The Scottish Parliament considers the celebration of Burns Night each year to be a key cultural heritage event.The Parliament welcomes the annual celebration of Scotland’s national poet, Robert Burns, which is held on 25 January each year to mark the Bard’s birthday; considers that Burns was one of the greatest poets and that his work has influenced thinkers across the world; notes that Burns' first published collection, Poems Chiefly in the Scottish Dialect, also known as the "Kilmarnock Edition", published in 1786, did much to popularise and champion the Scots language, and considers that this is one of his most important legacies; believes that the celebration of Burns Night is an opportunity to raise awareness of the cultural significance of Scots and its status as one of the indigenous languages of Scotland, and further believes in the importance of the writing down of the Scots language to ensure its continuation through written documentation, as well as oral tradition.

[14][15] It is usually brought in by the cook on a large dish, generally while a bagpiper leads the way to the host's table, where the haggis is laid down.

Nice seeing your honest, chubby face,Great chieftain of the sausage race!Above them all you take your place,Belly, tripe, or links:Well are you worthy of a graceAs long as 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.

The groaning platter there you fill,Your buttocks like a distant hill,Your pin would help to mend a millIn time of need,While through your pores the dews distillLike amber bead.

His knife see rustic Labour dicht, An' cut you up wi' ready slicht, Trenching your gushing entrails bricht, Like ony ditch; And then, O what a glorious sicht, Warm-reekin, rich!

His knife see rustic Labour sharpen,And cut you up with practiced skill,Trenching your gushing entrails bright,Like any ditch;And then, Oh what a glorious sight,Warm-steaming, rich!

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 one, that over his French ragout,Or olio that would give pause to a sow,Or fricassee that would make her spewWith perfect loathing,Looks down with sneering, scornful viewOn such a dinner?

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!

See him over his trash,As feeble as a withered rush,His spindly leg a good whip-lash,His fist a nit:Through bloody flood or field to dash,Oh how unfit!

Clap in his wallie nieve a blade, He'll mak it whistle; An' legs an' arms, an' heads will sned, Like taps o' thristle.

But mark the Rustic, haggis-fed,The trembling earth resounds his tread,Clap in his sturdy fist a blade,He'll make it whistle;And legs and arms, and heads will cut,Like tops of thistle.

You Pow'rs, that make mankind your care,And dish them out their bill of fare,Old Scotland wants no watery wareThat slops in bowls:But, if You wish her grateful prayer,Give her a Haggis!