El Haggis

El haggis consiste en un pudin de vísceras de oveja, normalmente con el corazón, hígado y pulmones, todo esto picado y mezclado con cebolla, harina de avena, sebo (normalmente también de oveja), especias y sal que tradicionalmente se embute en el estómago del animal.
Se suele servir casi siempre en rodajas o deshecho, y acompañado de 2 tipos de puré, uno de patatas, y otro de nabos, y se le añade una salsa hecha de caldo de carne o de whisky.
Se desconoce exactamente el origen de este plato, algunos lo atribuyen a los escotos y otros a los pictos, pero lo que si es seguro, es que en un principio se trató de un plato que consumían las clases humildes, para aprovechar todas las partes del animal.
Actualmente, se sirve en la mayoría de pubs escoceses y se puede comer durante todo el año, pero es muy típico hacerlo la noche de Fin de Año, o bien el 25 de Enero, en la conocida tradicionalmente como Cena de Burns donde se conmemora al poeta nacional de Escocia. Burns escribió el poema Address to a Haggis, que comienza: Fair fa’ your honest, sonsie face, Great chieftain o’ the puddin-race! Aboon them a’ ye tak your place…y se recita como parte de la cena de celebración.

Fair and full is your honest, jolly face,
Great chieftain of the sausage race!
Above them all you take your place,
Stomach, tripe, or intestines:
Well are you worthy of a grace
As long as my arm.

The groaning trencher there you fill,
Your buttocks like a distant hill,
Your pin would help to mend a mill
In time of need,
While through your pores the dews distill
Like amber bead.

His knife see rustic Labour wipe,
And cut you up with ready slight,
Trenching your gushing entrails bright,
Like any ditch;
And then, O what a glorious sight,
Warm steaming, rich!

Then spoon for spoon, the stretch and strive:
Devil take the hindmost, on they drive,
Till all their well swollen bellies by-and-by
Are bent like drums;
Then old head of the table, most like to burst,
'The grace!' hums.

Is there that over his French ragout,
Or olio that would sicken a sow,
Or fricassee would make her vomit
With perfect disgust,
Looks down with sneering, scornful view
On such a dinner?

Poor devil! see him over his trash,
As feeble as a withered rush,
His thin legs a good whip-lash,
His fist a nut;
Through bloody flood or field to dash,
O how unfit.

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

Clap in his ample fist a blade,
He'll make it whistle;
And legs, and arms, and heads will cut off
Like the heads of thistles.

You powers, who make mankind your care,
And dish them out their bill of fare,
Old Scotland wants no watery stuff,
That splashes in small wooden dishes;
But if you wish her grateful prayer,
Give her [Scotland] a Haggis!