Happy Burns Night

Address to a Haggis

Fair fa' your honest, sonsie face, 

Great Chieftain o’ the Puddin-race!

       Painch, tripe, or thairm:

Aboon them a' ye tak your place,

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,

Trenching your gushing entrails bright,

An’ cut ye up wi’ ready slight,

       Like onie ditch;

And then, O what a glorious sight,

Deil tak the hindmost, on they drive,

       Warm-reekin, rich!




Then, horn for horn, they stretch an’ strive:

Till a' their weel-swall'd kytes belyve

       Bethankit hums.

       Are bent like drums;

Then auld Guidman, maist like to rive,




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?




As feckless as a wither'd rash,

Poor devil! see him owre his trash,

Thro’ bluidy flood or field to dash,

His spindle shank a guid whip-lash,

       His nieve a nit;

But mark the Rustic, haggis-fed,

       O how unfit!




The trembling earth resounds his tread,

Clap in his walie nieve a blade,

An’ legs, an’ arms, an’ heads will sned,

       He'll make it whissle;

       Like taps o' thrissle.

And dish them out their bill o’ fare,




Ye Pow'rs wha mak mankind your care,

Auld Scotland wants nae skinking ware

       Gie her a Haggis!

       That jaups in luggies;

But, if ye wish her gratefu’ prayer,

Robert Burns