To a Haggis

Robert Burns

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 o' a grace
As lang's my arm

The groaning trenders 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 bread

His knife see Rustic-labour dight
An' cut you up wi' ready sleight
Trenching your gushing entrails bright
Like onie ditch;
And then; O what a glorious sight,
Warm-reckin, rich!

Then, horn for horn they strech an' strive,
Deil tak the hindmost, on they drive,
Till a' theirweel-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,
O fricassee wad mak her spew
Wi' perfect sconner,
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' 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 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 hill o' fare,
Auld Scotland wants nae skinking ware
That jaups in luggies;
But if ye wish her gratefu' prayer,
Gie her a Haggis!