Robert Burns

To a Haggis

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 o’ a grace
    As lang’s my arm.

The groaning trencher there ye fill,
Your hurdles 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 sleight,
Trenching your gushing entrails bright
    Like ony ditch;
And then, O what a glorious sight,
    Warm-reekin’, rich!

Then, horn for horn they stretch an’ strive,
Dell 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 o’er 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 mak it whissle;
An’ legs, an’ arms, an’ heads will sned,
    Like tape 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!

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