Address to a Haggis

by Rabbie Burns (1786)

Fair fa' your honest, sonsie face,
Great chieftain of 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 through your pores the dews distil
Like amber bead.
 

His knife see rustic labour dight,
And cut you up wi' ready slight,
Trenching your gushing entrails bright.
Like only 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 guid man, maist like to rive,
"Bethankit!" hums.
 

Is there that o'er his French ragout
Or olio that wad staw a sow,
Or fricassee wad make her spew
Wi' perfect scunner,
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!
 

But mark the rustic, haggis-fed,
The trembling earth resounds his tread.
Clap in his walie nieve a blade,
And legs, and arms, and head will sned,
Like taps o' thrissle.
 

Ye powers, wah mak mankind your care,
And dish them out with 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!
 

The Audio Components are copyright BBC 2003