Freitag, 23. Januar 2015

Der schottische Dichter Robert Burns

Der schottische Dichter Robert Burns wurde am 25.Januar 1759 in Alloway / Schottland geboren und verstarb am 21. Juli 1796 in Dumfries / Schottland.
Robert Burns gilt neben Walter Scott als größter schottischer Dichter.
Viele Bekannte Gedichte und Lieder entsprangen seiner Feder. 
Das Bekannteste Lied ist "Auld lang syne"
Traditionell feiern viele seinen Geburtstag mit Haggis. Angelehnt an eines seiner bekannten Gedichte "Address to A Haggis"
Wer gerne Haggis versuchen möchte oder leckere Rezepte zu Haggis haben möchte, dem empfehle ich :  A Wee Taste of Scotland  
Hier könnt ihr Haggis und viele weiteren schottischen Gaumenfreuden bestellen oder euch die zahlreichen Rezepte oder Berichte zu und über Schottland ansehen.Mein Lieblingsgedicht ist und bleibt "My Heart's in the Highlands"



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 ye up wi' ready slight,
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,
'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 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! 

My Heart’s in the Highlands

Farewell to the Highlands, farewell to the North,
The birth-place of Valour, the country of Worth;
Wherever I wander, wherever I rove,
The hills of the Highlands forever I love.

My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not here;
My heart's in the Highlands a-chasing the deer;
A-chasing the wild-deer, and following the roe,
My heart's in the Highlands wherever I go.
Farewell to the mountains high covered with snow;
Farewell to the straths and green valleys below;
Farewell to the forests and wild-hanging woods;
Farewell to the torrents and loud-pouring floods.

My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not here;
My heart's in the Highlands a-chasing the deer;
A-chasing the wild-deer, and following the roe,
My heart's in the Highlands wherever I go. 


  Eure Pia


Keine Kommentare:

Kommentar veröffentlichen