To A Haggis

    Fair fa' your honest, sonsie face,
    Great chieftain o' the pudding-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 you up wi' ready slight,
    Trenching your gushing entrails bright
        Like onie 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 o'er 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?

    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' bloody 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' heads 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 stinking ware
        That jaups in luggies;
    But, if ye wish her gratefu' pray'r,
        Gie her a Haggis!