Address To A Haggis
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 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,
An' cut ye 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 strech 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 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' bluidy 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 make 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 skinking ware
That jaups in luggies;
But, if ye wish her gratefu' prayer,
Gie her a Haggis!
Although it is probably as welcome as the vegetarian haggis I spotted recently, here is a rough translation into modern language.Fair is your honest smiling faceGreatest of the pudding raceAbove all other foods you take your place --Stomach, tripe or guts.Well are you worthy of a graceAs long as my armThe groaning plate there you fillYour buttocks curved like a distant hillYour fixing skewer would mend a millIn time of needWhile through your pores the whisky seepsLike amber beadsLook at the knife the honest labourer wipesto slice you up with easy strokesDigging in to make your innards gushLike any ditchAnd then oh what a glorious sightWarm steaming, rich Then spoon for spoon The diners push and shoveDevil take the last man, on they driveUntil all their well swollen belliesAre stretched like drumsThen, the old gent most likely to break windmumbles his grateful thanksIs there anyone that, over his French RagoutOr pasta that would sicken a pigOr fricassee that would make it vomitWith perfect disgustLooks down with a sneering scornful faceOn such a dinnerpoor devil see him over his own poor mealAs week as withered rushesHis spindle-shanks (legs) a good whiplashHis fists like nuts.Through a bloody flood and battle field to dashOh how unfitBut take note of the countryman fed on haggisThe trembling earth resounds his treadClasped in his large fist a claymoreThat he'll make whistleAnd legs and arms and heads he will lop offLike lumps of thistlesYou powers who make mankind your careAnd serve them up their daily fareOld Scotland wants no smelly foreign foodThat upsets our stomachsBut if you want our grateful prayerGive us a haggis! JS