Andrew Chapman looks at Burns Night on the net

January 25th is Burns Night - the annual celebration of the life and work of Scotland's most famous poet, Robert Burns. Or Rabbie Burns. Or Robbie Burns. Or, if you're Jewish, Rabbi Burns!

Burns was born in Alloway, Ayrshire, in 1759, and died in Dumfries in 1796. A detailed biography written in 1886 is available online.

BBC Scotland has a comprehensive guide to everything Burnsian - from the traditional supper programme and the inevitable recipes - cock-a-leekie soup and haggis, neeps and tatties - all started with the Selkirk grace, which was not by Burns, as well as a collection of his most popular verse including To A haggis (see below).

But there's much more to be found - you can get hold of a Burns chess set or join the Robert Burns Club of Milwaukee, consult the Burns Encyclopaedia or see if you're related to him. He had 12 children, most of them illegitimate, so you never know.

There are many intriguing myths about Burns, too. If you're vegan or vegetarian, there's still hope for you on Burns night.

For Muslims, a Scottish butcher is now offering halal haggis. For celebrants of Rabbi Burns, kosher haggis remains an issue of controversy.

Burns's own commitment to Christianity is a subject of debate.

There have been many tributes to Burns - including one by another remarkable Scottish bard. Happy Burns Night!

To a Haggis, by Robert Burns

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 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 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 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!