Address to a Haggis
by Robert Burns
FAIR fa' your honest, sonsie
face,
Great chieftain o' the pudding-race!
Aboon them a' ye tak your
place,
Painch, tripe, or thairm:
Well are ye wordy o' a grace
As
lang's my arm.
The roaning 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 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:
Deil tak the hindmost! on they drive,
Till a' their
weel-swall'd kytes belyve,
Are bent lyke 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 fricasse wad mak her spew
Wi'
perfect sconner,
Looks down wi' sneering, scorfu' 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 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! back to top |
