address to a haggis
fair fa' your ho, sonsie face,
great chieftain o' the pudding-race!
aboon them a' yet tak your pce,
painch, tripe, or thairm:
weel are ye wordy o'a grace
as ng's my arm.
the groaning trehere ye fill,
your hurdies like a distant hill,
your pin was help to mend a mill
in time o'need,
while thro' your pores the dews distil
like amber bead.
his knife see rustic bht,
an' cut you up wi' ready sleight,
treng yushirails bright,
like ony ditch;
and then, o what a glorious sight,
warm-reekin', rich!
then, horn for horn, they stret' 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 make her spew
wi' perfect ser,
looks down wi' sneering, sfu' view
on sic a dinner?
poor devil! see him owre his trash,
as feckles as wither'd rash,
his spindle shank, a guid whip-sh;
his nieve a nit;
thro' blody flood or field to dash,
o how unfit!
but mark the rustic, haggis-fed,
the tremblih resounds his tread.
his walie nieve a bde,
he'll mak it whissle;
an' legs an' arms, an' hands will sned,
like taps o' trissle.
ye pow'rs, wha mak mankind your care,
and dish them out their bill o' fare,
auld sd wants nae skinking ware
that jaups in luggies;
but, if ye wish her gratefu' prayer
gie her a haggis!