"Many, O Lord my God are the wonders you have done"
Psalm 40 v 5
Burns Night 2007
In 2007, the Helpers Meal took the form of a Burns Supper. Sadly, the photographer wasn't on the ball enough to get a picture of the piper who piped in the Haggis. However, I did have my arm severely twisted to recite "The Address to a Haggis" in my best Scots. I barely had any idea what I was talking about so I pity the poor Sassenachs to whom I was speaking. There is video evidence of the recital, but that's one thing I'm not about to put on the website.
Cock-a-leekie soup was served followed by haggis, neeps and tatties - with vegetarian haggis for those who hadn't the 'stomach' for the real thing! The senior girls wore tartan sashes - the boys were bedecked in black ties (none of them was wearing a kilt - but then neither of the true Scots were wearing them either). The imaginative menus included pictures of Ben Nevis, a poem and a programme of the evening's events.
After the meal, Douglas made a speech thanking the Governors and Helpers for all their work and support of the school; Kezzie responded, making a dig at boys not being able to cook or multi-task.
It was another wonderfully imaginative and memorable evening at Emmaus.
Douglas making his speech It was a more exciting evening than
this picture suggests - honest!
Note the extra Scottish touches of Photographic evidence that young people
the Heather and the 'Highland Spring' water. can do dishes.
The 'Senior' waiters and waitresses Awaiting orders from Mrs W
- MC for the evening
And if you want to read Burns' work for yourself - here it is - if you haven't click here to take you back to normality
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 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 you up wi' ready sleight,
Trenching your gushing entrails bright
Like onie ditch;
And then, O what a glorious sight,
Warm-reekin, rich!
Then, horn for horn, they strech 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,
'Bethanket!' 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!