"Address To A Haggis" by Robert Burns
Fair fa your honest, sonsie face,
Great chieftain o the puddin-race!
Aboon them a ye tak yer place,
Painch, tripe, or thairm:
Weel are ye wordy o a grace
A lang's my airm
And so, I've inaugurated the haggis once again. The theme of this year's Burns Supper was "Hope and Change In a World Changin' For Hope and Hopin' For Change." And I learned that no matter the casing a haggis is still a haggis. It makes no matter how much whiskey is downed, the haggis will not be drowned. I have only now recovered from my birthday supper, and even now I am not sure the haggis has quit haunting me.
The haggis, full of variety (oats and others), was blessed in a fitting manner. It is not adequate to bestow upon the ineffable haggis an elegant blessing, but rather one that represents the delicacy in its entirety of unidentifiable goodness. In the spirit of the haggis and of its being an all-in-one kind of treat the Rev. Robinson dished out an appropriate blessing:
"O God of our many understandings, we pray that you will...
Bless us with tears...
Bless us with anger...
Bless us with discomfort...
Bless us with patience...."
To which we all raised our glasses in hearty agreement. One of our number added, "And where brown can stick around!"
Obviously, this was a guest unfamiliar with haggis and its habit of doing exactly that, not to mention all of the things Rev. Robinson prayed for.
Another Reverend, Mr. Warren, already having tippled too much, hoping to numb his senses, finished the blessing with, "in the name of the one who changed my life, Yeshua, Isa, Jesus, Jesus (hay-SOOS)--" Until someone jabbed him, telling him he'd miscounted, turning one onto many more. And another person joked about a game we could play called "Pin The Name On the God, or Pin Jesus' Name on Any God." Another person mentioned that Isa didn't belong in the number of names, but Yesua. Then an argument ensued about mathematical matters and the Koran.
Napoleon Bonaparte raised his glass, remembering times past (earlier in the day he had told me the Supper should be called the Napoleon Supper, but I ended that with threats of banishment to a desolate island. He replied that being in Scotland was banishment, but relented).
"I was full of dreams," Napoleon began, " I saw myself founding a new Religion, marching into Asia, riding an elephant, a turban on my head and in my hand, the new Qu'ran."
A fellow next to Napoleon patted him on the shoulder, reminding him that this was a respectable Burns Supper, not a dream, and that no elephants were running loose in Scotland. Napoleon's eyes widened.
"Aha! But there is me!" Napoleon jumped up onto the table, "Finally! Scotland, 'O my Luve's like a red, red rose,
That's newly sprung in June:
O my Luve's like the melodie,
That's sweetly play'd in tune.'
"Now is the time of a new June, a new hope! 'A leader is a dealer in hope,' and I am the vision of that hope. 'I am the state. I am the Revolution!'"
I looked up at him and reminded him that he once said "From the sublime to the ridiculous is but a step."
Napoleon turned to glare at me, tottered and lost his step, crashing to the floor, where he lay stunned.
Another raised his glass and cleared his throat, "Excuse me, but 'the vision for change comes from, first and foremost, it comes from me, uh, that's my job -- is to provide a vision.' When you were talking about the 'dealer in hope,' it was me you meant, Leon. Sorry to burst your bubble."
Napoleon blinked in disbelief and began to get back upon his feet as the newcomer continued, "We must pick ourselves up, dust ourselves off, and begin again the work of remaking America."
"America, America!" Napoleon spluttered, "Even that I made. Without me, there would be no hope, no America as you know it! I gave it to you for pennies, and I will own it again! Yes, we'll 'begin again the work of retaking America!' Viva la Revolution!"
The newcomer continued, "On this day, we gather because we have chosen hope over fear, unity of purpose over conflict and discord."
"Hear, hear!" We all cheered in hope that the haggis would not frighten our fortitude. We got down to the united purpose of attacking the haggis. But the haggis is the haggis and it conflicted and discorded, overriding any hope for change this Supper.
Napoleon could not restrain one last outburst, standing abruptly and declaring, "I have been called upon to change the face of the world!" And threw the remainder of his haggis against the wall. He walked out of the room, muttering about how there would be hope in a new age free of the haggis. That would be change to believe in.
When we had finished our haggis, a young person; a person full of haggis, hope, and change (who had never read Robert Burns once), pulled out the latest literary technology, something called an iPoet.
"Look at this. Anyone can write poetry, now. You press a key and it speaks a word, making poetry." Everyone huddled around the device, listening. A stilted,electronic robo-female voice began reciting something called "Praise Song for the Day" (Elizabeth Alexander).
"Someone-is-trying-to-make-music-somewhere-with-a-pair-of-wooden-spoons-on-an-oil-drum-with-cello,-boom-box-harmonica-voice," the electronic voice told us. I had never tried to make music, especially with wooden spoons or boom boxes. I had made music and addressed the haggis. I quietly edged away, wondering where Napoleon's discarded haggis was. Perhaps, I could resurrect it and it too could make poetry. Who knows. The haggis in my gutt certainly was poetic. Sooon, poetic tears were streaming down my cheeks.
"We-need-to-find-a-place-where-we-are-safe;-we-walk-into-that-which-we-cannot-see..." The voice droned on. These are the last words of the Burns Supper that I can recall. I had a strange sensation of uneasiness building in my gutt, and my eyes were burning and streaming. In my hurry to get out into the fresh air, to find a safe place, I walked into the hard wall, struck down in my glazed-over condition. I was out cold until this morning. Even now, I wonder if it was real or if the haggis caused an adverse reaction in my head. In the end the haggis wins.
"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 fa your honest, sonsie face,
Great chieftain o the puddin-race!
Aboon them a ye tak yer place,
Painch, tripe, or thairm:
Weel are ye wordy o a grace
A lang's my airm
And so, I've inaugurated the haggis once again. The theme of this year's Burns Supper was "Hope and Change In a World Changin' For Hope and Hopin' For Change." And I learned that no matter the casing a haggis is still a haggis. It makes no matter how much whiskey is downed, the haggis will not be drowned. I have only now recovered from my birthday supper, and even now I am not sure the haggis has quit haunting me.
The haggis, full of variety (oats and others), was blessed in a fitting manner. It is not adequate to bestow upon the ineffable haggis an elegant blessing, but rather one that represents the delicacy in its entirety of unidentifiable goodness. In the spirit of the haggis and of its being an all-in-one kind of treat the Rev. Robinson dished out an appropriate blessing:
"O God of our many understandings, we pray that you will...
Bless us with tears...
Bless us with anger...
Bless us with discomfort...
Bless us with patience...."
To which we all raised our glasses in hearty agreement. One of our number added, "And where brown can stick around!"
Obviously, this was a guest unfamiliar with haggis and its habit of doing exactly that, not to mention all of the things Rev. Robinson prayed for.
Another Reverend, Mr. Warren, already having tippled too much, hoping to numb his senses, finished the blessing with, "in the name of the one who changed my life, Yeshua, Isa, Jesus, Jesus (hay-SOOS)--" Until someone jabbed him, telling him he'd miscounted, turning one onto many more. And another person joked about a game we could play called "Pin The Name On the God, or Pin Jesus' Name on Any God." Another person mentioned that Isa didn't belong in the number of names, but Yesua. Then an argument ensued about mathematical matters and the Koran.
Napoleon Bonaparte raised his glass, remembering times past (earlier in the day he had told me the Supper should be called the Napoleon Supper, but I ended that with threats of banishment to a desolate island. He replied that being in Scotland was banishment, but relented).
"I was full of dreams," Napoleon began, " I saw myself founding a new Religion, marching into Asia, riding an elephant, a turban on my head and in my hand, the new Qu'ran."
A fellow next to Napoleon patted him on the shoulder, reminding him that this was a respectable Burns Supper, not a dream, and that no elephants were running loose in Scotland. Napoleon's eyes widened.
"Aha! But there is me!" Napoleon jumped up onto the table, "Finally! Scotland, 'O my Luve's like a red, red rose,
That's newly sprung in June:
O my Luve's like the melodie,
That's sweetly play'd in tune.'
"Now is the time of a new June, a new hope! 'A leader is a dealer in hope,' and I am the vision of that hope. 'I am the state. I am the Revolution!'"
I looked up at him and reminded him that he once said "From the sublime to the ridiculous is but a step."
Napoleon turned to glare at me, tottered and lost his step, crashing to the floor, where he lay stunned.
Another raised his glass and cleared his throat, "Excuse me, but 'the vision for change comes from, first and foremost, it comes from me, uh, that's my job -- is to provide a vision.' When you were talking about the 'dealer in hope,' it was me you meant, Leon. Sorry to burst your bubble."
Napoleon blinked in disbelief and began to get back upon his feet as the newcomer continued, "We must pick ourselves up, dust ourselves off, and begin again the work of remaking America."
"America, America!" Napoleon spluttered, "Even that I made. Without me, there would be no hope, no America as you know it! I gave it to you for pennies, and I will own it again! Yes, we'll 'begin again the work of retaking America!' Viva la Revolution!"
The newcomer continued, "On this day, we gather because we have chosen hope over fear, unity of purpose over conflict and discord."
"Hear, hear!" We all cheered in hope that the haggis would not frighten our fortitude. We got down to the united purpose of attacking the haggis. But the haggis is the haggis and it conflicted and discorded, overriding any hope for change this Supper.
Napoleon could not restrain one last outburst, standing abruptly and declaring, "I have been called upon to change the face of the world!" And threw the remainder of his haggis against the wall. He walked out of the room, muttering about how there would be hope in a new age free of the haggis. That would be change to believe in.
When we had finished our haggis, a young person; a person full of haggis, hope, and change (who had never read Robert Burns once), pulled out the latest literary technology, something called an iPoet.
"Look at this. Anyone can write poetry, now. You press a key and it speaks a word, making poetry." Everyone huddled around the device, listening. A stilted,electronic robo-female voice began reciting something called "Praise Song for the Day" (Elizabeth Alexander).
"Someone-is-trying-to-make-music-somewhere-with-a-pair-of-wooden-spoons-on-an-oil-drum-with-cello,-boom-box-harmonica-voice," the electronic voice told us. I had never tried to make music, especially with wooden spoons or boom boxes. I had made music and addressed the haggis. I quietly edged away, wondering where Napoleon's discarded haggis was. Perhaps, I could resurrect it and it too could make poetry. Who knows. The haggis in my gutt certainly was poetic. Sooon, poetic tears were streaming down my cheeks.
"We-need-to-find-a-place-where-we-are-safe;-we-walk-into-that-which-we-cannot-see..." The voice droned on. These are the last words of the Burns Supper that I can recall. I had a strange sensation of uneasiness building in my gutt, and my eyes were burning and streaming. In my hurry to get out into the fresh air, to find a safe place, I walked into the hard wall, struck down in my glazed-over condition. I was out cold until this morning. Even now, I wonder if it was real or if the haggis caused an adverse reaction in my head. In the end the haggis wins.
"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!"
2 comments:
This is good stuff, this here haggis. I'm none so sure wat tay mak o'it, but it's a richt guid spot o' story-telling if e'er aye heard un.
*spotters*
My many understandings tell me that there are many ways to look at this, but that they all lead to the same thing--many idiots at the table, eating my haggis, leaving none for me--and I'm the one left to clean up their mess.
Next year I'm inviting Odysseus. He'll clean things up, getting rid of these people of many understandings who only understand one thing--fire and brimstone. And while Odysseus cleans the feast hall, Homer and I will recite poetry.
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