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Buxom Wench
01-25-2011, 08:47 AM
TO A HAGGIS.
By Robert Burns.


Fair fa' your honest sonsie face,
Great chieftain o' the puddin'-race!
aboon therm a' ye 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 wad help to mend a mill,
In time o' need;
While thro' your poresthe 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 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 o'er 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 wither'd rash,
His spindle shank a guid whip-lash,
His nieve a nit:
Thro' bloody 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!