Burns Night

Burns Night is celebrated every year and marks the anniversary of Robert Burns’ birthday on the 25th January. The celebrations combine haggis and other traditional Scottish food, whisky, poetry, songs and lots of fun and laughter!

Robert Burns, also known fondly as Rabbie Burns, is widely regarded as the national poet of Scotland and is known worldwide. Burns also collected folk songs from across Scotland, often revising or adapting them.

The first Burns supper was held in July 1801. It was organised by nine of Burns’ close friends who got together to mark the fifth anniversary of their friend’s death. The night included a traditional meal of haggis, performances of Burns’ work and a speech in honour of their friend. The night was such a success they decided to hold it again, this time in honour of Rabbie’s birthday, which is now celebrated to this day throughout the world, celebrating Robert Burns’ life and work.

Coincidentally, Robert Burns’ arguably most famous poem and song, "Auld Lang Syne", is sung on New Year’s Eve, and this year he shares his celebrations with the Chinese New Year. To celebrate both of these wonderful events, we’ve found a rather lovely poem by Robert Burns’ about a wee mouse! Which we thought was rather fitting considering this year is the Chinese year of the rat (not quite a mouse we know, but a close relative and it’s a lovely poem!).

You can read more about the Chinese New Year over on our blog here, where you can also find two FREE mouse patterns!

On Turning Her Up in Her Nest with the Plough,

November, 178

Wee, sleekit, cowrin, tim’rous beastie,

O, what a panic’s in thy breastie!

Thou need na start awa sae hasty,

Wi’ bickering brattle!

I wad be laith to rin an’ chase thee,

Wi’ murdering pattle!

I’m truly sorry Man’s dominion

Has broken Nature’s social union,

An’ justifies that ill opinion

Which makes thee startle

At me, thy poor, earth-born companion

An’ fellow-mortal!

I doubt na, whyles, but thou may thieve;

What then? poor beastie, thou maun live!

A daimen-icker in a thrave

‘S a sma’ requet;

I’ll get a blessin wi’ the lave,

An’ never miss’t!

Thy wee-bit housie, too, in ruin!

Its silly wa’s the win’s are strewin!

An’ naething, now, to big a new ane,

O’ foggage green!

An’ bleak December’s win’s ensuing,

Baith snell an’ keen!

Thou saw the fields laid bare an’ waste,

An’ weary Winter comin fast,

An’ cozie here, beneath the blast,

Thou thought to dwell,

Till crash! the cruel coulter past

Out thro’ thy cell.

That wee bit heap o’ leaves and stibble,

Has cost thee monie a weary nibble!

Now thou’s turned out, for a’ thy trouble,

But house or hald,

To thole the Winter’s sleety dribble,

An’ cranreuch cauld!

But Mousie, thou art no thy lane,

In proving foresight may be vain:

The best-laid schemes o’ Mice an’ Men

Gang aft agley,

An’ lea’e us nought but grief an’ pain,

For promis’d joy!

Still thou are blest, compared wi’ me!

The present only toucheth thee:

But Och! I backward cast my e’e,

On prospects drear!

An’ forward, tho’ I cannot see,

I guess an’ fear!