by Robert Burns
Address To Edinburgh

Address To A Haggis

      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 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' trissle.       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!