Honda-Acura.net - What's NOT for dinner

Haggis ban an offal burden?

Tue Jan 22, 11:30 AM ET

LONDON (Reuters) - Scotland is considering lobbying the United States to lift a ban on haggis, hoping to boost sales of the sheep-stomach-based national dish.
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The U.S. banned imports of Scottish haggis after Britain's outbreak of mad cow disease, which is linked to the human brain illness Creutzfeldt-Jakob Disease.

Scotland's government insist its haggis -- which usually contains the heart, liver and lungs wrapped inside a sheep's stomach lining -- is safe and wants the ban lifted.

"The Scottish government will consider engaging the U.S. government on its haggis import ban ... It is safe or we wouldn't eat it here," said a spokeswoman. "We think there is a large market for it amongst expatriate Scots there."

She cited growing sales of tartans and the prevalence of Scottish clubs as evidence that Americans were taking greater interest in their Scottish heritage.

Haggis, a globally recognized symbol of Scotland alongside bagpipes, kilts and Scotch whisky, is an essential part of Burns night celebrations, which commemorate national poet Robert Burns and fall on January 25.

Burns was the author of "Ode to a Haggis."

If you are interested here's the poem:

Ode to a Haggis

Fair fa' your honest, sonsie face
Great Chieftan 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 you 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 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
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 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 you wish her gratefu' pray'r
Gie her a Haggis!