Fair fa your honest sonsie face,
Great Chieftan 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 you up we’ready slight,
Trenching your gushing entrails bright
Like one ditch;
And then, O what a glorious sight,
Warm, reekin, rich!
Then, horn for horn they strecth 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 rise,
Be thankit hums.
Is there that owre his French ragout,
Or Olio wad straw a sov,
Or fricasse wad make her spew
Wi perfect scummer,
Looks down wi sneering, scornfu' view
On sic a dinner?
Poor devil! See him over 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 whistle;
An’ legs an’ arms, an’ heads will sned
Like taps o’ thristle
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 you wish her gratefu’ pray’r
Gie her a Haggis!