| |
| FAIR fa’ your honest, sonsie face, | |
| Great chieftain o’ the pudding-race! | |
| Aboon them a’ ye tak your place, | |
| Painch, tripe, or thairm: | |
| Weel are ye wordy o’a grace | 5 |
| As lang’s my arm. | |
| |
| The groaning trencher there ye fill, | |
| Your hurdies like a distant hill, | |
| Your pin was help to mend a mill | |
| In time o’need, | 10 |
| 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, | 15 |
| Like ony 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, | 20 |
| Till a’ their weel-swall’d kytes belyve | |
| Are bent like drums; | |
| Then auld Guidman, maist like to rive, | |
| Bethankit! hums. | |
| |
| Is there that owre his French ragout | 25 |
| Or olio that wad staw a sow, | |
| Or fricassee wad make her spew | |
| Wi’ perfect sconner, | |
| Looks down wi’ sneering, scornfu’ view | |
| On sic a dinner? | 30 |
| |
| Poor devil! see him owre his trash, | |
| As feckles as wither’d rash, | |
| His spindle shank, a guid whip-lash; | |
| His nieve a nit; | |
| Thro’ blody flood or field to dash, | 35 |
| O how unfit! | |
| |
| But mark the Rustic, haggis-fed, | |
| The trembling earth resounds his tread. | |
| Clap in his walie nieve a blade, | |
| He’ll mak it whissle; | 40 |
| An’ legs an’ arms, an’ hands will sned, | |
| Like taps o’ trissle. | |
| |
| Ye Pow’rs, wha mak mankind your care, | |
| And dish them out their bill o’ fare, | |
| Auld Scotland wants nae skinking ware | 45 |
| That jaups in luggies; | |
| But, if ye wish her gratefu’ prayer | |
| Gie her a haggis! | |
| |
