Address to a Haggis



Fair fa' your honest, sonie face,
Great cheiftan o the puddin'-race!
Aboon them a'ye tak your place,
Painch.tripe or thairm:
Weel are ye worthy o' 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 you 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 stretch an strive:
Diel tak the hindmost, on they drive,
Till a'their weel-swall'd kytes belyve
Are bent like drums;
The 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,sconfu 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 tred,
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 haggis




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