Fair fa' your honest, sonsie face,
Great chieftain o' the puddin-race!
Aboon them a' ye 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 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,
An' cut ye up wi' ready sleight,
Trenching your gushing entrails bright,
Like onie ditch;
And then, Ach! 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,
Is there that owre his French ragout,
Or olio that wad staw a sow,
Or fricassee wad made her spew
Wi' perfect sconner,
Looks down wi' sneering, scornfu' view
On sic a dinner?
Poor devil! See him owre his trash,
As feckless as a wither’d rash,
His spindle-shank a guid whip-lash,
His nieve a nit;
thro' bluidy flood or field to dash,
Ach! 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’ heads'll 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!