Fair
fa' your honest, sonsie
face,
Great chieftain o' the pudding-race!
Aboon them a' yet tak your place,
Painch, tripe, or thairm:
Weel are ye wordy
o'a grace
As lang's my arm.
The groaning trencher there ye fill,
Your hurdies like 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, 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 make her spew
Wi' perfect sconner,
Looks down wi' sneering, scornfu' view
On sic a dinner?
Poor devil! see him owre his trash,
As feckles as a wither'd rash,
His spindle shank, a guid whip-lash;
His nieve a nit;
Thro' blody 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' hands 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!