Burns Night Saturday – 25th January 2025

Robert Burns (commonly referred to as “Robbie Burns,” “Rabbie Burns,” or simply “The Bard”) is one of Scotland’s most famous and cherished poets. Born on 25th January 1759, in Alloway, Ayrshire, Scotland, Burns is celebrated worldwide as the national poet of Scotland. His works capture themes of love, humanity, social justice, and the beauty of the natural world, often written in Scots dialect. Burns produced an incredible body of work during his short life, much of which is still widely read and sung today. His writing is admired for its emotional depth, wit, and universal appeal.

Famous works include:

“A Red, Red Rose”: A timeless love poem still celebrated for its beauty and passion.

“Auld Lang Syne”: Sung worldwide on New Year’s Eve, this song is a symbol of friendship and reflection.

“Tam o’ Shanter”: A humorous and thrilling narrative poem about a farmer’s eerie, supernatural encounter.

“To a Mouse”: A touching poem reflecting on the fragility of life, inspired by accidentally disturbing a mouse’s nest while ploughing a field.

Burns Night is a celebration of the iconic works and spirit of Robert Burns, marked with poetry readings, a hearty supper, and a toast to the bard himself. It’s a festive day filled with tradition, camaraderie, and, of course, haggis!

You will find a delightful selection of food perfect for a celebration in our Deli counter & Food hall available from Thursday 23rd of January. We will have special sausage rolls, scotch eggs & haggis bonbons available in our Deli. You will discover plenty of Haggis, neeps & tatties in the food hall along with a variety of liquor to toast the bard himself. Why not visit our Larder Cafe and check out the specials board for some Burns Night inspired dishes too, we are open from 9:00 am till 5:00 pm 7 days a week.

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 of 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 ye 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;
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 owre his trash,
As feckless as a wither’d rash,
His spindle shank a guid whip-lash,
His nieve a nit;
Thro’ bluidy 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!

By Robert Burns