Fair fa’your honest, sonsieface,
Great chieftain o’ the pudding-race!
Aboonthem a’ yet tak your place,
Painch, tripe, or thairm:
Weelare ye wordyo’a grace
As lang’s my arm.
The groaning trencher there ye fill,
Your hurdieslike 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, hornfor horn, they stretch an’ strive:
Deiltakthe hindmost! on they drive,
Tilla’their weel-swall’d kytesbelyve
Are bent like drums;
Then auld Guidman, maistlike to rive,
Bethankit! hums.
Is there that owre his French ragout
Or olio that wad stawa sow,
Or fricassee wadmake her spew
Wi’ perfect sconner,
Looks down wi’sneering, scornfu’ view
On sica dinner?
Poor devil! see him owrehis trash,
As feckles as wither’d rash,
His spindle shank, a guidwhip-lash;
His nieve a nit;
Thro’ blody flood orfield to dash,
O how unfit!
Butmarkthe Rustic, haggis-fed,
The trembling earth resounds his tread.
Clapin his walienievea blade,
He’ll mak it whissle;
An’ legs an’ arms, an’hands will sned,
Like taps o’ trissle.
Ye Pow’rs, whamakmankind your care,
And dish them out their billo’fare,
AuldScotland wants naeskinkingware
That jaups in luggies;
But, if ye wish her gratefu’ prayer
Gieher a haggis!