You can buy packs of MacSween's "cocktail haggis" from Waitrose (and others) which are about the size of meatballs, and could be enough to give them a taste. With them serve mashed potato and mashed carrot and/or turnip/swede. Mixed carrot and swede are good. Raspberries and cream for a dessert.
Burns was fond of the lassies, so Valentine cards could be appropriate! His poem "My love is like a red red rose" would go into them nicely, and he wrote others to various ladies if you want a choice.
They might also enjoy hearing "To a Mouse, on turning over her nest with the plough" - in translation at least.
See www.shmoop.com/to-a-mouse/summary.html for the "story" of that poem.
Have fun!
Here is the poem and a translation (essential for adults, never mind children!) They might not appreciate the moralising at the end. -
"Wee, sleekit, cow'rin, tim'rous beastie,
O, what a panic's in thy breastie!
Thou need na start awa sae hasty
Wi bickering brattle!
I wad be laith to rin an' chase thee,
Wi' murdering pattle.
I'm truly sorry man's dominion
Has broken Nature's social union,
An' justifies that ill opinion
Which makes thee startle
At me, thy poor, earth born companion
An' fellow mortal!
I doubt na, whyles, but thou may thieve;
What then? poor beastie, thou maun live!
A daimen icker in a thrave
'S a sma' request;
I'll get a blessin wi' the lave,
An' never miss't.
Thy wee-bit housie, too, in ruin!
It's silly wa's the win's are strewin!
An' naething, now, to big a new ane,
O' foggage green!
An' bleak December's win's ensuin,
Baith snell an' keen!
Thou saw the fields laid bare an' waste,
An' weary winter comin fast,
An' cozie here, beneath the blast,
Thou thought to dwell,
Till crash! the cruel coulter past
Out thro' thy cell.
That wee bit heap o' leaves an' stibble,
Has cost thee monie a weary nibble!
Now thou's turned out, for a' thy trouble,
But house or hald,
To thole the winter's sleety dribble,
An' cranreuch cauld.
But Mousie, thou art no thy lane,
In proving foresight may be vain:
The best-laid schemes o' mice an' men
Gang aft agley,
An' lea'e us nought but grief an' pain,
For promis'd joy!
Still thou are blest, compared wi' me!
The present only toucheth thee:
But och! I backward cast my e'e,
On prospects drear!
An' forward, tho' I canna see,
I guess an' fear!"
Translation -
"Small, crafty, cowering, frightened beast,
O, what a panic is in your little breast!
You need not start away so hasty
With arguing chatter!
I would be loath to run and chase you,
With murdering paddle.
I'm truly sorry man's dominion
Has broken Nature's social union,
And justifies that ill opinion
Which makes you startle
At me, your poor, earth-born companion
And fellow mortal!
I doubt not, sometimes, you may thieve;
What then? Poor beastie, you must live!
An odd ear in two dozen sheaves
Is just a small request;
I will get a blessing with what is left,
And never miss it.
Your wee house, too, is all in ruin!
Its feeble walls the winds are blowing!
And nothing now, to build a new one,
Of coarse grass green!
And bleak December's winds a-coming,
Both bitter and keen!
You saw the fields laid bare and wasted,
And weary winter coming fast,
And cozy here, beneath the blast,
You thought to dwell,
Till crash! the cruel plough passed
Out through your cell.
That little heap of leaves and stubble,
Has cost you many a weary nibble!
Now you are turned out, for all your trouble,
Without house or holding,
To endure the winter's sleety dribble,
And hoar-frost cold.
But little Mouse, you are not alone,
In proving foresight may be vain:
The best laid schemes of mice and men
Go often askew,
And leave us nothing but grief and pain,
For promised joy!
Still you are blest, compared with me!
The present only touches you:
But oh! I backward cast my eye,
On prospects drear!
And forward, though I cannot see,
I guess and fear!"
I just read it twice.
