Robert Burns
1759 - 1796 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 garce, A lang’s my airm. 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, reeking, rich! Then, the horn for horn the stretch an’ strive, Deil tak the hindmost, on they drive, Till a’ their weel-swall’d kytes belyve, Are bent like drums: Then auld Guildman, maist like to rive, Bethanki hums. Is there that owre his French ragout, Or olio that wad staw and 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 neive a nit: Thro’ bluidy flood or field of dash, O how unfit! But mark the Rustic, haggis fed, The trembling earth resounds his tread, Clap in his waie nieve a blade, Hell mak it whissle; An’ legs an’ arms, an’ heads will sned, Like taps o’ thrissle. Ye Pow’rs wha mak mankind care, And dish them out their bill o’ fare, Auld Scotland wants nae skinking ware, That jaups in luggies; But if you wish her gratefu’ pray’r, Gie her a Haggis! |
Sassanach
(foreign)Version What a nice honest rounded face, Great Chieften of the pudding race, Above them all you take your place, Liver,tripe ot thairm (A scots stew) Well are you worthy of a grace As long as my arm The groaning platter there you fill. Swollen like a distant hill. Your pin would help to mend a mill In time of need, While through your your pores the dews still. Like amber mead (Whiskey) His knife see the rustic labour wipe, And cut you up with ready sleigh. Spilling your gushing entrails bright; Like any ditch, And then, O what a glorious sight, Warm, steaming, rich! Then spoon for spoon they strech and strive, Devil take the hindmost,on they drive, Till all their swollen belies soon, Are bent like drums, Then old goodmen most like to burst, Be thankful hums (grace) Is there that over his French "ragout" Or meal that would sicken a sow, Or fricasse would make her spew, With perfect discust, Look down with (a) sneering, scornful view, On such a dinner Poor Devil see him over his trash, As useless as the withered grass, His skinny legs just like whip-lash, His fist (like) a walnut, Through bloody flod or field to dash, O how unfit. But mark the Rustic, Haggis fed, The trembling earth resounds (to) his tread, Held in his brawny fist a blade, He'll make it whistle, And legs and arms and heads will fall, Likes (the) top of thistles. You Powers who make mankind your care, And dish them out their bill of fare, (food) Old Scotland want no watery mess, That swills in bowls, But, if you wish her grateful praise. Give her a Haggis! |
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