Address To A Haggis- Robert Burns 1759-1796,Address, 1786

Fair fa' your honest,
sonsie face,
Great chieftain o' the
pudding-race!
Aboon them a' yet tak
your place,
Painch, tripe, or thairm:
Weel are ye wordy o;a
grace
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,
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,
Like ony ditch;
And then, O what a
glorioussss 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 olin that wad staw a
sow,
Or fricassee wad make
her spew
Wi' perfect sconner,
Looks down wi'
sneering, scornfu' view
On sic a dinner?

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,
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'
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
That jaups in luggies;
But, if ye wish her
gratefu' prayer
Gie her a haggis!