Address to a Haggis

Fair fa' your honest, sonsie face,
great chieftain o' the puddin-race!
aboon them 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 pores the dews distil
like amber bead.

His knife see rustic labour dight,
an' cut ye up wi' ready sleight,
trenching your gushing entrails bright,
like onie ditch;
and the, Ach! what a glorious sight,
warm - reekin', rich!

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!

Robert Burns