Robert Burns, our nations bard wrote this famous poem ‘the address to a haggis’ about Scotland’s national dish.  The poem lasts 4-5 minutes and is presented theatrically to entertain guests as a short lively interjection to your corporate event dinner.  Click to see haggis address video.

This is usually done before the guests dine on a haggis course (usually with neeps and tatties), but sometimes with haggis canapés as well.
The piper will pipe the haggis into the room, and round the tables (if there is space) along with the chef and whisky barer.  The address will be briefly explained, then the poem is recited.  Then guests are asked by the piper to toast the haggis with their drink (quite often a wee dram “small whisky“).

Many of the Reel Time pipers can perform the address.  Organisers please note that to perform this ceremony, a chieftain haggis is required and caterers should be informed in plenty time so they can catch one!

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 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 ye 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 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!