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Address To A Haggis

The poem is an address to a haggis praising it as the great chieftain of the pudding race. It describes cutting open the haggis and the delicious smells emerging from it. It contrasts those who look down on such food with the strong men fueled by haggis and able to work hard. It asks God to continue providing Scotland with haggis rather than 'skinking ware' served in bowls.

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Khue Minh
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409 views1 page

Address To A Haggis

The poem is an address to a haggis praising it as the great chieftain of the pudding race. It describes cutting open the haggis and the delicious smells emerging from it. It contrasts those who look down on such food with the strong men fueled by haggis and able to work hard. It asks God to continue providing Scotland with haggis rather than 'skinking ware' served in bowls.

Uploaded by

Khue Minh
Copyright
© © All Rights Reserved
We take content rights seriously. If you suspect this is your content, claim it here.
Available Formats
Download as PDF, TXT or read online on Scribd
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Address to a Haggis

By Robert Burns
Fair fa' your honest, sonsie face, Is there that owre his French ragout
Great chieftain o' the pudding-race! Or olio that wad staw a sow,
Aboon them a' yet tak your place, Or fricassee wad make her spew
Painch, tripe, or thairm: Wi' perfect sconner,
Weel are ye wordy o'a grace Looks down wi' sneering, scornfu' view
As lang's my arm. On sic a dinner?

The groaning trencher there ye fill, Poor devil! see him owre his trash,
Your hurdies like a distant hill, As feckles as wither'd rash,
Your pin was help to mend a mill His spindle shank, a guid whip-lash;
In time o'need, His nieve a nit;
While thro' your pores the dews distil Thro' blody flood or field to dash,
Like amber bead. O how unfit!

His knife see rustic Labour dight, But mark the Rustic, haggis-fed,
An' cut you up wi' ready sleight, The trembling earth resounds his tread.
Trenching your gushing entrails bright, Clap in his walie nieve a blade,
Like ony ditch; He'll mak it whissle;
And then, O what a glorious sight, An' legs an' arms, an' hands will sned,
Warm-reekin', rich! Like taps o' trissle.

Then, horn for horn, they stretch an' strive: Ye Pow'rs, wha mak mankind your care,
Deil tak the hindmost! on they drive, And dish them out their bill o' fare,
Till a' their weel-swall'd kytes belyve Auld Scotland wants nae skinking ware
Are bent like drums; That jaups in luggies;
Then auld Guidman, maist like to rive, But, if ye wish her gratefu' prayer
Bethankit! hums. Gie her a haggis!

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