Burns supper

Tonight I went to the Burns Supper held at Turnbull Hall, the Catholic Chaplaincy of my university. It was the first time I attended the Burns Supper, though it's been the third year I've come to learn about it in Scotland. I vaguely know that there's a specialty food -- the Haggis -- to be served in such supper, which Graeme, my former Scottish flatmate at Kelvinhaugh Gate, had introduced to me long time ago.

I wasn't all that fancied about Haggis. It's made of lamb's intestine, mixed with onions and to be served with mashed potato and turnip. But it's a specialty food only availabe during Burns Supper night, so I decided to give a try and buy the dinner ticket for 5 quid. Turning up at the Chaplincy centre at about 7:30 pm, I at once regretted my decision -- it was a rather formal dinner with all tables set, fully decorated with candles and flowers and I was probably the only guy that was in the wrong dress code, wearing jeans and trainers rather than shirts, tie, or kilts. The worst thing was: I knew nobody there.

I had expected to meet some international students, probably some from Hong Kong, Taiwan, mainland China; maybe some ethnic Chinese from Singapore, Malaysia; or even some Koreans or Japanese students. I was utterly disappointed. I was the only Asian face there.

The thought of leaving, after taking a glass of sherry at the reception bar, had crossed my mind. I had been in such an awkward situation before, knowing nobody in a social environment and tried to mingle with many a foreigners who didn't seem to care to notice a Chinese face on the outskirts of their social circles.

While I was pondering when to take my leave, a staff at the Chaplaincy Centre approached me. "Are you expecting somebody in particular or are you just looking for a seat at a table?" he asked.
"Well, I was wondering whether there's a chance I could take a seat somewhere..." I muddled through some impromptu excuses, trying to hide my uneasiness.
"You're welcome to take a seat anywhere except the head table. If you're just by your self, you could say join that table with those two gentlemen there. " The staff pointed at a table at the far end of the dining hall. "All the seats there are all available."
"Thank you," I looked at the two guests there. They were about fiftyish. One of them was wearing a kilt. They seemed to be knowing each other well and were engaged in a deep conversation.

I mustered enough courage to walk up to them, with my glass of sherry in hand. "Excuse me, is this seat taken?" I asked the old gentleman in kilt, who was sitting at the long end of the table.

"No, " said he. "Please take a seat."
So I joined in, decided to intrude into their social circle.
This old gentleman's accent was rather easy to catch, but his friend 's-- who's sitting across the table -- was unbearable. I could hardly understand 1/3 of what he said all over the meal.

Anyway, I was determined to enjoy the supper no matter what happened. Afterall, I'd paid 5 quid and I surely felt as an equal as any one of them.

The Burns Supper usually followed a specific programme. First of all, there would be a windpiper playing Scottish tunes accompanying the entry of the Haggis, which was followed by a recital of a poem written by Robert Burns in praise of the Haggis. During the entire course of the supper, there were songs, poem recitals, speeches and toasts to the lads and lassies. The speeches had to be in praise of the opposite sex by each of the male and female presenters, but were also required to be a bit ironical. I quite liked the lad's speech which included some ironies about the gentle sex:

Q: Why has the computer got to be female?
A: Because after you've got one, the next minute you'd realise there's a more seductive and highly desirable one becoming available.
A: You can never understand how their internal thinking logic works and yet they can communicate with each other trouble-free.
A: Once you have got one at home, you'd incur ten times as much expenses in the accessories.

The music group played some songs, and a recital of Robert Burns's poems followed. Again some Scottish songs were played, some of them were related to Bonnie Charlie, the beloved Scottish King who almost dethroned the English monarchy.

At the end of the supper, all the guests joined hand in hand in a circle and sang this famous song by Robert Burns, the Auld Lang Syne:

"Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
And never brought to mind?
Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
And days o' lang syne?

(Chorus)

For auld lang syne my dear,
For auld lang syne.
We'll tak' a cup o' kindness yet,
For auld lang syne. "

I could remember the first verse and the chorus alright, but the other verses escaped my memory. Fortunately, the organiser had provided lyrics on each table so I could barely followed with the other 3 verses:

" We twa ha'e run aboot the braes,
And pou'd the gowans fine.
But we've wander'd monie a weary fit,
Sin' auld lang syne.

We twa ha'e paidl'd in the burn,
Frae morning sun till dine.
But seas between us braid ha'e roar'd,
Sin' auld lang syne.

And here's a hand my trusty fiere,
And gie's a hand o' thine.
And we'll tak' a right guid-willie waught,
For auld lang syne."

This is truly a universal song, the melody simple but memorable, the mood highly touching. As all the dinner participants sang along, all of us crossed arms in a chain and we stepped forward and backward in unison. One could feel the friendship flowing from one's hand to another's and the bonding was so palpable that one could hardly wish to break the chain. Of course, if your neighbours are some handsome lassies, it would be the last thing on earth to let go your grip and you surely treasure every minute of it!