To a Haggis

Discussion in 'Wheelman's Website Forum' started by Speed Demon, Jan 25, 2007.

  1. 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 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 staw a sow,
    Or fricassee wad mak her spew
    Wi' perfect sconner,
    Looks down wi' sneering, scronful' 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 gie us a' that's gude
    Still bless auld Caledonia's brood,
    Wi' great John Barleycorn's heart's bluid
    In stoups or luggies;
    And on our boards, that king o' food,
    A gud Scotch Haggis!

    Pour yourselves a wee dram and have a good Robbie Burns night.

     
  2. Is it Robbie Burns day already?
     

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