Fair fa' your sonsie face |
Great Chieftan o' the Puddin race! |
Aboon them a' ye tak your place |
Painch, tripe, or thairm |
Weel are ye wordy of 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 sight |
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-swalled kytes belyve |
Are bent like drums: |
Then auld Guildman, maist like to rive |
Bethankit hums |
|
Ye powers wha mak mankind your care |
And dish the out their bill o'fare |
Auld Scotland wants nae skinking ware |
That jaups in luggies: |
But, if ye qish her gratefu' prayer |
Gie her a Haggis! |
|
