Address Tae A Haggis

Fair faw your honest, sonsie face,
Great Chieftain o the Puddin-race!
Abuin thaim aw ye tak your place,
Painch, tripe, or thairm:
Weel are ye wirthy o a grace
As lang's ma airm.

The grainin trencher thare ye fill,
Your hurdies like a distant hill,
Your pin wad help tae mend a mill
In time o need,
While throu your pores the dews distils
Like lammer bead.

His knife see Rustic-labour dicht,
An cut you up wi ready slicht,
Trenchin your gushin entrails bricht
Like ony ditch;
An than, O whit a glorious sicht,
Wairm-reekin, rich!

Than, horn for horn thay streetch an strive,
Deil tak the hintmaist, on thay drive,
Till aw thair weel-swallt kytes belyve
Are bent like drums;
Than auld Guidman, maist like to rive,
Bethankit hums.

Is thare that owre his French ragout,
Or olio that wad staw a sou,
Or fricassee wad mak her spew
Wi perfit scunner,
Leuks doun wi sneerin, scornfu view
On sic a denner?

Puir deevil! see him ower his trash,
As feckless as a withert rash,
His spinnle shank a guid whip-lash,
His nieve a nit;
Throu bluidy fluid or field tae dash,
O hou unfit!

But merk the Rustic, haggis-fed,
The tremmlin earth resoonds his tread,
Clap in his walie nieve a blad,
He'll mak it whistle;
An legs, an airms, an heids will sned,
Like taps o thristle.

Ye Pouers that maks mankind your care,
An dish thaim oot thair bill o fare,
Auld Scotland wants nae skinkin ware
That jaups in luggies;
But, if you wiss her gratefu prayer,
Gie her a Haggis!

~Lizzy~