Address to a Haggis

by Robert Burns


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.
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 ye up wi’ ready slight,
Trenching your gushing entrails bright,
                                           Like 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 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 mak her spew
                                            Wi’ perfect sconner,
Looks down wi’ sneering, scornfu’ view
                                            On 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’ bluidy 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 make 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 !
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 ]






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