Address 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 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 strech 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!

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