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 groanin 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 dew distill, Like amber bead.
His knife see Rustic labour dight, And cut you up wi' ready slight, Trenchin your gushin entrails bright Like ony ditch; And then, O what a glorious sight, Warm, reeking, richǃ
Then, horn for horn, they stretch and strive, Deil tak the hindmost, on they drive, Till a' their weel-swall'd kytes, belyve, Are bent like drums; Then auld gudeman, maist like to rive, Bethankit hums.
Is there that owre his French ragou, Or olio that wad staw a sow. O fricasee wad mak him spew, Wi' perfect scunner, Looks down wi' sneerin, scornful view, On sic a dinner!
Poor devil! sec him owre his trash, As feckless as a wither'd rash. His spindle-shank a gude whup-lash. His nieve a-nit, Thro' bluidy flood, or field in dash, O how nufit!
But mark the Rustic, haggis-fed, The trembling earth resounds his tread! Clap in his walie nieve a blade, He'll make it whistle; And legs, and arms, and heads, will sued, Like taps o' thrissle.
Ye Pow'rs wha mak mankind your care, And dish them out their bill o' fare, Auld Scotland wants nae skinkin ware, That janps in luggies; But, if ye wish her gratefu' pray'r, Gie her a Haggies.
Divider from 'The Beauties of Burn's Poems' a chapbook printed in Falkirk in 1819
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