Address to a Haggis
Robert Burns
1759 to 1796
Track 1
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Bethankit' hums.
Wi' perfect scunner,
O how unfit!
Is there that owre his French ragout,
Fair fa' your honest, sonsie face,
Aboon them a' ye tak your place,
As feckless as a wither'd rash,
Till a' their weel-swall'd kytes belyve
His nieve a nit;
Like onie ditch;
Clap in his walie nieve a blade,
Thro' bloody flood or field to dash,
The trembling earth resounds his tread,
Ye Pow'rs, wha mak mankind your care,
As lang's my arm.
That jaups in luggies:
Great chieftain o' the puddin'-race!
His spindle shank a guid whip-lash,
Looks down wi' sneering, scornfu' view
He'll make it whissle;
Your hurdies like a distant hill,
His knife see rustic Labour dight,
But mark the Rustic, haggis-fed,
Warm-reekin, rich!
While thro your pores the dews distil
Deil tak the hindmost, on they drive,
Your pin wad help to mend a mill
But, if ye wish her gratefu' prayer,
In time o' need,
Or olio that wad staw a sow,
Like taps o' thrissle.
Are bent like drums;
The auld Guidman, maist like to rive,
And dish them out their bill o' fare,
Painch, tripe, or thairm:
Then, horn for horn, they stretch an' strive:
Weel are ye wordy o' a grace
Gie her a Haggis!
Poor devil! see him owre his trash,
On sic a dinner?
Auld Scotland wants nae skinking ware
Like amber bead.
And then, O what a glorious sight,
Or fricassee wad mak her spew
The groaning trencher there ye fill,
Trenching your gushing entrails bright,
An' legs an' arms, an' heads will sned,
An' cut you up wi' ready slight,
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