Join us on Friday 25th January as we celebrate all things Robbie Burn's - with some tasters, a Burn's Night mini-quiz (win a bar tab!) and some special surprises too...

"...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 worthy 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 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;
The 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 scunner,
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 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 make 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..."