'Address to a Haggis'
by Robert Burns
Alloway near Ayr, Scotland, 25th January, 1759.
Fair fa' your honest, sonsie face,
of the Puddin'-race!
Aboon the a' ye tak your place,
Weel are ye wordy of a grace
As lang's my arm.
The groaning trencher there ye fill,
Your hurdlies like a distant
Your pin wad help to mend a mill
In time o need,
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,
And then, O what a glorious sight,
Then horn for horn, they stretch an' strive:
tak the hindmost , on they drive,
Till a' their weel-swall'd kytes
Are bent like drums;
The auld Guidman, maist like to rive
Is there that owre his French ragout,
Or olio that wad staw a sow,
Or fricassee wad make her spew
Looks down wi sneering, scornfu' view
On sic a dinner?
Poor devil! see him owre his trash,
as a wither'd rash,
His spindle shank a guid whip-lash,
Thro' bluidy flood or field to dash,
O how unfit!
But mark the Rustic, haggis-fed,
earth resounds his tread,
Clap in his walie nieve a blade,
mak it whissle;
An' legs, an' arms, an' heads will sned,
taps o' thrissle.
Ye Pow'rs, wha mak mankind your care,
them out their bill o' fare,
Auld Scotland wants nae skinking ware
That jaups in luggies;
it ye wish her gratefu' pray'r,
Gie her a Haggis!