Address to a Haggis

Address to a Haggis by Robert Burns

Original in Scots (also called Lowland Scots or Lallans)

English Version

Fair fa' your honest, sonsie face,
Great chieftain o' the puddin'-race!
Aboon them a' ye tak yer place,
Painch, tripe, or thairm:
Weel are ye wordy o' a grace
As lang's my airm.

Bless your honest happy face,
Great chieftain of the sausage race!
Above them all you take your place,
Stomach, tripe or guts:
Well are you worthy of a grace
As long as 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.

The groaning platter there you fill,
Your buttocks like a distant hill,
Your skewer would help to repair a mill
In time of need,
While through your pores the juices emerge
Like amber beads.

His knife see rustic Labour dicht,
An cut you up wi ready slicht,
Trenching your gushing entrails bricht,
Like onie ditch;
And then, Oh what a glorious sicht,
Warm-reekin, rich!

See the rural labourer prepare his knife,
And cut you up with great skill,
Digging into your gushing insides bright,
Like any ditch;
And then oh what a glorious sight,
Warm steaming, rich!

Then, horn for horn, they stretch an strive:
Deil tak the hindmaist, on they drive,
Till a' their weel-swall'd kytes belyve
Are bent like drums;
Then auld Guidman, maist like to rive,
'Bethankit' hums.

Then spoon for spoon They stretch and strive:
Devil take the last man, on they drive,
Until all their well swollen bellies
Are bent like drums;
Then, the old gent most likely to burp,
'Be thanked' mumbles.

Is there that ower 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?

Is there that over his French Ragout,
Or olio that would sicken a pig,
Or fricassee would make her vomit
With perfect disgust,
Looks down with a sneering scornful opinion
On such a dinner?

Poor devil! see him ower 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,
Oh how unfit!

Poor devil, see him over his trash,
As weak as a withered reed,
His spindle-shank a good whiplash,
His clenched fist.the size of a nut:
Through a bloody flood and battle field to dash,
Oh how unfit!

But mark the Rustic, haggis-fed,
The trembling earth resounds his tread,
Clap in his wallie nieve a blade,
He'll make it whissle;
An legs an arms, an heads will sned,
Like taps o thrissle.

But take note of the strong haggis fed Scot,
The trembling earth resounds his tread,
Clasped in his large fist a blade,
He'll make it whistle;
And legs and arms and heads he will cut off,
Like the tops of thistles.

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!

You powers who make mankind your care,
And dish them out their meals,
Old Scotland wants no watery food
That splashes in dishes:
But if you wish her grateful prayer,
Give her a Haggis!