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 hudies 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, Oh what a glorious sight
Warm-reeking, 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;
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 scunner
Looks down wi' sneering, scornfu' view
On sic a dinner?

Poor devil! see him owre his trash
As fecless as a wither'd rash
His spindle shank a guid whip-lash
His nieve a nit
Tho' 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 whistle;
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 gratfu' prayer
Gie her a Haggis

Fair full your honest, jolly face
Great chieftain of the pudding race!
Above them all you take your place
Stomach, tripe, or intestines:
Well are you worthy of a grace
As long as my arm

The groaning trencher (serving plate) there you fill
Your buttocks like a distant hill
Your pin would help to mend a mill
In time of need
While through your pores the dews distill
Like amber bead

His knife see rustic labour wipe
And cut you up with ready slice
Trenching your gushing entrails bright
Like any ditch
And then, Oh what a glorious sight
Warm steaming, rich!

Then spoon for spoon, they stretch and strive
Devil take the hindmost, on they drive
Till all their well swollen bellies by and by
Are bent like drums
Then the old Master of the house, most like to burst
'The grace!' hums

Is there that over his French ragout
Or olio that would sicken a pig
Or fricassee would make her vomit
With perfect disgust
Looks down with sneering, scornful view
On such a dinner

Poor devil! See him over his trash
As feeble as a withered rush
His thin legs a good whip-lash
His fist a nut
Through bloody flood or field to dash
Oh how unfit

But mark the Rustic, haggis fed
The trembling earth resounds his tread
Clap in his ample fist a blade
He'll make it whistle
And legs, and arms, and heads will crop
Like tops of thistle.

You powers, who make mankind your care
And dish them out their bill of fare
Old Scotland want no watery ware
That splashes in small wooden dishes
But is you wish her grateful prayer
Give her a Haggis!