The Poetical Works of Robert Burns/To a Haggis
For other versions of this work, see Address to a Haggis.
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 graceAs lang's my arm.
The groaning trencher there ye fill,Your hurdies like a distant hill,Your pin wad help to mend a millIn time o' need,While thro' your pores the dews distilLike amber bead.
His knife see rustic labour dight,An' cut you up wi' ready slight,Trenching your gushing entrails brightLike onie 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 belyveAre bent like drums;Then auld guidman, maist like to rive,Bethankit hums.
Is there that o'er his French ragout,Or olio that wad staw a sow,Or fricassee wad mak her spewWi' perfect sconner,Looks down wi' sneering, scornfu' viewOn sic a dinner!
Poor devil! see him owre 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 wareThat jaups in luggies;But, if ye wish her gratefu' prayer,Gie her a Haggis.