1. |
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 of a grace |
As lang’s my arm.
|
2. |
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.
|
3. |
His knife see rustic Labour dight, |
An’ cut ye up wi’ ready slight, |
Trenching your gushing entrails bright, |
Like onie ditch ; |
And then, O what a glorious sight, |
Warm-reekin, rich !
|
4. |
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.
|
5. |
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 ?
|
6. |
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’ bluidy flood or field to dash, |
O how unfit !
|
7. |
But mark the Rustic, haggis-fed, |
The trembling earth resounds his tread. |
Clap in his walie nieve a blade, |
He’ll make it whissle ; |
An’ legs, an’ arms, an’ heads will sned |
Like taps o’ thrissle.
|
8. |
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 !
|
Robert Burns
| Classic Poems |
|
[ A Red, Red Rose ] [ To a Mountain Daisy ] [ Address to a Haggis ] [ Address to Edinburgh ] [ Auld Lang Syne ] [ Is there for Honest Poverty ] [ Address to the Unco Guid ] [ The Cotter's Saturday Night ] [ To a Louse ] [ My Heart's in the Highlands ] [ Holy Willie's Prayer ] [ Tam O'Shanter ] [ To a Mouse ] |