If you are the organiser of the Burns Night celebration this year there is still time to deck your table with tartan.
O thou who kindly dost provide
For every creature's want!
We bless Thee, God of Nature wide,
For all Thy goodness lent:
And if it please Thee, Heavenly Guide,
May never worse be sent;
But, whether granted, or denied,
Lord, bless us with content. Amen!
Add a simple and cost effective Scottish flavour with our tartan paper napkins
or go the whole hog with a tartan tablecloth
and matching napkins. We have just added the Stewart Dress Modern to our range and it is so pretty. Perfect to combine with any existing white linen you might have too! If you like doing your own table decorations there is matching polyester tartan ribbon to go with the Flower of Scotland paper napkins. The hosts can have bow ties
for the ladies to match. Okay getting carried away now. If you need some inspiration call us as we are always happy to help and have lots of experience in decorating venues small and large. And don't forget to put the date of your event on your order to help us to make sure you receive your parcel from Scotland in plenty of time.
We love the excuse to celebrate our famous Scots and my children are learning their Burns poems this week and my husband will be making the toast to the lassies in his tartan suit. I just can't wait for my neeps and tatties! For those of you who need a reminder of the address to the Haggis.
Fair fa' your honest, sonsie face,
Great chieftain o' the pudding-race!
Aboon them a' yet 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 was 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,
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,
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 feckles as wither'd rash,
His spindle shank, a guid whip-lash;
His nieve a nit;
Thro' blody 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' hands will sned,
Like taps o' trissle.
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!