Poetry Month

Address to A Haggis *

    1

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.

   2

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.

   3

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

   4

Then, horn for horn, they stretch an' strive:
Deil tak the hindmost, on they drive,
Till a' their weel-swall'd kytes belyve,
                Are bent lyke drums;
Then auld Guidman, maist like to rive,
                "Bethankit!" hums.

   5

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?

   6

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' bloody flood or field to dash,
               O how unfit!

   7

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.

   8

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!
--Robert Burns

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* those of ye not verst in the Scots toung', see here