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 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;
The 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 scunner,
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 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!

In Geatland bold, a hero rose,
Beowulf his name, the tale it goes.
From shores of home to Hrothgar’s hall,
He heard the call, he’d heed them all.

Raise your horns, sing of glory,
Beowulf's brave, enduring story.
In the halls of kings and battle's fire,
He forged his fate, through realms dire.

Grendel came, a monstrous plight,
In Herot's heart, he struck at night.
Beowulf sailed o'er the sea,
To end the fiend and set men free.

With grip of steel, he faced the beast,
Tore limb from limb, the feast did cease.
Yet darker threats lay still in wait,
A mother's wrath, a dragon's fate.

In murky depths, the mother dwelled,
A vengeful heart, her fury swelled.
Beowulf dove into the deep,
To claim his victory and peace to keep.

Years did pass, a king renowned,
Yet one last foe would bring him down.
A dragon fierce with breath of flame,
Beowulf faced his final claim.

In ancient halls his deeds remain,
A hero’s song, a timeless strain.
Beowulf's name in saga lore,
Lives evermore, forevermore.