File:Tae a Haggis - read Rabbie Burns Poem below ..... (3556601839).jpg

Fair fa' your honest, sonsie face,
Great chieftain 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 slight,
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-swall'd 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 stow a sow,
Or fricasee 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 wither'd 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,
       He'll mak it whissle;

An' legs, an' arms, an' heads will sned,
       Like taps o' thrissle.

Ye Pow'rs wha mak mankind your care,
And dish them out their bill o' fare,
Auld Scotland wants nae skinking ware,
       That jaups in luggies;

But, if ye wish her gratefu' prayer,
       Gie her a Haggis!

—Tae a Haggis, Rabbie Burns