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 o’ a grace
As langs’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 stretch an’ stive,
Deil tak the hindmost, on they drive,
“Til a’ their weel-swall’d kytes belyve
Are
bent like drums;
Then auld guidman, maist like to ryve,
“Bethankit” hums.
Is there that owre his French ragout,
Or olio that would staw a sow,
Or fricassee wad mak her spew
Wi’ perfect scunner;
Looks down wi’ sneering scornfu’ view
On sic a dinner?
Poor devil! see him
owre his trash,
As feckless as a whither’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 whistle;
An’ legs an’ arms and heads will sned,
Like taps o’ thrissle.
Ye Powers wha mak mankind your care,
And dish them out their bill o’ fare,
Auld
That jaups in luggies;
But, if ye wish her gratefu’ pray’r,
Gie her a Haggis!