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
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
ye
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
strech
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
sconner,
Looks
down
wi'
sneering,
scornfu'
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'
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
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!
