Fair fa' your honest, sonsie face, <br /> Great chieftain o' the puddin-race! <br /> Aboon them a' ye tak your place, <br /> Painch, tripe, or thairm: <br /> Weel are ye wordy of a grace <br /> As lang's my arm. <br /> <br /> The groaning trencher there ye fill, <br /> Your hurdies like a distant hill, <br /> Your pin wad help to mend a mill <br /> In time o' need, <br /> While thro' your pores the dews distil <br /> Like amber bead. <br /> <br /> His knife see rustic Labour dight, <br /> An' cut ye up wi' ready slight, <br /> Trenching your gushing entrails bright <br /> Like onie ditch; <br /> And then, O what a glorious sight, <br /> Warm-reekin, rich! <br /> <br /> Then, horn for horn, they strech an' strive: <br /> Deil tak the hindmost! on they drive, <br /> Till a' their weel-swall'd kytes belyve, <br /> Are bent like drums; <br /> Then auld Guidman, maist like to rive, <br /> 'Bethankit!' hums. <br /> <br /> Is there that owre his French ragout <br /> Or olio that wad staw a sow, <br /> Or fricassee wad mak her spew <br /> Wi' perfect sconner, <br /> Looks down wi' sneering, scornfu' view <br /> On sic a dinner? <br /> <br /> Poor devil! see him owre his trash, <br /> As feckless as a wither'd rash, <br /> His spindle shank, a guid whip-lash, <br /> His nieve a nit; <br /> Thro' bluidy flood or field to dash, <br /> O how unfit! <br /> <br /> But mark the Rustic, haggis-fed, <br /> The trembling earth resounds his tread. <br /> Clap in his walie nieve a blade, <br /> He'll make it whissle; <br /> An' legs, an' arms, an' heads will sned, <br /> Like taps o' thrissle. <br /> <br /> Ye Pow'rs wha mak mankind your care, <br /> And dish them out their bill o 'fare, <br /> Auld Scotland wants nae skinking ware <br /> That jaups in luggies; <br /> But, if ye wish her gratefu' prayer, <br /> Gie her a Haggis!<br /><br />Robert Burns<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/address-to-a-haggis/
