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　　Address To A Haggis

　　Fair fa' your honest, sonsie face,

　　Great chieftain o' the pudding-race!

　　Aboon them a' yet 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 was 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 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 sconner,

　　Looks down wi' sneering, scornfu' view

　　On sic a dinner?

　　Poor devil! see him owre his trash,

　　As feckles as wither'd rash,

　　His spindle shank, a guid whip-lash;

　　His nieve a nit;

　　Thro' blody 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' hands will sned,

　　Like taps o' trissle.

　　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! Poems and Songs of Robert Burns