'Address to a Haggis'
by Robert Burns
Born
Alloway near Ayr, Scotland, 25th January, 1759.
Fair fa' your honest, sonsie face,
Great Chieftain
of the Puddin'-race!
Aboon the 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 hurdlies 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 you
up wi' ready slight,
Trenching your gushing entrails bright,
Like
onie ditch;
And then, O what a glorious sight,
Warm-reeking, 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;
The 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 reckless
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
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 ware
That jaups in luggies;
But,
it ye wish her gratefu' pray'r,
Gie her a Haggis!
|
