ESCOCIA: Robert Burns' nights, noches para recordar

Oda al Haggis Bienvenido sea tu honesto rostro regordete, gran jefe de la raza de los embutidos! por encima de todos ellos ocupas tu lugar, estómago, tripa o intestinos: Bien mereces una gracia tan larga como mi brazo. La recargada fuente ahí llenas, tus caderas son como un cerro distante, tu pincho ayudaría a remendar un molino, si fuese necesario, mientras que a través de tus poros destilan los jugos, como gotas de ámbar. Su cuchillo ve un rústico trabajo de limpieza, y te corta con pronta pericia, trinchando tus jugosas entrañas brillantes, como cualquier zanja, y entonces, Oh! que vista gloriosa! caliente, humeante, rico! Ustedes, poderes que cuidan la humanidad, y le sirven su menú, la vieja Escocia no quiere comidas acuosas, que salpiquen en platos, pero si ustedes desean su plegaria de agradecimiento, denle un Haggis! Traducido al español por Edward Macrae Fotos: Universidad de Glasgow Wolfson Hall, Garscube State, Maryhill Rod., Glasgow Mi hijo escocés, Tomás Alejo   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! Robert Burns