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Address to a Haggis

Fair fa' your honest, sonsie face,

Great chieftain o' the puddin'-race!

Aboon them a' ye tak yer place,

Painch, tripe, or thairm:

Weel are ye wordy o' a grace

As lang's my airm.

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.

ðə gronɪn trɛnʃər ðer ji fɪl

jur hʌrdez ləik ə distənt hɪl

jur pɪn wad hɛlp tu mɛn ə mɪl

ɪn təim o nid

ʍəil θro jur porz ðə djuz dɪstɪl

ləik ambər bid

The groaning platter 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 dicht,

An cut you up wi ready slicht,

Trenching your gushing entrails bricht,

Like onie ditch;

And then, Oh what a glorious sicht,

Warm-reekin, rich!

Then, horn for horn, they stretch an strive:

Deil tak the hindmaist, 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 ower 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 ower 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,

Oh how unfit!

But mark the Rustic, haggis-fed,

The trembling earth resounds his tread,

Clap in his wallie 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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