Burns Night, a time to celebrate the life and work of the great Scottish bard, Robert ‘Rabbie’ Burns – is the perfect opportunity to gather your clan for a scrumptious supper, share a memorable evening and enjoy a wee dram.

Loch Fyne chefs have created an exclusive Burns Night menu that blends taste and tradition with delicious dishes such as Cullen Skink (smoked haddock soup) and rump steak Balmoral, with whisky, mushroom and cream sauce. Or how about some ‘haggis, neeps and tatties’ followed by Cranachan? That’s a traditional Scottish dessert with whisky, raspberries, honey and cream - pure poetry on a plate!
If you want to tantalise your taste buds a little more, then take a look at the menu. Bookings are now being taken at Loch Fyne Restaurants across the land, so don’t miss out click here to make your booking.
Available for £21.95 per person, your Burns Night supper starts with a wee dram of Talisker or a glass of wine, so here’s a toast: Slàinte mhath – good health!

And of course, to really get you in the mood... Rabbie’s famous 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 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!

  

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