Fairfa’ your honest, sonsie face,
Great chieftain o’ the pudding-race!
Aboon them a’ ye tak your place,
Painch, tripe, orthairm:
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 sleight,
Trenching your gushing entrails bright,
Like ony ditch;
And then, O what a glorious sight,
Then, horn for horn , they stretch an’ strive:
Deiltak the hindmost! on they drive,
Tilla’ their weel-swall’dkytesbelyve
Are bent like drums;
Then auld Guidman, maist like to rive,
Is there that owre his French ragout
Or olio that wadstaw a sow,
Or fricassee wad make her spew
Wi’ perfect sconne,
Looks down wi’ sneering, scornfu’ view
On sic a dinner?
Poor devil! see him owre his trash,
As feckless as wither’d rash,
His spindle shank, a guid whip-lash;
His nieve a nit;
Thro’ bloody flood or field to dash,
O how unfit!
Butmark the Rustic, haggis-fed,
The trembling earth resounds his tread.
Clap in his walienieve a blade,
He’ll mak it whissle;
An’ legs an’ arms, an’ heads will sned,
Ye Pow’rs, whamak mankind your care,
And dish them out their billo’ fare,
Auld Scotland wants naeskinkingware
That jaups in luggies;
But, if ye wish her gratefu’ prayer
Gie her a haggis!
By Robert ”Rabbie” Burns, 1786