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Happy Burns Night


Guest bullterrier

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happy burns night to all you scots happy and haggis hunting and remember theres a bag limit this year :thumbs: john

you watch to much tv Bull.... There's herds of Haggis up here at the moment... And with this covering of snow they are easy to track and alot easier to catch cause of there wee legs....:-)
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happy burns night to all you scots happy and haggis hunting and remember theres a bag limit this year :thumbs: john

you watch to much tv Bull.... There's herds of Haggis up here at the moment... And with this covering of snow they are easy to track and alot easier to catch cause of there wee legs....:-)

 

Shame on you lab, there is a no shooting ban on all haggis up here for a fortnight due to the snow. I've helped 4 of the poor wee blights this week already.

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As a Moderator can I remind all Scottish folk not to post pics of your caught Haggis in the Lurcher or Terrier forums please.

 

All Haggis pics should come with a 'shot & retrieved' tag....

 

Remember... There's a ban on, so ya can't dog the Haggis..!!

 

Happy Burns Night all.... :thumbs:

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I don't know where you lads are getting your info but there's no ban on haggis....only thing on haggis at the moment is neeps and tatties...:-)

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Address to a Haggis

 

Fair fa' your honest, sonsie face,

Great chieftain o' the pudding-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 sleight,

Trenching your gushing entrails bright,

Like ony 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 make 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 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 mak 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!

 

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