ODE TO A HAGGIS
Fair fa your honest, 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 langs my arm
The groaning trencher there ye fill,
Your hurdies like a distant hill,
You pin wad help to mend a mill
In time oneed
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-reeking, rich!
Then, horn for horn they stretch an strive,
Deil tak the hindmost, on they drive,
Till a their weel-swalld kytes belyve
Are bent like drums;
Then 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 sconner,
Looks down wi sneering, scornfu view
On sic a dinner?
Poor devil! see him owre his trash,
As feckless as a witherd rash
His spindle-shank a guid whip-lash,
His nieve a nit;
Thro bluidy 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,
Hell mak it whissle;
An legs, an arms an heads will sned,
Like taps o thrissle
Ye powrs wha mak mankind your care,
An dish them out their bill ofare,
Auld Scotland wants nae skinking ware
That jaups in luggies;
But, if ye wish her gratefu prayr,
Gie her a Haggis!
‘Ignore the heathens on this thread. If you’ve been out playing golf where the rain is coming at you horizontally there is nothing like a plate of Haggis,Neaps and Tatties and a pint of “heavy” to put you to rights.’
Aye.
Very true, big man.