Camberley Reel Club

Burns' Night - Date and Details to be Confirmed



Visit Burns Country to learn about Burns' Suppers,  Songs, History and more...


Each year we celebrate Burns' Night in traditional style with a piper, the Address to the Haggis, a meal of haggis, champit tatties, bashed neeps and gravy*, and of course plenty of dancing.  We invite the Mayor of Surrey Heath to join us, and make a donation to the Mayor's charity (from the proceeds of the raffle at the previous Spring Dance).


* Gravy of the Malt or Blended variety.  In 2001 the club ran a Gravy Bottle appeal so that we can provide each table with its own supply.  Within a few weeks we had far exceeded our target of six 'empties'.  Our thanks to those who worked so selflessly to enhance others' enjoyment of Burns' Night.



Programme to be confirmed

Piping the Haggis
Address & Toast to the Haggis
Selkirk Grace
Haggis, Champit Tatties & Bashed Neeps
Wee Tassie o’ Coffee
More Dancing
Tickets £10
Proceeds to the Mayor’s Charity

Please advise dietary requirements in advance:



Tony Blair is visiting an Edinburgh hospital. He enters a ward full of patients with no obvious sign of injury or illness and greets one.  The patient replies:

"Fair fa your honest sonsie face,
Great chieftain o' the puddin race,
Aboon them a you take your place,
Painch, tripe or thairm,
As langs my airm."

Blair is confused, so he just grins and moves on to the next patient.  The patient responds:

"Some hae meat and canna eat,
And some wad eat that want it,
But we hae meat and we can eat,
So let the Lord be thankit."

Even more confused, and his grin now rictus-like, the PM moves on to the next patient, who immediately begins to chant:

"Wee sleekit, cowerin', timrous beasty,
Oh, whit a panic's in thy breastie,
Thou needna start awa sae hastie,
Wi bickering brattle."

Now seriously troubled, Blair turns to the accompanying doctor and asks "What kind of facility is this?  A mental ward?"


"No", replies the doctor.  "This is the Serious Burns unit."


Address to the Haggis

Our resident bard Bill Innes composed this translation to assist the Sassenach members of the audience at our Burns' Supper 2005.


Fair fa your honest sonsie face
Great Chieftain of the puddin’ race

My word Mr Haggis
You’re a handsome devil!

Abune them a' you tak your place
Painch Tripe or Thairme

You're ranked first in the pudding index

Weel are you worthy o' a grace
As lang's my arm

You deserve a lengthy eulogy on your qualities


The groaning trencher there you fill
Your hurdies like a distant hill

You completely fill the serving dish.
Indeed you resemble a hill seen from a distance

Your pin would help to mend a mill
In time of need.

The wooden skewer fastening your casing
Could prove useful in many D.I.Y. jobs

While thro your pores the dews distil
Like amber beed

The juices released by cooking
have a fine golden quality


His knife see rustic labour dight,
And cut you up wi' ready sleight

See the agricultural labourer sterilise his knife
By wiping it on his sleeve
And make a lateral incision along your length

Trenching your gushing entrails bright
Like ony ditch
And then o what a glorious sight
Warm reeking rich

Allowing the filling to escape,
At the same time releasing an appetising aroma


Then horn for horn they stretch and strive
Deil tak the hindmost on they strive

The participants, using their spoons,
Help themselves

Till a' their weel swall' d kites belive
Are bent like drums
And auld Guidman, maist like to rive,
Bethankit hums.

Until they have had more than enough
And the senior man present, who is likely to burst
Can only groan his thanks.

Is there that owre his french ragout
Or olio that would staw a sow,
Or fricassee wad mak her spew
Wi ' perfect scunner
Looks down with sneering scornfu’ view
On sic a dinner?

Is there anyone who eats food from a delicatessen,
Food which would upset the stomach of a pig,
Despises a meal like this?


Poor devil! see him owre his trash
As feckless as a wither’d rash

His diet would make him skinny and useless

His spindle shank a guid whiplash
His nieve a nit

His thigh bone as thin as a whip
His fist the size of a hazelnut

Thro' bloody flood or field to dash
O how unfit

Incapable of braving the rush hour at Waterloo station


But mark the Rustic haggis fed
The trembling earth resounds his tread

See the difference of the agricultural labourer
Who has been fed on haggis
He is so big and fat he could be mistaken
For an American

Clap in his waley nieve a blade
He'll mak it whistle
An’ legs an' arms an' heads will sned
Like taps o' thrissle

Put a sharp implement in his massive hand
And he will use it to slice off legs, arms, and heads
Like scything thistles.


Ye powers who mak mankind your care

You members of the Department of Social Security

And dish them out their bill of fare

Who are responsible for meals on wheels

Auld Scotland wants nae skinking ware

Scottish Senior Citizens don't want consommé

That jops in luggies

That spills over the edge of the plate

But if you want her grateful prayer

But if you want her genuine thanks

Gie her a Haggis

Put Haggis on the menu.



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