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 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 wi' ready sleight,
Trenching your gushing entrails bright,
Like ony ditch;
And then, O what a glorious sight,
Warm-reekin, rich!

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.

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?

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!

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 bill o' fare,
Auld Scotland wants nae skinking ware
That jaups in luggies;
But, if ye wish her gratefu' prayer,
Gie her a haggis!

The Translation

Fair fall your honest,jollyface,
Great chieftain of the sausage race! Above them all you take your place
Stomach, tripe, or intestines
Well are you worthy of a grace
As long as my arm.

The groaning trencher there you fill,
Your buttocks like a distant hill,
Your pin would help to mend a mill
In time of need,
While through your pores the dews distill,
Like amber bead.

His knife see rustic labour wipe,
And cut you up with ready slight,
Trenching your gushing entrails bright,
Like any ditch;
And then, O what a glorious sight,
Warm steaming, rich! 

Then spoon for spoon,They stretch and strive,
Devil take the hindmost, on they drive,
Until all their well swollen bellies by and by,
Are bent like drums;
Then, old Master of the house, most like to belch,
"Thankyou God" hums.

Is there that over his French Ragout,
Or olio that would sicken a sow,
Or fricassee would make her throw up With perfect disgust,
Looks down with a sneering, scornful view
On such a dinner?

Poor devil! see him over his trash,
As feeble as a withered rush, His spindle-shank a good whiplash,
His clenched fist the size of a nut,
Through a bloody flood and battle field to dash,
O how unfit.

But mark the Rustic, haggis fed,
The trembling earth resounds his tread
Clap in his ample fist a blade,
He'll make it whistle,
And legs and arms and heads he will crop,
Like the tops of thistles.

You powers who make mankind your care,
And dish them out their bill of fare,
Old Scotland wants no watery ware,
That splashes in small wooden dishes;
But if you wish her grateful prayer,
Give her a haggis!