The Paisley Tartan Army were invited down to Ayrshire to celebrate Burns Night by our good friends from the "Galston Tartan Army" & what a night it was. I'm ashamed to say that it was my first Burns night but it wont be my last I can assure you!!

The 2Nicht's Ongauns" were presided over expertly by big Joe Fitzgerald who put a lot of hard work into making this event the success that it was. Highlights included "Tam O'Shanter" wonderfully presented by The Galston Cronies, my wee sides were sore by the time they finished telling us the story of poor wee Tam.

Then our old pal David R Ross made an appearance which was a surprise because we didn't know that he was to appear at this wee bash, he showed us what a typical highlander would wear and what weapons he would be familiar with and then showed us how to use them, scary stuff!!

A wonderful night was had by all & we'd like to thank Joe, Al & all the Galston boys for their hospitality. Slainte boys.
Davy and Aldo.
The troops from Galston.
Me and Al.
Here comes the star of the show!!
Looks braw!!
The piper doing his stuff.
Joe starts us off.
A couple of likely lads!!
Tam starts his walkabout wae bess!!
A wee devil right enough!!
Tam "annoying" the crowd!!
A face like a well skelped erse comes to mind!!
David R Ross.
Another good speaker.
David and Joe.
Now this fella knows a story or two!!
Cheers fella!!
Joe doing his stuff.


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 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 lyke 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 ower his trash,
As feckless as a 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!

Fair is your honest happy face
Great chieftain of the pudding race
Above them all you take your place
Stomach, tripe or guts
Well are you worthy of a grace
As long as my arm

The groaning platter there you fill
Your buttocks like a distant hill
Your skewer would help to repair a mill
In time of need
While through your pores the juices emerge
Like amber beads

His knife having seen hard labour wipes
And cuts you up with great skill
Digging into your gushing insides bright
Like any ditch
And then oh what a glorious sight
Warm steaming, rich 

Then spoon for spoon 
They stretch and strive
Devil take the last man, on they drive
Until all their well swollen bellies
Are bent like drums
Then, the old gent most likely to rift (burp)
Be thanked, mumbles

Is there that over his French Ragout
Or olio that would sicken a pig
Or fricassee would make her vomit
With perfect disgust
Looks down with a sneering scornful opinion
On such a dinner

Poor devil, see him over his trash
As week as a withered rush (reed)
His spindle-shank a good whiplash
His clenched fist.the size of a nut.
Through a bloody flood and battle field to dash
Oh how unfit

But take note of the strong haggis fed Scot
The trembling earth resounds his tread
Clasped in his large fist a blade
He'll make it whistle
And legs and arms and heads he will cut off
Like the tops of thistles

You powers who make mankind your care
And dish them out their meals
Old Scotland wants no watery food
That splashes in dishes
But if you wish her grateful prayer
Give her a haggis! 

Read about Robert BurnsHERE
For More High Resolution Photo's  CLICK HERE


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