it, absolutely do. It’s delicious. Possibly the best preparation of sheep ever smalehove and pinnekjøtt from Norway are a close second though.
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 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;
The 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 scunner,
Looks down wi sneering, scornfu 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 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 make 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